I went to the dump this morning, but arrived a bit too early. I sat in the car and read the Sunday Times and drank a cappuccino with lumps in it from a machine in the newsagents. Yes, lumps. Not sure how cappuccino can get lumps in it, but there we are.
So, as I inhaled fumes from the lorry waiting in front, and wondered what the ominous liquid was dripping down by its numberplate, I flicked through pages of glossy nonsense. Why wasn't I the sort of sophisticate that offered braised fennell to my dinner guests? Have my friends all been disappointed that this dish hasn't been offered to them over the years? Why don't I want to enlarge my breasts with stem cell therapy or spend £350 on a handbag? Why do I spend £2 every week on this stuff?
Once the gates to the dump opened and let us all in, I flung my TV over the edge, imagining for a brief but joyful moment that I was the lead singer in a rock band and the TV was flying over a balcony in a Caribbean resort rather than the retaining wall at the Council tip.
I strutted back to the car, dusting my hands off.
Back home for a decent coffee and the serious bits of the paper.
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2 comments:
I love the Style section of the Sunday Times but I gave up on it because they are overwhelmingly, non-ironically awestruck by rich people. It started to make me sick! The last straw was when they ran a 3-page piece in the Review all about the 'poor' rich people who lost all their money to Madoff.
I get the Observer on Sundays now. There is a touch of braised fennell but in comparison it's much more sensible.
Maybe we should have a braised fennell dinner sometime and compare notes.
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