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.