This is just not good enough. I am weeping all over the place. You can’t be saying all those things and expect me to keep a dry eye.
But the sun is on the river, the sky is blue and the geese are squawking and life goes on, all be it that I can’t imagine what it will be like without three hundred tastes a day and a diurnal slurp.
You may have noticed that I was a bit under par with the show today. I spent the weekend being one year older and then spending Sunday celebrating somebody else’s birthday. By the time I got to bed, and the clocks had sprung forward, I managed to grab three hours of sleep over the whole weekend. So, today is all a bit of a blur.
Having said that, Tim Hughes made a lovely trout with clams today. I schmoozed him as much as I could for a table in Scotts, his new restaurant in Mount Street. The only problem with places like that thought is the need to dress up. If Posh And Becks frequent the place, I’m not sure my painters overalls are appropriate. Mind you, I do buy new ones from Baldocks in Tunbridge Wells when my old ones fray just a little too much. I prefer the white ones to the blue, which make me look like a gas fitter. The white ones have a faintly Bohemian air about them. The boon of overalls, or dungarees as we ex-hippies like to call them, is that you don’t have to wear any undergarments, they are baggy enough to flop within their folds, not to mention a handy pocket in the front for the credit card and mobile as well as that all essential ruler pocket which is so convenient when I’m buying a new feather duster.
I’m really not very good with fashion and having to be all spruced up every day. Maybe when the show comes off I’ll wear me designer wardrobe to go to the farmers in. Maybe not. The wonderful Victor Lewis Smith is writing a final piece about the show in tomorrow’s London Evening Standard. There are a lot of people who are mourning the show already.
Alex Mackay cooked two dishes which completely escape me, at the moment. One of them was a Pavlova. Oh yes, the other had a buttery sauce and sweetbreads. Contrary to popular belief, sweetbreads are not testicles. They are pancreatic glands. For some strange reason I love things like sweetbread and offal.
I can’t believe we’re having this conversation although Jim has remarked that I have been talking bo*****s for 30 years.
Look, I’m tired. An early night is a must. I have to read my notes for tomorrow so that I am all fresh for Richard Phillips. There I go again talking about Dick. Okay, enough. Cu2morrer.