The fish shop has closed.

Posted on by Alex

The fish shop has closed.

The fish shop has closed!!!

I went to the fish shop, to buy some fish. But I couldn’t get any fish, because the fish shop has closed.

Black waves of depressed old-gittishness engulf me, as I stand outside the closed fish shop, reading the ‘thank you for your previous custom’ notice. This what Britain is like in the twenty-first century. Fear of terrorism. Crumbling transport infrastructure. Fish shops closing.

‘Shop’ is probably a grand term for it. It was a shack at the back of somebody’s house, where the fish shop lady used to sell her husband’s catch, plus other stuff she’d got from the markets. In season you could pick up pheasants or partridges for a couple of quid as well.

I should write to John Prescott. It’s all very well making a song and dance about rural post offices, but where the hell am I going to get hold of a sea bass now?

I now wish I’d gone in there more often. But it does confirm the old commercial maxim that a business isn’t viable unless its trade has been the basis of at least one successful situation comedy.

They are still selling mussels from a hutch at the front, with an honesty box that looks suspiciously like an old ice-cream tub. I take a big bag and leave my two pounds fifty. I don’t even like mussels. But it seems appropriate.

In which I am caused distress by the Atkins Diet

Posted on by Alex

The LTLP had a bad day at work yesterday. And a lousy commute this morning.

Consequently, I have been threatened with death should I produce another horrible dinner.

I blame Dr Atkins. He has been quite good to us in some ways, but bears full responsibility for the fact that I seem to have completely forgotten how to cook.

A month of ‘Cheese on a Bed of Eggs’, ‘Pan-fried Eggs with a Julienne of Cheese’ and – my favourite – ‘Oeuf et Fromage Surprise’ sort of sapped my will to create in the kitchen department, and now we’re back to eating normally I’m afraid my Ramsay is more Alf than Gordon.

So tonight it’s back to basics with a can’t-fail new-man treat-her-like-a-goddess banker evening. A crispy, crackly baked pasta stuffed with smoked bacon, tomato and pepper. Nicely chilled Sav Blanc on the side. And the video of yesterday’s ‘University Challenge’, which promised to be an exciting quarter-final battle between London Met and some Cambridge college.

Now come on ladies. Don’t say you wouldn’t just FALL into bed after that…

To the in-laws

Posted on by Alex

Off to the in-laws this morning.

That means a long car journey and, more to the point, an argument about what music to play.

CD collections in a relationship are like Venn diagrams. On the left there’s a big circle containing the stuff I like. The LTLP would like it as well, if she made more of an effort.

On the right, there’s a big circle containing the stuff she likes. Which is all rubbish. Clearly.

There’s a small overlappy bit in the middle containing the stuff that we both like. So that’s what we tend to listen to. It’s a well-known fact that you can go through a ten-year relationship and only actually play three CD’s.

The Proclaimers’ Greatest Hits it is again, then.

All together now:

“When you gooooooo….”

Have a good weekend, y’all.

I get cheap dental work.

Posted on by Alex

I have to come to terms with this. Downshifting: no regrets, no stress, lovely part of the world, nice people, work on my own terms. However I am going loopy at the lack of human contact in my day to day routine.

My day yesterday:

Got up
Did laundry
Went to dentist
Worked at PC
Picked up newspaper
Worked at PC
Watched telly
Went to bed

As you see, this was an eventful day for me, as I went to the dentist. I think it summarises nicely if I say that I was quite looking forward to this, as it meant I would meet another human being.

I walk in to the waiting room, which is packed, neatly encapsulating the state of NHS dentistry in this country. I sit next to an old lady, who smells of wee. She constantly turns to her elderly husband and asks if she’ll be all right. Every forty-five seconds or so.

Over the twenty minutes that I wait, his replies escalate from “of course you’ll be all right”, through “will you stop worrying! You’ll be all right!”, reaching “look, I’m not going to tell you again. It’ll be fine” and finally “will you just sit there and shut it!” – which is when I’m called in.

Look – I know it’s cheap having a go at dentists. But honestly, I’ve never had a problem in the past.

He calls it a ‘descale’ but it feels like a drill. He starts on the delicate bits against my gums and I’m astonished at the speed at which he seems to develop an advanced form of Parkinson’s. Three minutes later and I’m out of there, a mouthful of blood, sandpapering the tip of my tongue along the back of my bottom teeth.

“Now. Can we book you in for six month’s time?” asks the receptionist sweetly, charging me fourteen quid.

“Great. Thanks.”