Potatis Bravas

5.30 and its dark outside.
The moon is half hanging in a big sky.
The telly is burbling on in the background, whilst the old man is mending a pair of my favourite trousers.
I collected my little red car today. She is all brand spanking new, shiny and bump free thanks to a Mr. Woodcock in Bassetts Lane. In the middle of nowhere. He very quietly eyes up your vehicle, gives a very decent quote then charges less.
I’ve made potatis bravas, not cubes of spuds but all mushy – I used the wrong tatties – and the biggest baddest vegetable soup. Huge chunks of all sorts of green and orange.
Last night the ‘oosbind and I took the 17.21 into Charing Cross. Collected our theatre tickets, then took a light supper in Gaby’s. Falafel and salt beef, that kinda thing.
We took our seats in the front two of the Grand Circle at The Garrick. Seats 20/21. Vivienne Westwood was behind us whilst one of the Suchet brothers was three seats down. We all, clearly had been given comps, freeby’s and discounts.
THE SCOTTSBORO BOYS, is a true story, 9 young, black men, accused of raping two lying, white women.
The juxtaposition of Black minstrel music, dance and Julian Glovers Interlocutor, made for an entertaining but uncomfortable night.
All 9 died either in jail, or in desperate states outside.
They were all finally pardoned. Thirty years being banged up for a crime that you didn’t commit.
We didn’t talk much on the way to the station.
10.00 train, and a gentle trundle back home. I needed the lavatory. WHY CAN’T THEY BE KEPT CLEAN. I was incensed and am complaining to South East Rail. Disgusting, horrible nasty, unnecessary shabbiness.
Home at 23.00 hours.
Now the old man’s home and we are starting our life together again. Everyday counts now.
Apart from vegetable soup and mushy Spanish potatoes gratitude is on the menu.