Parkenders

Life happens not in smooth, linear trajectories, but in episodes - small, insignificant, broken, irrelevant fragments. Not least so in Greenwich Park. On an isolated visit, the park provides those light vignettes that amuse and bubble up during a subsequent dinner party - just before the misguided Trinity Cream - to provide distraction from the just-too-burnt caramel and the frankly chewy custard. Oh yes, the Baileys and Baxters and Buckleys and Barneys all dish up that one-off story - that cocking of the unscrupulous dog's leg on the bald man's head on a sunny day of reverie and reading... BUT the real park, the REAL PARK, requires frequent visits, regular attention, bleak determination to enable the scratching of the surface of what's really going on.

Lecturers at university used to use words like 'microcosm' and 'juxtaposition' and possibly 'paradoxically cognate' to describe a scenario like this. How bourgeois the bubbles are, up they go, up and over, glinting in the early morning light above the Observatory - but let's be honest, folks, we all know what this is about.

Oh yes, Greenwich Park is a microcosm of repressed sexual desire, juxtapositions of class war and paradoxically cognate lost lives. Greenwich Park is the fertile and moist ground for all sorts of things. I know. I've been there.

Those fragmented, irrelevant breakages are starting to come together. The Major doesn't believe in fragments, of course. That would be too much like giving in to those unsavoury elements that he would, were he still in the army, be combating on all fronts. 

But I know better. From the tales he tells and my own observations, I know that the park contains that rare thing - something that is not uploadable to YouTube - dense, usable narrative.

And I intend to mine it.

Canary in a Coalmine

I did a mean thing today.

I played the Canary in a Coalmine game.

And I got Ella to play along (Ella can be very suggestible after a bottle of Sancerre at Chapter Two in Blackheath).

I walked in and said: God, I get so dizzy even walking in a straight line.

I had hoped I’d get: You say you want to spend the winter in Firenza? in just the right speak-song lilt, but the butcher looked at me with narrowing eyes and all I got was a ‘Next please!’, but I didn’t risk a jolly first-to-fall-over-when-the-atmosphere-is-less-than-perfect so I pussied out and proceeded to order the Major’s usual of rump steak twice, twice mind you, through the mincer. Oh god, it can’t be once or thrice, no twice, always twice, so I said to the back of – admittedly – the butcher’s assistant or apprentice (am I a butcher’s coward?): My sensibilities are shaken by the slightest defect. He didn’t react. I took the mince and half a dozen eggs and we fled.

But by the strict rules of the Canary in a Coalmine game, you are not out of play until you have uttered every line (repeats disregarded) in a public and inappropriate place. 

Is the chemist an inappropriate place to say: I’m so afraid to catch a dose of influenza? Ella thought so. But the leaden eyelids of the assistant at Till no. 2 did not rise to the bait. Now if I tell you that I suffer from delusion...? The assistant looked up at Ella, non-plussed, attention held for a nanosecond, a fleeting light in a tunnel snuffed out by a gust of stale air, but gave her a receipt and change in one lump in that inconsiderate and soul-destroying way of the teenage shop assistant...

Ella giggled incessantly as we headed down the hill.

I don’t think the Major suspects my double life.

I love the smell of Greenwich in the morning

It was only after another sabulous trip to the UAE that I thought: Great camels! I’ve left the blog iron on!

It all started so full of hope and the smell of honeysuckle and orange blossom, and I gripe to the Major about lack of time and too much mean bitching going on in the reading group and the sheer horror of having put my bank card back the wrong way up in my purse and having to look after a new Labrador just as a Greenwich blog would come into its very controversial own.

Yes, a two-pronged approach here – as I return for what I hope is third time lucky. The Labrador came about one morning as the Major woke with a start, wild-eyed and with a thin line of perspiration behind his left ear, and declared that a man could not be whole without a dog, that we needed a dog, that a dog was just what I needed in order not to be lonely at home every day (?!). He roamed the Internet for a while and then acknowledged defeat – until suddenly he zoomed off to Braintree to put down a deposit for a Prince among Pups. Yes, our Labrador is descended from Norwegian kings (or champions) and is adorable. Gone are the weeks of wiping dog diarrhoea off the kitchen walls, not getting any sleep and familiarising ourselves with the previously unconquered territory of the pet shop – a strangely dusty ‘affaire’ full of forward, yet nervy people perusing the diamante collar section and tag vending machine. We are now fully au fait with the routine and the Major gets up at six to prepare for a gentle jog’n’dog around Greenwich Park.

