5/7

This one I rather hoped I wouldn't have to resort to, but I feel in some need of writing for writing's sake. I quite enjoy that food thing. And lots of it. Although that is misleading; I will not put rubbish into my body. I eat a lot, but I'm very fussy. I'm better than I was, and a lot of that came from my impoverished circumstances in London. I would eat what I was given, I had to expand my repertoire. As a child, red meat had never agreed with me. Be that pure obstinacy on my behalf, or a genuine complaint I'm still unsure. Should somebody place a steak before me, my stomach instantly becomes terribly acrobatic, bless it. However, sausages and bacon do the complete opposite, and their respective smells leave me salivating.

A great many of my friends accuse me of being a food snob. And quite likely, I am. I will not touch such things as pot noodle, ketchup, mayonnaise (home made excepted), builder's tea or that nasty pre-sliced bread that always seems so popular. Or margarine. Or caged-hen eggs. Essentially all the things to which an impoverished, student-type ought to defer. The list does go on rather. I hate such things as instant mash. The very idea is, to me, quite abominable. Mashing potatoes is possibly one of the simplest tasks in cookery. Oh dear, the point of this was to talk about something I like. Perhaps I have uncovered the next entry? Right, yes, well.

However none of this apparent snobbery is simply to keep up appearances. Quince could well be having a resurgence, but this doesn't influence me. I love quince because it tastes stunning. And it goes so well with such a lot, not least with cheese. I love runny, heart-attack inducing cheeses on crisp-bread crackers. And prosciutto. All cured meats really. And roasted vegetables. Roast chicken, or goose, or pheasant. I'm afraid this is all going to lack any sort of cohesion. One food will always suggest another. And memory plays such a wonderful role. I used to embarrass my friends terribly when they ever dared come food shopping with me. Waitrose was rather my place of worship for a long time. I was certainly devout. Contrasting the solemnity with which I made Sunday services, the Waitrose ritual was one of excited to-ing and fro-ing in between the aisles. There was always something wonderfully interesting to look at, sourced from somewhere mind-bogglingly exotic. Or so it was for me at least. There is something about fresh, ripe, home-grown, local and tasty ingredients that truly makes me happy. Knowing the meat/dairy/eggs were sourced from happy animals seems to automatically improve their flavour. Is that merely a placebo? I like to think not, although I'm certain various studies have shown no person can ever really tell in blind tests. But then, arguably, is that even the point? The satisfaction of choosing something sustainable and positive over the cheap and negative option is absolutely reward enough. I may have been pounds out of pocket, but I was and remain unperturbed.

The monetary thing has become an issue. I will always, and I mean always, over-spend unnecessarily on food. Today I did start well, I packed my lunch and that was all fine. However I then stopped off at the Boatshed in Cottesloe, to meet a friend. This particular grocer has a reputation for having the most wonderful foods, infamously eschewed by a large number of the locals. For example, they have just started selling Manjimup truffles, something they managed to cultivate after years of trying in the South-West countryside. I love it, and not simply because of the bountiful tasting plates. It was via one of these that I came to taste the Boatshed's chocolate mousse. I had to sit down. On the floor. Such was it's genius. And naturally I've introduced my current wingman to this airy, fluffy, frankly orgasmic delight. And that's what we bought today. For the second time in less than a week.

This is bad not only financially - forget not the turbulent economic times in which we still live, where austerity should be our hallmark philosophy - but it is not at all friendly to my waistline. In London I ate quality not quantity and I walked everywhere. It was certainly cheaper than paying for transport. I also cycled distances too great for walking. I was a bit feeble should the weather have been poor, but in general I would carry on unless the very heaviest of downpours should render me sightless. On the other side of the world, this does not occur. I eat quality and a huge quantity of it. Why? I'm not even hungry. However I cannot sit idly by and allow a sibling to have a larger portion of whatever than myself. I also drive almost everywhere. It's simply the done thing. You can neither survive nor rely on public transport alone, and the distances are far too great to allow for walking. I'm trying to do so more often, simply because I enjoy a good walk. Ah! idea number two from post number five.

Sadly this lacks any succinct, logical thought. I apologise. But perhaps this allows for my genuine like of food to shine through. I do hope so, at least.

3/7 & 4/7

This one will not surprise many. It is perhaps one of the primary incentives for my push to the green and pleasant land: my preference for colder climes. As a child I yearned for that "rainy day" which almost never came. This is, in my mind, the most likely reason for my inability to save anything. Least of all  - nay, especially - money.

I adore a frosty morning, one so cold as to make the thought of leaving the bed quite abhorrent. To sit by the fire, pot of tea (or glass of sherry) and good book in hand. Or perhaps even a very good film to watch. My pleasures are generally the indoor pursuits. But equally too, I love Winter walks. Rugging up and stomping about in Wellington boots - such fun. The sunny Summers sadly do not suit me. I burn very easily, my hay fever is quite debilitating and I do not suit swim-wear. Or shorts. Not that I think they suit many people any way. But mostly, I dislike the heat. I cannot stay cool. In the Winter it's fine, one dresses appropriately - and rather more smartly - and there you are, quickly warmed up.

