325. Treasure from a charity shop

On Friday my friend Katie and I found treasure in the charity shop in Aldeburgh. We'd done culture, by way of trundling over the pebbles to Maggi Hambling's shell, and were on our way to lunch when we stopped by the shop. She found a very elegant porcelain coffee pot that she liked enough to carry back to Edinburgh. I found an old but perfect metal water canteen in a little pouch that attaches to your knapsack or belt, and a pair of beautiful, expensive binoculars, perfect working condition, all caps still present, in a small green bag. Bounty! How much, you ask. Plus a novel Katie told me I had to buy - all in for £15. No, I will not tell you which charity shop.

324. Pink knickers

Shouldn't need to explain that one.

323. Tuna salad sandwiches

I know, I'm not supposed to eat tuna. But I do, a bit, because it's so delicious and also because if I gave up doing everything enjoyable for the sake of the planet I'd never do anything, eat anything or go anywhere and I'd still bloody well die of cancer so fuck it, I say.

Tuna salad sandwiches are the perfect home-worker lunch and, when followed by an apple, nutritious, too.

322. Fly-fishing

My dearest lovely brother gave me a fly-fishing lesson for my birthday last year. I had my lesson on the 2nd of April and am now fully obsessed.

My dad taught me to fish with a fly and we did most of our fishing together in Ireland. We'd stand beside beautiful clear loughs fishing for brown trout, and rivers fishing for brownies and salmon. Occasionally, I'd catch one and yell for my dad, who'd come rushing over to help me play, land and kill the fishy in a way that showed the fish the maximum respect. My dad had taught himself to fish, which is bloody clever because it's bloody tricky to do right, let alone well, and he always caught beautiful big fishes. We were very happy out fishing together, me and dad, and now when I stand on the riverbank by myself his spirit stands beside me.

It's a decent pastime for the middle-aged writer, fly-fishing, because it is active without requiring exertion and demanding without being impossible. So I intend to be doing it for many years, and, in the fullness of time, will happily teach anybody who cares to come to the water with me.

321. Bonjela

Effing hurts. Almost as much as old-fashioned pink Germolene did, but in your mouth not on your scabby, bleeding knee therefore significantly more intimate and tear-inducing. Best thing about it is that it's an anaesthetic as well as a pain-killer so you lose all sensation on your tongue for a bit.

320. Being home alone

Sh! There's nobody else here but I'm a bit tipsy and if you make too much noise the grown-ups will hear us and become annoying.

Why have you had slightly too much to drink? SHH!
Quietly. Sh.

I have because I am home alone for the night and I met my new friends at the pub and they are so nice and interesting and easy to talk to that I had at least fourteen glasses of wine and now I'm home and everything's feelin' kinda loose and easy-like. How 'bout you? Fuck off, I'm fine. Wait, whazzat? Sh. Wha'?

And now it's five past midnight and I'm still up!
SHHHH!
'S fun. Havin' new friens. Whazzat'?
Sh.

317-9 New friends, a moonlit walk, a chance encounter

OK, so as this blog has now beyond any doubt assumed the character and form of Fat Uncle Al who won't leave the dance floor - I'm gon' start mashin' things up.

Five months in the village and we've just in the last couple of weeks met some friends. It's always a pleasure to meet people you like, and as you get older that moment becomes rarer, and when you move to a small village you assume (probably wrongly) that you'll meet even fewer like-minded people.

So tonight I was in the Walb alone, and I arranged to meet our new friends in the not-posh pub for a quick pint. And my shabby typing will tell you that I was still there at nearly 11. Pished and happy. I walked my companion-in-alcohol home and walked up the back lane with my phone in one hand and my super-butch torch in the other. (Some London habits are hard to break, namely the habit of assuming (correctly) that if you walk down a dark street with your phone out you'll be mugged.) Anyway, finished the call, walked up the road, flashed the super-bright torch across the road, down the ginnel we take to the beach.

And here's where we leave the rest behind. Because there, in the insolent glare of my posh torch, was a beautiful muntjac deer. I could see his antlers and the beautiful kohl stripes across his cheeks, and his sudden panic at being caught. He was only ten paces from the road, so maybe I did him a favour, and I paused only because I couldn't believe that I had been so lucky, but I soon came to mind and snuffed the light and left him to his nocturnal ramble.

Most of the wildlife I've stumbled upon while we've been here has been dead. I can't count the number of bird, rabbit and general vermin corpses I've walked past in the past five months. But  I've seen live deer in passing - along Palmer's Lane, and I've seen them on the train line at Darsham – but tonight I caught him completely by chance. He was late, I was late, I was showing off my torch, he was showing off, accidentally, his ridiculous, heart-filling beauty. That's all really. I saw him because I am lucky enough to live here, and have friends to meet at the pub, and a torch that's bright. I hope he found the food he was looking for, and he was careful of the road, and that he lives to bring, on another dark night, sudden, glorious, fizz-popping joy to the eyes and mind and heart of another slightly tipsy human bean in genuine need of wonder and inspiration.

316. The Christmas Song

(ONLY 50 TO GO! COME ON, PEOPLE, WE CAN DO THIS!)

Ah, Nat King Cole. Silky smooth all the way, baby, and never better than on the Christmas Song. It's got a rubbish name, but it's a lovely tune and helps set up the feeling of Christmas better than any number of Swedish jumpers or glasses of Glogg ever could.

315. Last Tango in Halifax

Late to the party, as usual, I know. A whole series late, in fact. But I took one look at the opening episode of Season Two and got straight on Lovefilm. Because all life is here. Great writing, lovely acting, the joy that is Nicola Walker and the unexpected, slightly unsettling, outrageous hotness that is Sarah Lancashire in a pencil skirt and high heels. (Don't worry, the therapy sessions are booked and paid for.)