The other prong to my fork is 2012. A saggy synthesis of dog thesis and Olympics antithesis arises here. 2012, a dastardly organisation with sinister motives headed by Seb, the Evil Prince of Parkness, who plans to run the thundering thousand Horsemen of the Apocalympics through the Flower Garden in our Park (yes, OUR park, THE park, favourite of Henry VIII, birthplace of Elizabeth and Mary, the site of Roman ruins, Saxon burial grounds, honest sausages) just for the twee backdrop of the glittering Thames and the bling of beleaguered banking below. Little enthusiastic TwentyTwelvers dash up to you with leaflets and assurances that they are ‘neutral’ and that you can have your say when everyone knows that the whole sinister deal is long done and will mean months of closure and building work and the tiresome murder and muggings of mutts and owners in the borough parks that no one would otherwise frequent.

Well, on behalf of the dogs and bitches of Greenwich, thank you.

False start

Talk about a false start. But I have been on two trips in two months - to the UAE and the USA.

The first trip was uneventful. The Major and I sat on a beach in the Persian Gulf and bickered rather too much about camels. The blues and greys of the sand, sea and sky are limpid, liquified, fused and you end up limp, liquidised and confused as to what belongs where. Perhaps I sat on the sky and bathed in the sand. That’s enough Margaritas, said the Major, and marched off to our room for a cold shower and a nap before bar time. I stayed sitting on the sky and looking at the sand and took surreptitious photographs of camels that I did not reveal to the Major. Instead, I kept my camel porn stashed away modestly on my mobile while I let the Major take out his own monster apparatus for cunning pictures of white buildings and blue skies, green palms and dust-grey boulders – dull juxtapositions that I know we will never view again.

The second trip was to New England. I went alone and could browse Terminal 5 without the Major’s sullen objections to fervent handbag shopping. I like handbags. I love their nifty linings and individual product stamps. I love their detailing and their decadence. Why put all your immediate belongings in a 10 p plastic bag from your local supermarket when you can get the very same thing for hundreds, nay, thousands of pounds and the Major’s brittle expression thrown in for nothing? But I contained myself, however, and didn’t go for the padded Dior sitting so forlornly and unloved in its ermine-cushioned montre. Instead, I forgot the time and rushed to the gate. After settling down, I realised I was sitting across the aisle from a no doubt charming gentleman who had 666 tattooed tenderly onto the side of his shaven skull. Great, I thought, I get to go on holiday with the Anti-Christ.

I can also reveal that England captain John Terry is moonlighting as a purser on BA Transatlantic flights. He is very generous with the G&Ts and I got odd looks as my battery started to line up. The Major would certainly have approved.

Luckily, America is handbag heaven and I got stern hrmph noises down the line as I listed my purchases to the home front. I believe the Major was unimpressed by nifty shocking pink linings and the joys of Faneuil Hall Market Place. But I am not just a handbag hag – oh no – I planted the rest of my savings in the emporium that is Barnes & Noble. I bought nifty shocking pink Pulitzer Prize winners and dour little tomes about depression and depravity in Arkansas. I took a Duck Tour. I ate lobster bisque and clam chowder. I went to Cape Cod. I was shown lots of really old buildings that dated as far back as 1985. I even took lifts – which is something I otherwise never do.

Yes, I went to the 52nd floor and all the way down again – and now I’m back.

Major rant

The Major went on a trip to Amsterdam. This time, he came home rather peeved. He had experienced a slight delay at Schiphol and hadn't been immediately plied with champagne. The Netherlands also rile him in general due to an old girlfriend with whom he kept on chummy terms until one day – oops – some mean bitch accidentally dropped his mobile in a rather fickle cake base mixture while he was in the bath. Some additional twists of gentle fate ensured that not only was Bettina forever entombed in his caramelised mobile, but she was taken out of his orbit entirely. He never could figure out why she never called him again.

