I went out for lunch with my friend, Betty. On the menu was spice-rubbed sea bass and flat-ironed beef. So what have I been wondering? Who the hell would want to rub a sea bass and, even more confusing, who would iron beef? Betty and I agreed we only ever iron what is absolutely necessary. And, in case you are wondering, I had bulgar wheat with chickpeas, feta cheese, harissa and salad leaves. I wish I’d made a note of the description. The restaurant must employ a poet to write the menus.
I wonder why people change personalities on Facebook. One lady I know is an absolute delight when we meet in person but online she is the most dreadful hypochondriac.
When a stranger asked where they could get lunch I pointed out two independent cafés and wonder why I felt impelled to add, ‘Don’t go to Café Nero. They don’t pay their taxes.’
Remember the box I was talking about in my last post? Well, I found some love letters in it. They were written by a 12 year old to my subject when he was 17. (I’m ghosting his cycling career) Now I’m wondering how I didn’t know a thing about these letters until this week. I’m also wondering how my daughter got those past me when she was at such a tender age. And yes, it will make a good short story and I’m writing it so hands off!
If you are wondering whether I’ve told my daughter about my find, the answer is yes. The phone call to her went something like this – ‘I’ve come into possession of some incriminating documents which could be detrimental to your marriage. How much are you going to pay me to keep quiet about them?’