My Father was mild-mannered Clark Kent, he stayed mild-mannered Clark Kent, and never transformed to Superman, lifts, revolving doors and telephone boxes were never compromised in my Father’s realm, he was the same as everyone else’s father, who only ever transform in the cocoon of the imagination of their adult children, and then only post-mortem.
Drinking: towards the end, he moved from a cream sherry towards a half of lager and lime, oh and gave up sugar in his tea, wine (new-fangled at the time) would be Anjou Rose or Lutomer Reisling, red was far too outré.
Smoking: he moved from the pipe to cigarillos, usually Manikin, surely unmoved by the bouncy chest of the blonde as she loped athletically along a tropical beach before plunging carelessly into the surf.
Food: He took up salading as a hobby, bought books on how to compose salad, and let rip: chicory unmanned with the flick of a knife, a series of circumcisions, and there was the poor vegetable displaying its contours to a melange of tomato and tinned sweetcorn before suffering the indignity of being dressed with a vinaigrette of malt vinegar and vegetable oil, flavoured with a, literal, dusting of dried mixed herbs. Sometimes the then Chinese Gooseberry, the now Kiwi fruit, would be seen lurking behind the audacious walnut. He also liked the adventure of the Vesta curry, a jumble of stuff plus some non-rehydrating beef chunks, with occasional spice. It was the daring of difference that captured him, the daring of difference advertised nationwide on the TV as different and daring.
I had staggered home from an evening with Dean, it had been Graduation Day and a female student had made me blush – with fulsome praise rather than a lewd suggestion ( sadly, I think my days of women making lewd suggestions to me may be over. Any and all detractors please contact me as soon as possible). We had gone to the pub so that Dean could watch the first half of England v Croatia. I was the sightline that he returned to only during the pauses in the match, for the rest of the time I had the unrivalled opportunity to map out the veins on the underside of his eyeballs.
At half-time Dean skedaddled off to the station, and I swayed into the supermarket to check out the “reduced” shelf, Wednesday seemingly being a very poor night. So it was that I returned home and raided the store cupboard turning up a packet of soba noodles and cold soup mix. I decided that the onomatopoeic qualities of the soba noodles sounded attractive, given my state, and so embarked on preparation (or to be more honest, opening the packets). The soup turned out to be redolent with wasabi, offsetting the chill of the noodles with sharp needles of spice. This was the point that sent me drifting down the temporal stream to a visit from Dad to London (where he would be going to an IST meeting to talk about chemistry syllabi). I decided that I would take him to Diwana, a vegetarian restaurant that specialised in Bombay street food, which would certainly be more adventurous than a Vesta.
We had Aloo Papri Chaat (potatoes, chick peas, onion, tamarind and yoghurt and poori pieces) and Sev Poori (semolina vermicelli, onion, tamarind and so on). I think that Dad may have lost his taste for spice that day, or perhaps just lost his taste, the sev poori had a chilli hit that would have cleared the sinuses of large pachyderms in one cathartic spasm. I’m not sure if he enjoyed that meal, or whether it may have tipped him against the sub-continent, at least nutritionwise
Moral: Though it may look like a good idea at the time, it still may destroy your sense of taste and, perhaps, trust.
Drinking: towards the end, he moved from a cream sherry towards a half of lager and lime, oh and gave up sugar in his tea, wine (new-fangled at the time) would be Anjou Rose or Lutomer Reisling, red was far too outré.
Smoking: he moved from the pipe to cigarillos, usually Manikin, surely unmoved by the bouncy chest of the blonde as she loped athletically along a tropical beach before plunging carelessly into the surf.
Food: He took up salading as a hobby, bought books on how to compose salad, and let rip: chicory unmanned with the flick of a knife, a series of circumcisions, and there was the poor vegetable displaying its contours to a melange of tomato and tinned sweetcorn before suffering the indignity of being dressed with a vinaigrette of malt vinegar and vegetable oil, flavoured with a, literal, dusting of dried mixed herbs. Sometimes the then Chinese Gooseberry, the now Kiwi fruit, would be seen lurking behind the audacious walnut. He also liked the adventure of the Vesta curry, a jumble of stuff plus some non-rehydrating beef chunks, with occasional spice. It was the daring of difference that captured him, the daring of difference advertised nationwide on the TV as different and daring.
I had staggered home from an evening with Dean, it had been Graduation Day and a female student had made me blush – with fulsome praise rather than a lewd suggestion ( sadly, I think my days of women making lewd suggestions to me may be over. Any and all detractors please contact me as soon as possible). We had gone to the pub so that Dean could watch the first half of England v Croatia. I was the sightline that he returned to only during the pauses in the match, for the rest of the time I had the unrivalled opportunity to map out the veins on the underside of his eyeballs.
At half-time Dean skedaddled off to the station, and I swayed into the supermarket to check out the “reduced” shelf, Wednesday seemingly being a very poor night. So it was that I returned home and raided the store cupboard turning up a packet of soba noodles and cold soup mix. I decided that the onomatopoeic qualities of the soba noodles sounded attractive, given my state, and so embarked on preparation (or to be more honest, opening the packets). The soup turned out to be redolent with wasabi, offsetting the chill of the noodles with sharp needles of spice. This was the point that sent me drifting down the temporal stream to a visit from Dad to London (where he would be going to an IST meeting to talk about chemistry syllabi). I decided that I would take him to Diwana, a vegetarian restaurant that specialised in Bombay street food, which would certainly be more adventurous than a Vesta.
We had Aloo Papri Chaat (potatoes, chick peas, onion, tamarind and yoghurt and poori pieces) and Sev Poori (semolina vermicelli, onion, tamarind and so on). I think that Dad may have lost his taste for spice that day, or perhaps just lost his taste, the sev poori had a chilli hit that would have cleared the sinuses of large pachyderms in one cathartic spasm. I’m not sure if he enjoyed that meal, or whether it may have tipped him against the sub-continent, at least nutritionwise
Moral: Though it may look like a good idea at the time, it still may destroy your sense of taste and, perhaps, trust.