At any rate, he stopped suddenly in the middle of the dining room and delivered a rant:

“I’ve just opened a mailing from the KLM Flying Dutchman Club. It’s all in bloody Dutch! This is evidence of how evil they are. No one understands Dutch and the only reason why people can’t understand Dutch is because it does not really exist as a language. It is all a show to confuse foreigners - like Cockney Rhyming Slang. The Dutch actually haven't got a clue what they are saying to each other, but when foreigners are around, they sort of nod and reply in the same made-up language. Once the foreigner leaves, they tell each other what they are on about in English. KLM is a rotten bloody airline and the world's most stingy set of tight-fisted sods. With BA, if you go anywhere and back about 10 times in Club Class, you get a free ticket to anywhere, a card with a hologram, sturdy luggage tags, a CD of Now That’s What I Call An Airline 32, a box of KitKat Chunkies and as much Tetley's bitter as you can drink in twenty minutes (about 17 pints in the Major's case). If you do the same on KLM, they nominate you as "the only passenger we won't shout at" on a trip of your choice. No CD, no KitKats, no nuttin.”

Bubbles

I defy anyone not to get the itch when they see this picture. Now, I order a lot of things by Internet and they are invariably delivered in lots of delicious bubble wrap. However, I feel that an opportunity is being missed here…

Where is the personalised bubble wrap? Huh? Huh? Am I veritably popping and bursting with new-fangled marketing winners or what? I'm thinking matching 'is'n'ers personalised bubble wrap for Christmas. I’m thinking anniversary and birthday bubbles. I'm thinking musical bubbles, hilarious farting bubbles, laddish beer-burping bubbles, Valentine's Day heart-shaped red-wrap-with-kissy-mwa bubbles, champagne bubbles, smear-on-and-lick-off chocolate and pecan nut flavour bubbles, edible bubbles, bubbles in hotpants, Afghan landmine-popping bubbles, Jade Goody tribute bubbles, credit bubbles that crunch instead of pop, star-spangled bubbles, flowery chintz Home Counties bubbles, hard inner city bubbles, square, triangular, hexagonal, sticky and fluffy bubbles, gay bubbles...

What a fantastic thought! Bubbles R Us has been born! I must have suicide bomber bubbles that snap with a really big bang - and reality TV bubbles that don’t do anything, but everyone looks at them anyhow - and ‘Original Classic’ bubbles which are just good ol’ bubble wrap like mom used to snap on the porch…

This is not a food blog

Bob and Nob (aka Robert and Gabriella) came round to dinner last night. Bob is bearable in a simultaneously louche and high-handed sort of way whereas Nob is a greedy and snaggle-toothed screecher. Nob is also three months pregnant. You wait. She will produce a much larger mammal than the one she is expecting as her pregnancy already seems to have been endless. She’s been screeching about it since the minute she stood up after a particularly vigorous coitus (described energetically one evening in front of both Bob and my mother-in-law). But - remind me what is to be avoided in that first delicate trimester? I served homemade pate as a first course, a carpaccio and oily fish mini-buffet as the main and a lovely soft and blue-vein cheeseboard to finish. And to drink? Salmonella-ridden tap water or alcohol, Nob?

She started it. This was revenge for another memorable occasion. Bob has been the Major’s friend in an enforced discomfort zone for some years whereas Nob is a recent addition. ‘You must have your oysters from Loch Fyne,’ screeched Nob on seeing my bed of bivalve molluscs. ‘They are the only ones to have.’ Everyone is a foodie. Everyone is a photographer. Everyone has a food blog or a Photoshop-manipulated hobnob site. ‘Are they from Loch Fyne?’ ‘No, sorry, Nob, they’re not.’ The sound of a thousand triumphant bugles and a clash of cymbals exploded inside her head. ‘Oh – oh – what a shame, darling! Never mind!’ Nob made savouring faces as the soft mollusc bodies in swift succession slid down her as yet unstrangled throat and deemed them to be ‘pretty tasty’, but not quite as superb as those marvellous Scottish ones. As it happens, my oysters were from Loch Fyne.

I am a cook (or rather an ex-cook), but this is not a food blog.