My Quiet, Little Stab of Happiness
I know I am sick – the passing blood and losing hair in the shower being the type of hints you cannot really ignore – but today has been a good day.
Not leaving the bed till gone noon felt decadent enough, but this was just a prelude to some proper doing-nothing-much-and-feeling-wonderful-about-it. After papers had been bought, I persuaded Surreal Girl to come and read them with me in the pub at the end of the street. We were soon encamped in comfy corner seats by the fire, waiting for a roast dinner with pints of strawberry beer in our hands, enjoying a controlled mess of supplements, magazines and pages spread out on a huge wooden table in front of us.
Despite the table number marker being the Death card as envisaged by Gilbert and George, the roast when it arrived was worth making a clearing in the papers for. Without doubt, I can say it featured the best vegetarian sausages I have ever tasted. While the carrots and roast potatoes were not a touch on what I would cook at home, the Yorkshire pudding, mash, gravy and rest of the veg was a treat.
After a proper Sunday lunch, we followed the English tradition of enjoying an afternoon walk whatever the weather. Wrapped in scarves and equipped with a massive bag of stale bread, we headed along the canal, drifting in the direction of London’s finest necropolis. Ducks, geese, swans and moorhens were fed; fowl fights inadvertently started and the wondrous sight of a cormorant diving amongst the wreckage of storms and litter to re-emerge with a fish was observed.
Back home before dark fell, I rustled up the best Lemoness I have made for several months and enjoyed it while curled up on the sofa watching Quatermass IV. I know some people like to read about me ‘slashing my wrists in public’, but recounting my quiet, little stab of happiness says just as much about the truth of who I am. To dream of the lux aeterna, you have to have stand on firm earth.
Not leaving the bed till gone noon felt decadent enough, but this was just a prelude to some proper doing-nothing-much-and-feeling-wonderful-about-it. After papers had been bought, I persuaded Surreal Girl to come and read them with me in the pub at the end of the street. We were soon encamped in comfy corner seats by the fire, waiting for a roast dinner with pints of strawberry beer in our hands, enjoying a controlled mess of supplements, magazines and pages spread out on a huge wooden table in front of us.
Despite the table number marker being the Death card as envisaged by Gilbert and George, the roast when it arrived was worth making a clearing in the papers for. Without doubt, I can say it featured the best vegetarian sausages I have ever tasted. While the carrots and roast potatoes were not a touch on what I would cook at home, the Yorkshire pudding, mash, gravy and rest of the veg was a treat.
After a proper Sunday lunch, we followed the English tradition of enjoying an afternoon walk whatever the weather. Wrapped in scarves and equipped with a massive bag of stale bread, we headed along the canal, drifting in the direction of London’s finest necropolis. Ducks, geese, swans and moorhens were fed; fowl fights inadvertently started and the wondrous sight of a cormorant diving amongst the wreckage of storms and litter to re-emerge with a fish was observed.
Back home before dark fell, I rustled up the best Lemoness I have made for several months and enjoyed it while curled up on the sofa watching Quatermass IV. I know some people like to read about me ‘slashing my wrists in public’, but recounting my quiet, little stab of happiness says just as much about the truth of who I am. To dream of the lux aeterna, you have to have stand on firm earth.
Labels: Sunday lunch
3 Comments:
i like this one. made me feel warm.
I am no doctor, but I can say with confidence that your blood would be much more useful if it stayed inside of your body. If it turns out that retaining it is not an option, then meat and gravy is an excellent choice for lessening the trauma. I’m taking for granted that the gravy of which you speak is what I think it is, i.e., no spleen, boar’s blood or tripe. If I am off the mark, then I can’t vouch for your gravy’s curative powers.
I promise, no spleen or boar's blood gravy and certainly not with veggie sausages – that would be pure madness.
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