Curry, and Irvine Welsh

Thinkin in tha Scoatish wa, y'ken?

I always get this reading Irvine Welsh novels with first person narratives. I end up thinking in Trainspotting-speak from the first twenty or thirty pages until a couple of weeks after finishing the book. Last night, for example, should be:

• Went out with S&J for a fantastic evening and a very good curry.

But this becomes:

• Wen oot wi S&K las ni, fo'a Ruby, likesay. To yin Curry Hoose. Barry wee bit ae scran, but.

Skagboys wouldn't be an Irvine Welsh novel without those episodes that might upset the prudish reader, that might get called over the top. There's a Monday morning fabrication works tea-break toilet competition, Sick Boy gets more strap-on action than he wanted, Begbie's back beating the world senseless. Then there's the drug- and booze-fuelled day-to-day background stuff. There's some chilling reminders of the excesses Thatcher's regime brought to rich and poor alike.

There's plenty of music references, including one to Einsturzende Neubauten, obscure German avant-garde band, that comes as a surprise.

Hard labour.

It had to happen sooner or later. Enough rain to get cricket called off yesterday morning. Then a fine dry day today. The hedges all overgrown. Overgrown hedges to the left, right and the back. Still BLISS bought me a present. New hedge cutters. These have sharp blades and actually cut the hedge, whereas the old ones sort of wore it away, in an altogether slower more laborious process. They were more like hedge sanders. Progress speeded up no end after they came out of the box. Unlike the old ones the lead also goes directly from the plug to the cutters and not via three or four tape repairs where we've cut through the cable. Anyway, hours later the hedges are cut. The back one, which started the roughest, is even flat on top and straight up the sides, a first in our garden. BLISS has mowed the grass, front and rear, so we're both going to be creaking and moaning tomorrow. Or greetin an bawin thae morrow, y'ken.

All that remain now is for my system to clear itself of the green stuff, leaf dust and pollen so that I can stop coughing and sneezing and get back to normal levels of pollution again after all that fresh air and gardening.

Solo effort on the lime pickle.

There's a tradition among the cricket club curry-boys. All the lime pickle shall be consumed, no matter how strong, no matter how hot, no matter how limey. So, last night there's the papadums, and there's generous and very nice servings of relish. There's three decent-sized bowls of onion salad, mango chutney, and lime pickle, and a small gravy boat thing with yoghurt and mint sauce. The mango chutney looks too much like jam, and I can't go near that. The salad's good and the yoghurt and mint is excellent with some added spicy and garlic depth to what can be a pretty bland accompaniment. The lime pickle, though, that's clearly a house special and there's two or three very conspicuous green chillies in there.

BLISS + lime pickle demolition = no help at all. This is a long established mathematical fact. Rapidly I realise that BLISS + S + J = no help at all and that lime pickle (existing) to lime pickle (zero remaining) is going to be down to me and me alone. Including those two or three small, green and no doubt very hot chillies. The CCCB can relax. I got through it all, and even scooped up the last remnants with a sliver of papadum.

There. R, B, AD, (and the occasionals, FL, ON, MS, CS, JS et al), you can all sleep soundly, the highest standards have been preserved, as has the consumption of the lime preserve.