Sunday evening, the fire is on and the family sat down drinking hot chocolate listening to the soundtrack to Pennies from Heaven. Not the Steve Martin film version but the one with Bob Hoskins and Gemma Craven that was on television for a while and now rests within a common memory of what was good about the past. Picking out from the realm of that little black box in the corner the desperate condition we all have a go striving against.
Earlier in the evening we watched Blandings. There must come a time in every good mans life when he realises if he needs cheering up then he needs to turn to P.G. Woodhouse. Does that make you old or is it just that he makes you laugh. The best bits in the programme were those when the Woodhouse’s lines were read out almost straight to camara. The colour and curious hair were a small sideshow to the story of the Empress and the need for her to put on some weight.
Before that we had an Ottolenghi feast; roasted butternut squash, red onion & tahini, basmati & wild rice with chickpeas, currants & herbs and chicken with caramelized onion & cardamon rice. There is the occasional complaint that these posts don’t provide a true reflection on the noise, stupid comments and general complaint of a family at food. The tenor of these complaints can be gleaned from the bottle of Heinz Tomato Ketchup that crept up on to the table and I bit my tongue as the younger generation squirted it liberally over their plates to make whatever I had just made for them to taste better.
And before that I had rediscovered an record that I had heard in a long time, The Radar Bros. and the singing hatchet. It still has its Probe sticker on £10.99 so it can’t be that long ago. Out of the various albums I have dug out of the vaults this last week or so this has been the best. Slurrey and tarred country. A sort of cross between ELO and Gene Clarke.