Not so in Summer, particularly when one lives without the luxury of air conditioning. At it's worst, I cannot sleep. This was rather brought home to me the previous week, on a Balinese sejour. A family holiday, all rather lovely in theory. Escaping the Wintry "depths" for heat and humidity, endless pools, food, cocktails and shopping, it sounded rather wonderful on paper. However I had forgotten how little much of the previous list suits me. I didn't even want to drink the cocktails, such was my misery. Oh dear that does sound oh so pathetic. A free holiday and such was my attitude. I hope my behaviour wasn't too ungrateful, especially as I insisted on cutting my time there short by a week. I simply couldn't have faced two weeks of the place, when all I wanted was my own warm bed, my protector from the winds and the rain. (Yes there was actual precipitation).

Some like it hot...

Linked, but quite worthy of being in its own category, is snow. I just adore snow. Cannot get enough of it. I may have mentioned I grew up in a warm climate, somewhere along the line. Shocking, I know. So I imagine my lack of experience with cold and precipitation has had some influence here. In fact I didn't see snow until I was fourteen. It was on a rather gormless school trip to the nation's capital - a city built by bureaucrats for bureaucrats, it is a civil servant's wet dream (do excuse the vulgarity). To encourage the students to engage with the historical and political bent of the tour, we were also treated to a spot of skiing, which is of course where the introduction to snow came in.

I could perhaps describe our meeting as something along the lines of falling in love. It was certainly an immediate infatuation, one which lingers to this day. There is something about snow's ability to transform a landscape entirely, to silence, to cleanse, to purify. It was also the source of a great deal of fun. A hopeless skier, I am nonetheless enthusiastic and devour the slopes rather like the cheese boards and mulled wine I enjoy afterwards. Perhaps not the mulled wine when I was fourteen, I think it was most likely a very strong hot chocolate.

The mere sight of snow will reduce me to a level of giddiness, silliness and frivolity not known since nursery. It is like seeing a long lost friend, and much like all good friends, one can pick things up exactly where they were left off. I was blessed to experience some of the snowiest English Winters known for years, for which I'm too grateful. Of course, I pretended to tire of the disruption it would always cause. But secretly I was always very amused and rather pleased. The Christmas I spent in Sweden was something else, in terms of the volume of snow, the level of cold and a remarkable ability for a long-suffering population to soldier on. A myth Mr Fry once debunked, was the nonsense that the Swedes suicide abnormally more than anybody else. If you cross the Baltic to Lithuania, well then yes, it is unusually high, but I rather hope my good friend the snow is not a contributing factor.

So there you are; the cold and the snow are two things I like. Good.

2/7

Should I be concerned that I am finding it quite difficult to find things I like and wish to write about? Obviously I like more than seven things, were it otherwise then I would certainly be concerned. It's just that very little seems to present itself in anything more than a half-hearted sense. But I've just had a thought: what has been tagged numerously on KorE?, Champagne!

Now I enjoy the odd drink every now and then. Yestereve I enjoyed a lovely glass of port with a friend. The day before an ordinary Scotch whisky with the merest hint of water. Followed not much later by some cider and ultimately some champers. In my defense, I was out at the time and in any other situation I would not mix, least of all so haphazardly. I am also partial to sherry, both dry and sweet. But the one thing I will absolutely never turn down, perhaps to my detriment, is a nice glass of bubbles. Prosecco, sekt, cava, sparkling wine and of course the Holy Grail, I'm not usually too bothered (assuming it tastes all right).

I adore that first sip... The bubbles effervescently tickling the tongue, allowing the delicate notes of the wine to appreciate, the golden aroma so teasing; demanding more. And more. I mean I'm no wine buff. The local tabloid is currently poking a great deal of fun at the pretenses of professional wine tasters. Not that I am much bothered by their outdated and pathetically partial reporting. Think the Daily Mail lite. With more adverts. In fact I am bothered by it, but not bothered about it - it being 'that which they report'. But I digress. So I really enjoy a good bubbly, and not simply for the drink itself, but its connotations. The sense of grandeur and elevation it conjures, the decadence. Holding a champagne coupe and I am transported to Prohibition America, the 1960's and Mad Men or even the 17th century English aristocrats who first used the glass. Even the unlikely legend that the original was modeled on the breast of Marie-Antoinette thrills me. And with Wimbledon providing me with lasting evening entertainment, I wish so very much I were there too, enjoying a champagne in the sunshine on Henman Hill. Just glorious.

Another enjoyable aspect is of course, the sociability of the drink. In a strange way champagne is one of the indirect reasons for this blog's existence. At last year's Proms in the Park, my mother and I sat down to a very makeshift bin liner/scarf picnic rug with a few nibbles and a bottle of the Widow. Our neighbour's curiosity was aroused by this juxtaposition. That and our age difference. Striking up conversation, it was simply one of those moments one can only attribute to fate and I am eternally grateful. The rest, as they say, is history. More recently at a friend's 21st, a vast amount of the stuff was quaffed, and possibly the majority by myself. It certainly felt like it the next day, but all the merry chatter was such fun. And there you are: one might have a whisky, a glass of wine, even a beer; alone. However champagne is a drink that I could never envisage truly enjoying alone. Once my income level increases, I shall of course substitute water with champagne, naturally. But until such time, non. To fete, to celebrate, to share in joy and to commiserate, there is nothing quite like champagne. And that is precisely why I like the stuff.