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.

Jag älskar dig...

How is that I come to be sitting here (again), in multiple layers of knitwear and watching The History of the British Family? Having just watched Delia Through the Ages? Have I, without noticing, aged two score and twain? Subscribed to the Daily Mail, found fault in everything and begun spying through my curtains?

I do not wish to remain like this. I am pro-active, dynamic, entrepreneurial! Sadly, all those are lies. I suppose I was vaguely cultural over the weekend. I dashed madly from Shepherd's Bush on Saturday morning to the Wallace Collection. Which I do love. I like that it is usually the more discerning visitor who makes the trip there. I always wander, wanting to put everything I see into imaginary drawing rooms I possess, remembering things from National Trust properties which would go well together. Drawing room full, I entered the Damien Hirst exhibition currently showing there. Firstly, sorry what? Hirst in the Wallace Collection? I don't follow. Nor did the elderly Swedes in front of me. The contrast between the beautifully ostentatious gold statuettes and scarlet curtains, suddenly with paintings of skulls and daggers on a black background. The colour of which matched the wallpaper well, so noted my companion. Well it had one thinking, at any rate.

What also had me thinking was the tremendous pain my feet were in. Like the pre-recession Mrs Trefusis, I had eschewed sensible shoes. It was nightmarish and complete agony. I'm sure it would be utterly small-fry for any female passers-by, but for the inexperienced, the naive... Oh dear. And the absolute worst thing, is that my Father is a fully qualified podiatrist. Such betrayal and so very pathetic.

Later dinner at Sohojapan. It was quite charming and inexpensive, and I had forgotten how delicious Japanese food is. The stodgy British and Swedish fare I have eaten almost exclusively the last month had left me in desperate need of some variety. Raw fish and noodles and such other things as plum wine. Yummy. Shame about some of the company. I would have embraced a state of temporary deafness the whole evening. I am becoming less and less tolerant as I age. I am turning ever faster into my paternal grandfather. A man loved and feared, though I was the favoured grandchild. One of our party was an insufferably dull American*, carrying on about his intimate knowledge of the DJ scene. It irritates me no end when people lack any real social skills whatsoever. How hatefully dull to dictate the conversation for the entire evening. Thankfully my biting comments went over his head, it's that wonderfully British ability to seem polite and charming and yet be quite nasty. I was feeling positively venomous once the underground music scene in Utah was mentioned. I'm sure it's fabulous, but I have absolutely no interest in such matters and I resent being forced to listen to such things. I had come to dinner with friends (Well, one friend and her brother, an old boy from school), not to a lecture. One of the other's was equally taxing: "Oh I don't shop at Waitrose, only Wholefoods." The most surprising company was my friend's brother. We had met-ish at school and about, but never really spoken. It was nice to see the youngest member of the group being, by far, the most mature and grounded of the lot. And capable of engaging in conversation, not merely regurgitating his thoughts.

Then I saw Frances. Quel film! Jessica Lange is utterly breathtaking. Oddly enough, I was hoping to see a happy film of sorts, something to soothe the beast within. However this film was so eye-openingly wondrous, I loved it. The descent into madness, the life-blood - taken away by higher powers. And so classically pretty, too. It was fabulous. More films of the calibre need making. I had only vaguely known of Frances Farmer, the film made me do much more research. The film is based on a biography, supposedly quite fictional. Artistic license, perhaps? Much of the chronology is very accurate, but certain events (Clue: Lobotomy), are not verified and apparently untrue. But the truth isn't so important. Or the truth about Farmer, at least. But the tragedy of her story, and of the stories of other people who suffered under the system in much the same way. Quite horrific, and not light viewing. But also, touchingly funny at points. I walked from Marylebone at midnight in the snow, and felt so burdened by "sanity". And feet less painful and in better shoes, but nonetheless, sore.

For a surprise Thai finish to the weekend, I found myself in the Faltering Fullback on Perth Road near Finsbury Park. A charming, independent local featuring main courses at £5.50. And thoroughly delicious. I had a chicken, seafood and pineapple rice dish, which I couldn't not try because of the interesting combination. I was given a chipped wine glass, which may have cut my lip ever so slightly, but they were so very apologetic and upgraded my wine, I couldn't possibly let that detract from my evening. And then there were the mad locals, very forthcoming in their conversation. Including one who was off to see his ex in Croydon. Apparently jumping on one's partner is enough reason to separate. Who would have thought. Enlightening.

Now, I am eagerly awaiting a Treasure Hunt through London that a friend has organised for me tomorrow. Such fun!

*I have enormous respect for the American people and many individual Americans. A charming and inspiring nation in many respects. This one was sadly a poor ambassador.