life’s a beach and then you die
So The Fat Duck is closed because of a food poisoning scare.
I guess it would be pretty galling to get food poisoning after stumping up a hefty amount of dosh to eat there, but it does all seem very odd. I’ve peered into the kitchen in The Fat Duck and it was… a bit dull to be honest, it’s just a kitchen, albeit a very clean and well-organised one, and one that produces wonderful and magical food. I hope they get to the, er, bottom of this mystery.
Despite my cynicism and pessimism, I’ve always rather liked Jamie Oliver. I like his enthusiasm, his recipes tend be tasty and realistic for anyone to make - and they work.
His new magazine Jamie is a beautifully-produced thing, like a really good clothing catalogue. Very pretty, but not much in it for me, I thought, as I flicked through the second issue but then I came to an article called ‘Meet Dennis’ which stopped me in my tracks.
First I thought this man was an artist. Then I started reading and found he was a tramp. I was expecting something twee and patronising, but Jamie’s story of his encounter with Dennis made me stop and think about what is really important to me. Dennis had no home and almost no money or possessions but he was carrying an £8 loaf of bread, a bread Jamie describes as the best bread in the world. He quizzed Dennis on why he had it. He replied “it’s the best bread on the street”.
I wrote to the magazine saying how I thought they’d pitched the tone of this piece just right - and that I wanted to rip these pages out and frame them. The editor wrote back and thanked me and told me not to rip the pages out but I had to wait and see why. Bit mysterious.
This morning a HUGE parcel arrived at our house. It was a large photo of Dennis and Jamie that Jamie’s had on his office wall for five years. He signed it and sent it to me. I am insanely touched.
So my hunch was right, Jamie is a very good bloke indeed.
There I was minding my own business, pretending to write but really reading Bilgewater by Jane Gardam and listening to songs with ‘Grace’ in the title - Grace is the name of Bilgewater’s friend and nemesis - when the phone rang.
It was Marian from down the road. A moustrap had gone off in her kitchen, but rather than swiftly dispatching the mouse to rodent heaven or hell, it had merely trapped its tail. The children had been hysterical before school: “Mummy you love animals, you can’t kill it!”. It had played dead for a while but was now wriggling vigorously. Although she knew I was busy getting mince out of the freezer, could I assist?
Pausing only to retrieve the mince I’d utterly forgotten about (how did she know?), I slid down the unsalted, icy pavements to number 7. The mouse had buried itself in the very corner of the room. Marian offered me a chisel. Clearly I was expected to woodwork it to death.
Call me a wuss (thank you) but I put my hand in a plastic bag and flipped the mousetrap and mouse in the bag and tied a knot in it. The bag was wriggling. So after some humming and hawing - kill it? chuck it in the bin as it was? I took it outside. Marian provided me with a bag of cement which I dropped on the bag. Cement went everywhere but the mouse wriggled no more.
So I murdered Marian’s mouse. But I think she’s an accessory at the very least.
And I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again - we do not need to watch Outnumbered.
Thank you Stefanie for sending me this ’sweet little film’…
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