Rather decent afternoon yesterday. Had lunch with some exciting urban London people, which I suppose was nice. In an undulating garden, grains of sunlight squeezing their way through the leafy trees, balancing mounds of charred oily chicken and potatoes on a fork and trying my best not to drop anything as I send them into my mouth with a whoosh, as though in an egg-and-spoon race. Only it’s a good egg and spoon race where you get to eat the egg, and the egg is made from neither raw potato nor plastic but chicken and cooked potato and nice edible stuff.
Managed no spillages. A bit of a surprise since I was always bad at the egg-and-spoon race – my sluggishness at running, the result of having ridiculous toes, always meant I was given the job of taking part – but I guess it helps to be sitting down, and also free from the shackle-like deterrence that is mildly-patronising applause.
That said, I did spill peppermint tea all over myself – a spillage, but not a one involving the sporty balancing of anything on a fork. Everyone was far too busy being immersed in a discussion of some high-brow intellectual thing or other to notice. It soon evaporated, leaving barely a stain visible to the naked eye – it made me glad of the beverage’s weakness, which was the result of having been made using a paltry single teabag in a big purple teapot.
Obviously, the weather being all hot and groovy now means that people are all, “oh no, it’s too hot.” But I’m glad. So what if I have skin cancer, so what if my chocolate biscuits are turning all sticky – I don’t mind being a pile of ash, as long as I can pour tea all over myself and then watch my miraculously quick recovery.
I made some photographs. Here’s one of them. I spoil you people.
More tomorrow. Not more photographs, that is, but more blog fun. After a few weeks of very occasional publishing, I’m getting back into the swing of things a bit. I’m on holiday, which helps, although it shouldn’t because technically I should be drowning in a sea of frantic work, but my increasing procrastination habit means I’ve got all that to look forward to in about five days. I do hate this self-referential talk about blog post frequency, when it gets to an endless level, but it’s OK if I hypocritically mention how much I dislike it, right?
Whatever. Laters and that.