177. A book on the tube

Leicester Square to Baron's Court. Piccadilly Line. Takes about 25 minutes. If you are me, and the (only literary*) child of the Parent, you can get quite a lot of reading done. This week, I have read Joshua Ferris' second novel, The Unnamed. I prefer it to his first - Then We Came to the End. I think he has the potential to be incredibly good, but what I like most about him is that he seems to know that, too. You can sense him flexing muscles, building sinew, working hard. Using each novel as an opportunity to learn, and grow, and expand. And that - for all you 25-year-old Orange Prize winners out there - is how it Fucking Should Be.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh yes, the tube.

Next, I will be reading Naomi Alderman's second novel - The Lessons. I loved her first, Disobedience, and recommended it to anyone who would listen. This is clearly a time for second novels.

But the great joy of books on the tube is that with my ipod on and a book in my hand I can pretend that I am not stuck in a human sardine tin, vulnerable to terrorism, halitosis and BO. The time flies and suddenly we emerge into the sunlight and I disembark (or alight, I suppose) and all is well.

*Please note that I do not say 'literate' here. Both my brothers can read, they just don't, much. Of course the older one doesn't read much books, but he does read much scripts. The little one is pretty and charming enough to get away with only ever reading PG Wodehouse and Len Deighton.

176. A Regular Wage

Work vs Income. The big trade-off.

It is not HUMANE to make a person sit in an open-plan office for 8 hours a day, Monday to Friday. It is only made remotely tolerable by a monthly pay cheque.

I am currently standing very still in the middle of a mental shit-storm (scuse my French) as the full remembered horror of full-time work battles with the huge relief of having some money again. I stand VERY still. I read books. I try not to get drunk (because that only makes it worse). I watch TV. I do not think about not having seen the BF Baby for weeks because I have to work and the weekends are short. I do not think about how the time I have for all those people I love most is truncated because I have to sit in an office with (perfectly nice) strangers all day.

No.

I focus on the positive. I'm not stony broke any more. We can go on holiday. I can buy shoes, books, T-shirts and DVD box sets again. I can meet my friends in real pubs, and not only Sam Smiths smegholes. I can go out to dinner. I can buy people nice presents. I can sleep through the night.

Perhaps most positive of all - I'm ready to get back to the book. It is my Obi-Wan Kenobe. It is my only hope.

But until I can raise an army to defeat the Emperor Routine and his evil henchman Darth Boredom, I will be doing it for the money.

Which makes me Han Solo.

Cool.

175. Lists - Favourite Writers

I like lists. I write quite a few of them, even if I lose or ignore the vast majority I write. I like other people's lists too, though. I like reading Herself's lists because of the exotic spelling and the written evidence of the way her funny little mind works. I like BF's lists, because they are written in such tiny writing it can take quite a long time simply to decipher them. And I am always interested in famous people's lists - particularly if they are of their favourite writers, or books. So I decided that today I would list my favourite male and female writers - in no particular order:

MALE - Top 5 (as of today, 6th June 2011)

1. Charles Dickens (Duh. Anybody who says they don't like Dickens can't read. End of.)
2. Patrick Gale (Simple, effective, the one to match. For me.)
3. A.A. Milne (He invented Pooh, Piglet, Rabbit, Eeyore, Tigger, Kanga, Roo and Owl. Now go back and imagine your childhood without him. Exactly.)
(I am finding this quite difficult. Mental strobing.)
4. Nigel Slater (Comfort reading becomes comfort food. Perfection)
5. Philip Pullman (A genius.)

FEMALE - Top 5 (as of ten minutes later, 6th June 2011)
1. Jane Austen (The Master.)
2. Elinor Lipman (Funny, perfectly observed, jealous-making.)
3. Nigella Lawson (Always herself. Erudite. Like taking a long bubble bath in good writing.)
4. Stella Gibbons (for Cold Comfort Farm alone. That's quite a novel.)
5. Susan Cooper (underrated. brilliant.)

I could go on with the girls. I could include Dorothy L Sayers, Maggie O'Farrell, Rebecca Tyrrell, Elizabeth David, Sarah Waters, Charlotte Mendelson, Mary Wesley, Donna Tartt etc etc.

