Sometime over the past few weeks the intensity of the arguments I see and hear around me seem to be escalating, people retreating even further (if that were possible) into predetermined positions, the possibility of hope seems to be a will-o-the-wisp on the horizon.
What brings on such a negative posture? Wish I knew. Everything else is proceeding as to plan around the VVB family: new toilets installed today, isn't that wonderful?
Maybe it's just the blogosphere because real life - ie real real life - still seems OK, ie everyone around the personal space is still operating according to Hoyle. Maybe it's some random chemical imbalance brought about by coughing for two weeks straight. Can't be good for you.
This is pointless. I'm going to talk to the cat.
(a little while later)
Oh all right, I'll cheer up. Consistent with the name and implied mission of this little blog, I went looking for something that might bear reporting and, in the food review section of the Times of London, I find this:
Now clubs are sprouting all over. Every other pressand this:
release for a West End restaurant boasts a members-only bar or attic for smoking
cigars and licking the ears of Moldovan hookers.
The brasserie starts with breakfast and shimmies into lunch, then dinner and
supper, so you could waste an entire day here. I started with imam bayildi,
because I’m trying to overcome my blackballing of aubergines. It was pretty good
for an eggplant, though I wouldn’t want my chicken to marry one. The kids had
crispy squid, which they tricely scarfed. Mother had tuna tartare, a big plate
of cold, dead, maroon fish, the point of which escaped me, but which she liked.
and this:
Ally had a lobster, which kept him happy for hours, like edible Meccano. Flora
ate eggs benedict as if it were her last meal (and it probably will be — as far
as I can tell, it’s all she eats). Mother had a suckling-pig sandwich that we
oinked would be an Italian porchetta, but turned out to be heartily paved with
granary bread and was a bit like trying to eat a small Cotswold cottage.
Now this is all good stuff, in a look-at-me-aren't-I-clever sort of way. The same as the wonderful Mr Clarkson, who writes for the same rag, if the Thunderer can be called a rag. That style of writing appeals to the look-at-me-aren't-I-clever bit of me, a bit which has never been satisfactorily vanquished. Mr Searle attempted to do this in year 11, as I recall, when he asked us to bring in examples of what we thought was good writing. Proving once and for all that I have not progressed one whit in all those 40 years, I brought in something from Modern Motor which was all how-clever-look-at-me. Mr Searle then slowly and meticulously demolished it in front of the entire English class. I thought I'd learnt then but evidently, no.
I still reckon you don't get people who can write such obscure yet poignant and wonderfully illuminating phrases in most Australian writing. Well, in the motoring and food columns anyway.
What's the point? It's all about looking forthe small things that keep us going when all around us is turning to poo. Speaking of which, the new toilet works fine. What a relief.
2 comments:
I have the feeling that Germaine is sitting back and thinking, "Geez that was fun, must poke the ant's nest with a stick more often".
I like her but her intellect terrifies me. I wish she would make more television documentaries because when she explains something, it's so clear and concise that I get it first time.
Hey JahTeh. I think Germaine's intellect has acquired a reputation of its own over the years of her expatriatism. No argument on the depth and impact of the Female Eunuch, but over the past 20 odd years all we seem to have got is relentless dumping on the man (and woman) in the street. That doesn't take much effort and it makes her a soft target.
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