314. Twitter

Yeah, yeah, I hear you. But I would like to make a brief argument in my own defence.

I have only started to love Twitter since I began my brutal following policy. If I think you're funny or interesting I will follow you on Twitter. If you fail me in some way, by being an arsehole or only ever Tweeting to promote something or by being boring, I will unfollow you. You don't care about me, and I don't care about you, so it's very simple. I know people who really care about whether somebody they've Tweeted responds. And lots of people are very good at Twitter and get lots of followers. Exciting! But I live in the middle of nowhere so for me Twitter is like going into a really good cafe and being able to sit and listen in the corner. Perfect.

313. David Sedaris

Because good writing is the best thing in the world, and good, funny writing is even better than that, I can't imagine why David Sedaris is only coming in at number 313 on my ridiculous blog. Anyway, better late than never.

I suppose it is possible to be a literate, sentient human and not find David Sedaris funny, but if you know anybody like that I'd like their number so I can call them and shout down the phone. Me Talk Pretty One Day is still my favourite of his books, though the Santaland Diaries and whichever book has the story about the bees and the armour shouldn't be missed. And, in fact, his humour is the perfect thing for Christmas. So if you find yourself floundering this Yuletide, grab yourself some Sedaris and prepare to feel better.

312. Adnams Ghostship

Adnams is one of Suffolk's breweries. Been around a long time, still family owned, currently enjoying a resurgence thanks to some clever marketing and beer being cool again.

Ghostship is a pale ale. It's nutty and hoppy and delicious on its own or with food. And because it's not fizzy like lager, it's possible to drink more than one without feeling like Augustus Gloop.

311. Polpo

Polpo is a restaurant in London. It's very cool, doesn't take bookings in the evenings, gives you your wine in a tumbler, etc. The food is modelled after that which you would find in a Venetian bacari, or back street wine bar, little scrumptious things to eat with a glass of wine on your way home or to see your mistress. Some of the food is whatever. But the little things on toast are all delicious. The fennel salad is a keeper and if you have a hangover the piadina meatball smash will have you up on your feet in no time. But the best of all are the pizzette, little pizzas, so crisp and tasty and moreish it's hard not to order three.

310. Hippos Go Berserk!

One hippo all alone,
Calls two hippos on the phone...

Learn to count from one to 10 (and back again) with Sandra Boynton and in the process become somebody who understands how to have a good time at a party. That's what I call an educational book.

309. The Ordinary Princess

This is in my Top 10 books of all time. It is entirely perfect in every way, so I don't really have much to say, apart from please make sure you've read it.

308. The Box of Delights

A small boy comes home from school for the Christmas holidays and gets caught up in magic and mystery and mayhem. It's very old fashioned now, but in a good way - nothing to offend the PC police. It is not possible for me to enter into the spirit of Christmas without reading at least some of this book, and it always makes me long for deep snow, a jug of cocoa... and an adventure.

307. The House at Pooh Corner

A bear of very little brain. Eeyore in his field, eating thistles. Tigger trying to find out which food Tiggers like best. Pooh sticks. Rabbit and all Rabbit's friends and relations. Owl (or Wol) and his very intelligent sign, which read: Backson. Bisi. Backson.

So much of these stories is now woven into our collective consciousness - imagine coming from a generation without Pooh! Therefore I consider it our duty to make sure that we pass on these books. They're old now, sure, but so's the Bible and nobody's thinking of dropping that from the list of books a person Must Read, are they? And now I'm hungry and it must be time for elevenses somewhere in the world...

306. The Tiger Who Came to Tea

Given how much I love them, there aren't enough classic children's books on this blog. So I'm going to make up for that with a short series, starting here with Judith Kerr's first, and for many, best, picture book.

I didn't stick around in the picture books when I was learning to read. So even though The Tiger Who Came to Tea would have been 10 when I was four, I don't remember reading it then. I remember it later, when I read it to my friend Katie. She loved it - couldn't get enough - and I fell in love with it too. As a result, it feels like a cherished childhood memory of my own, even though I only read it during Katie's childhood! Ah well, such is the way of these things. And as Katie is no longer here to have that memory for herself, my mental picture of reading it to a little red-headed girl is all the more precious.

It's a simple tale about a tiger who comes to tea with a little girl called Sophie, and her Mum. The tiger eats all the food in the house, drinks all the water in the tap and leaves again. So when Dad comes home they all have to go out for sausages and ice cream and Mum has to re-stock the larder, not forgetting an extra large tin of tiger food, just in case.

You must make sure that every small person you know has a copy of this book, and for good measure you should probably have one too. You know, just in case...

305. The soundtrack to 'The Hours'

I hated 'The Hours' the first time I saw it. It was too gloomy and miserable and I couldn't see the point. Then I watched it again and fell slightly in love. It's still gloomy and miserable but I can see the point now and largely the point is many brilliant actresses doing their thing rather brilliantly. Anyway, behind all the noses and despair is Philip Glass's soundtrack. I always thought he did cranky discordant nonsense, but I am entirely wrong, at least in this instance. And over the last few years the soundtrack to The Hours has become music that I can not only work to, but which seems to make the work better. When I had to take a copy test as part of interviewing for my last job, this was the music I went to when I had to shut the world out for an hour and do my best work under pressure. And even if you're not typing furiously, lost in another world, it's still beautiful music. And nobody dies.

304. The smell of woodsmoke

Woodsmoke is the smell of autumn in the countryside. It speaks of tumbling leaves and crisp air, of frosty mornings and robins hopping about on the lawn. Of wintry walks and breath-dampened mufflers and snowflakes and Christmas. Pity we can't bottle it.