Much harder with the boys. Perhaps what they say is true. Or maybe it's just that I'm a bit sleepy and I've been reading more girls than boys recently. I'm going for the latter. You can think what you like...

174. Planning a menu

This Friday, Herself's lovely parents will have been married 50 years. Which is an extraordinary achievement even before you take into consideration the personalities of the individuals involved, and those of their three daughters. (I'm kidding. Love them all as if they were my blood.)

The family have gathered in Dorset for a week of family togetherness - and the big anniversary supper on Friday is a highlight. I am head chef. I will have team of sous-chefs. But still.

So I'm planning the menu. Herself is OBSESSED with mackerel fishing, so she decided that we would be having mackerel as a first course. I had no problem with that - mackerel is sustainable, delicious and good for you. Plus kids hate it so that will piss off the middle sister fairly immediately.

She is making Gravad Max. I'm sure it will be excellent. I will be making a small amount of creamy, herby potato salad to have with it, and if I thought anybody would eat it, I'd make fresh pickled cucumber too. Stupid e-coli outbreak.

Then we're going to have butterflied leg of lamb, marinated in a mint and coriander yogurt and roasted over a tray of veg so they get all gooey and caramelised by the yummy meat juices. Mint and coriander yogurt to accompany and possibly something green and crunchy.

Then elderflower and gooseberry fool.

Then local cheeses.

Then coffee.

Then collapse with another glass of wine and let the others do the washing up.

I'm looking forward to it. I'll need to be organised, but there's not much actual cooking involved, so the timings shouldn't be too complicated.

Hopefully, it will be a beautiful early June night. And there won't be any squabbling and the kids will behave and/or go to bed early. Wish me luck!

173. A breath of fresh air

And I'm not even being metaphorical. No. For once in my smart-arsey word-driven life I am being LITERAL.

Drove to the beach on Friday evening (or rather, Herself drove) after a tiring week and an unusually busy and tiring fortnight. Stepped out onto the deck just as the sun was dipping towards the horizon, and took a deep breath. Pure deliciousness. Quite literally, a breath of fresh air.

That one lungful was just the beginning. By the time we got back to London at 7.30 on Sunday evening I was feeling all fresh and bouncy again. Not like a permanently enraged, germ-ridden commuter. Not like an ancient old crone with a reasonably demanding new job. Not like a slightly neglectful, distracted girlfriend/friend/daughter/sister.

Fresh, I tell you. With added bouncy.

So the old adage is true, it turns out. There is nothing like a breath of fresh air.

(Thanks also to: Herself, the Hound, 10 hours sleep on two consecutive nights, homemade cheeseburgers, a bacon and egg bagel, a slow walk on the seashore, Blue Valentine, sunshine and a brisk nor'easterly, Angry Birds Rio – and last, but not least, an afternoon screening of The American President.)

172. Pavlovian Reactions... or not.

So, Pavlov's dogs started drooling at suppertime, whether there was food or not. Right?

I apply hand lotion and immediately have to pee.

Is that the same thing?


I listen to the 23-year-olds at work talking 'Yeah, it's like forty quid but it's gonna be, like, awesome, and it's just like an awesome day with like loads of cool bands and it ends at ten so we could like go to the pub afterwards or something' and I immediately feel both bored and tired. Which I'm sure is the same thing.

But because I am not a dog, it occurs to me that I am both Pavlov, and his dogs. So at least I am not alone in my psychological suggestibility.

171. Frazzles

Frazzles are fake rashers of bacon, in the form of crisps. They are extremely salty, taste nothing like bacon, and are incredibly delicious. They are very good if you have a hangover...

Hangovers essentially require the liberal and regular application of carbs and sugar - which is challenging to somebody on a diet. But I have just discovered that a carton of Ribena and a packet of Frazzles pack a considerable punch above their calorific weight. It must be so nice to have a fast metabolism.

I don't know if there's anybody still out there. If you're still hanging on, thank you, and I promise to try harder. Don't give up!