I guess this post ought to be in my acupuncture category but you really need to know the ridiculous lengths I’m going through to survive the last few days of GFL.
I had needles put in the tips of my index fingers – yes, of course it hurt! And in the tips of my toes – bloody right, it was painful. And three in my head – just don’t ask. When the last two went in my arm, my big toes screamed and I gave in.
The thing about acupuncture is that it works on all sorts of levels, from the thyroid to the spirit. That’s assuming you have one, of course. My acupuncturist is a very glamorous Swedish woman with the heart of a viking. When she shoves that needle into your extremities, believe me – you have to trust her otherwise you would be dialling 999 for the emergency services. Ms J understands my need for salvation at the moment. I know all good things come to and end but it doesn’t stop it from hurting. Especially when I read all the emails. It’s killing me.
Today we had Silvena Rowe on. She’s an Amazonian Bulgarian with the sharpest of tongues and the finest of sensibilities. She made us a real Hungarian ghoulash – spot the deliberate mistake – with little tiny dumplings that swum in the soup alongside great big hunks of beef.
On Sunday I walked Jackson, the dog, round the back lane of my house. The wood yard smelt of new spring logs whilst the aconites and celadines thrust their white and yellow flowers in your face. Almost sluttish, they were. By the time we reached the back of the pub, I was thinking that if ever a reason was needed for moving into the back of beyond it was this walk, and just to prove my theory, there they were: little lambs, sprayed with their mothers number on their little furry backs. Ma 3 bleated for lambs 3 and 3, the black sheep called for number 13 and two jet black babies gamboled into view. I stood at the gate with the dog and watched as mummy No.12 stamped her foot and told us to bugger off. We did. I’m not going to eat lambikins until that memory has worn off.
By the time we got home I knew my time was up. We may eat seasonally in the studio, but we don’t see the buds on the tree, or the new leaves forming, or the falling of the same.
Anyway, Silvena flirted mercilessly with Collin Brown, Caribbean chef of the year (twice), who made us curried lobster which we dribbled down our fronts. Then we imbibed Joe Wadsacks’s potent cocktails.
It was a strange old show as we had all read the review in the London Evening Standard about our demise. You can put it all on the back burner until the tea-towel catches fire but then you have to face up to the truth – the end is nigh.
Even as I write I still can’t believe it, but my lovely nearly-son took me out to get drunk. We had two bottles of pink champagne, talked to the bar owners, and walked back to the flat in a not-very-straight line. Collin Brown wore his bling earrings with pride, whilst I wear my pride on my sleeve.
My eyes are closing with the enormity of the situation. Thank you, Victor Lewis Smith, for your support. Thanks to everyone for your wonderful messages. Night, night. C U 2morrer.