A hunter-gatherer writes from the wintry fields of Olde England
Many thanks to our agent provocateur-at-large, Mr Nigel Pike, for his comments regarding me as intrepid hunter-gatherer marauding around the fields of God’s county, organs cleaving the breeze, looking for beefy bovine beasts to butcher and bring back to the kitchen, jaws dripping with all sorts of ganglia and stuff. Good bit about Darwin, got a copy myself.
I note with some displeasure, however, the things I wrote about pain-wracked tomatoes going right over Eric Bahrt’s head. I usually applaud Eric’s thoughts on a number of issues, but not this one, and despite his specious claim of “no matter how many times” (about two) he alleges he has taken me to task on this issue. Perhaps if he has stopped to think before he acted on impulse, he might have caught the point. Besides, that was intended to catch the impressionable Miss Moxham out. No contest there, anyway; just a bit of fun, you understand.
Tonight’s menu at my brother’s humble abode is: burgers and chips. Earl Grey for me, English breakfast for him, anaesthetised, tomato-free wholemeal bread, and the Co-op’s own-brand Bakewell tarts with unsalivated, offal-purged custard. Luvvly jubbly. Tomorrow it’s a pub lunch with El Toro Magnifico on the menu, recommended to be eaten Al Gusto in the southern European style.
Happy New Year to all of The Nation’s readers, contributors, staff, etc. I had enough red wine Sunday night to keep my heart healthy for months, and I didn’t win at the bingo.
Dr Frank
Bangkok
