Early onset Altzheimer's and the joy
of kitchen cupboards
I made pickled garlic. Ages ago. Alive
in my memory, being an impatient soul, I would have worried at it and
tried to too soon, let the air in, contaminated the liquid because it
would take too long to walk to the drawer and get a clean fork,
somehow or other, it would've gone Alex Song. Instead, I forgot all
about it. Now, two years (maybe three) later, perfect pickled garlic.
Recently I found a jar of preserved mushrooms at the back of the
fridge. Days like today, when we haven't been shopping, there's
little in the cupboards in the way of snacks, I've needed sports
watching sustenance for the Italy v France six nations rugby, the
Arsenal v The Orcs elongated highlights, and then there's the
Superbowl to come, this forgetfulness is an absolute boon. Granted,
toasted pita cannot compete with salt 'n' vinegar chipsticks (but
only because plain seem to have disappeared from the shelves); Ryvita
and cheese spread with tomatoes isn't in the same league as beef
flavour monster munch; and no amount of toasted cheese with onion and
Tabasco sauce can compensate for the lack of family size amounts of
cheese quavers. It does make you use your imagination, though, and
does lead to those rummages through the dark corners of the kitchen
units where, normally, fear of the unknown stops too much
investigation.
A Hologram for the King
Dave Eggers has written his book in
some of the most sparse, economical prose I've read. This is making
up for finishing The Submission.
Alan Clay, 54, victim of the recession,
is in Saudi after a payday big enough to sort out his messy,
financially unstable life. So far, he's struggling with lack of sleep
(travelling), then too much of it (waking up after he's due at the
first appointment), unreliable taxi drivers (late, no-show, mad, “oh,
why didn't you say you were running late, we shouldn't be going this
way” - U-turn), unreliable supplies of food, WiFi, people he's
supposed to meet with, and, of course, the otherwise-engagedness of
the King.
Italy beat France
Only their third ever victory over
France. One score the difference, a great game, plenty going on all
the way through and as the papers say, a nailbiting last few minutes.
Particularly after they went down to fourteen men.
There's some truth in the clichés
trotted out about footballers making the most of minimal contact
while these guys smash into each other, all sixteen and more stones
of them, dust themselves down, etc, etc. However, there is contact in
football. Before starting with the comparisons, the trotters out of
the clichés (that's you included, Parkinson, and your old days this
and old days that) need to look at those tennis players unable to
fall over without needing a physio's attendance. There's plenty less
robust sportsmen out there than the feeblest footballer to sort out
first.
One shaken up dog
The dog has taken against the fox who
visits the garden. She had a big chase tonight, starlight down to the
end of the garden. Then: WHUMP. Then: one slightly shaken up dog
returns, foe seen off, but at the cost of colliding with a shed. The
state of our sheds, when daylight comes, one may no longer be
standing. She hit it quite hard.
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