I’M STRUGGLING to install a wireless home networking connection between our two computers. Lordy, what a to-do! Who was it who claimed that computers were designed to make our lives easier? If I could get my hands on this rogue I’d make him eat those words!
Anyhow, I break off to go, with My Good Lady, to the monthly farmers’ market. We have to stock up on some fish and meat, including, much to my bemusement, some sausage meat to use as turkey stuffing for our Christmas bird. Why I’m so bemused is because, not so very long ago, MGL hated sausages, couldn’t abide them. Now along with the meat, she buys some Cumberland and black pudding sausages, just for the hell of it. It’s true what they say: there’s nowt so fanatical as a convert!
From the market we swing by our local to get a spot of lunch. Pea and ham soup is the special – my favourite! Unfortunately, it turns out to have the consistency of wallpaper paste, or one of those Campbell’s condensed soups but without the dilution.
The lounge bar is crowded for a weekday afternoon. I’m somewhat miffed to see some children of school age wandering around, their parents seemingly oblivious to the youngsters’ truancy. “Did you hear that?” MGL suddenly asks. She’s been eavesdropping to a neighbouring table’s conversation. “They claim that the only American novelist they can think of is the one who wrote Gone with the Wind. They concluded there were no others!” I can tell from MGL’s tone that she isn’t going to leave this one alone. Her hackles are definitely up. “Have they never heard of Hemingway, Steinbeck, Mark Twain?” And I think, oh lordy, she’s off…
On the way home I hear her muttering: “Henry James, Jack London, Herman Melville…” And then periodically, throughout the day, she adds to the list, almost as if she were trying to solve a stubborn crossword puzzle: “Scott Fitzgerald, Susan Coolidge, that woman who wrote the Scarpetta stories –"
Anyhow, I break off to go, with My Good Lady, to the monthly farmers’ market. We have to stock up on some fish and meat, including, much to my bemusement, some sausage meat to use as turkey stuffing for our Christmas bird. Why I’m so bemused is because, not so very long ago, MGL hated sausages, couldn’t abide them. Now along with the meat, she buys some Cumberland and black pudding sausages, just for the hell of it. It’s true what they say: there’s nowt so fanatical as a convert!
From the market we swing by our local to get a spot of lunch. Pea and ham soup is the special – my favourite! Unfortunately, it turns out to have the consistency of wallpaper paste, or one of those Campbell’s condensed soups but without the dilution.
The lounge bar is crowded for a weekday afternoon. I’m somewhat miffed to see some children of school age wandering around, their parents seemingly oblivious to the youngsters’ truancy. “Did you hear that?” MGL suddenly asks. She’s been eavesdropping to a neighbouring table’s conversation. “They claim that the only American novelist they can think of is the one who wrote Gone with the Wind. They concluded there were no others!” I can tell from MGL’s tone that she isn’t going to leave this one alone. Her hackles are definitely up. “Have they never heard of Hemingway, Steinbeck, Mark Twain?” And I think, oh lordy, she’s off…
On the way home I hear her muttering: “Henry James, Jack London, Herman Melville…” And then periodically, throughout the day, she adds to the list, almost as if she were trying to solve a stubborn crossword puzzle: “Scott Fitzgerald, Susan Coolidge, that woman who wrote the Scarpetta stories –"
“Patricia Cornwell?” I offer.
“Yes, her!”
We have an afternoon zizz, to refresh us before our dinner of a homemade venison pie. But even a good dinner doesn’t stop my indefatigable wife: “Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, John Updike, even Louisa M Alcott…” And she adds, with disgust, “How could they not have heard of Henry James?”
“Yes, love,” I say. “Have another glass of wine!”
We have an afternoon zizz, to refresh us before our dinner of a homemade venison pie. But even a good dinner doesn’t stop my indefatigable wife: “Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, John Updike, even Louisa M Alcott…” And she adds, with disgust, “How could they not have heard of Henry James?”
“Yes, love,” I say. “Have another glass of wine!”
1 comment:
I had heard rumours that America was a semi-literate nation; I didn't know they had authors as well!
Bet they can't make a decent Cumberland and black pudding sausage though!!!!
Post a Comment