I’ve spent the last three hours cooking. I am making squash soup, minestrone soup, game stock, beef casserole and braised red cabbage. I also have some rhubarb awaiting inspiration and a mango that I had forgotten and which is now perfectly ripe, but if I leave much longer will be past it. I had a similar avocado, but Ro and I shared that and now I’m sitting down with some brie, oatcakes and olives. I know that eating at ones desk is a dreadful example to the little ones, but this has rarely stopped me doing anything.
I had so many vegetables to prepare that I just put a box on the floor near me for the peelings, rather than spilling bits all over the floor while repeatedly opening the compost bin. I cut the cabbage in quarters, cut out the core and chucked it in the box. Tilly keenly rescued it and crunched it up, quarter by quarter. Very healthy, no doubt, but it may be necessary to encourage her to sit in another room this evening, for her digestion may be affected.
I haven’t started on the marmalade and I’m not likely to now. Not today, that is, nor tomorrow, for I am going to the Dark Metropolis. My sister, El, Phil and I are having lunch together. It may not be the highly cultural outing that I said I’d be doing, but we are meeting up at the National Gallery, so it will count. Looking at that list, I’ve not got far yet, but I am buying unexpected music and liking it too (cheers, BD and Julie).
Looking up old posts reminded me of this one. Since I wrote it, I have had several occasions when I’ve remembered someone who didn’t know me, or had forgotten my name, anyway. I wonder if this means that I’m getting better or whether I had been so worried about myself that I hadn’t realised how many other people are the same.
I could be improving, you know. I phoned to book my train tickets yesterday (for those of you who don’t live here, pre-booked tickets are cheaper) and, as often happens now, the person at the call centre said his name when he answered the phone. He was very helpful and found me the cheapest ticket – unfortunately it was two hours earlier than I wished to leave so I decided to spring the extra tenner for the later train but, since the difference was negligible, go First Class. El cheapo fare coming home, so I’m in the usual cattle truck.
He was friendly and sensible and at the end I (of course) thanked him. “Goodbye, Jason,” I added. And realised that I’ve done this several times recently, remembering the names of people on helplines.
Is it possible, do you think, that writing about the problem I had with names has, by making me focus, cured it?