Friday 21st April 2017.
“I believe that the spirits are your parents and their parents and their parents and their parents and they are in your bloodstream, and they run through your body constantly. Because they want you to live on, because they want to live on. And they’re trying all the time to tell you shit and if you just spend a few minutes listening to yourself, you would hear them.” (Gil Scott Heron)
I wondered if it was kiwi fruit constituting the toothsome chutney; tiny black pips and greenish hue. Could have been nigella seeds and unripe mango… Relished the dark art of the hot brown puddle… Excellent array of starters too. Delectable sea bass, on my plate anyway, though I understand the chicken chatt suffered an identity crisis…
What else? Oh, how I coveted Pauline’s stick of lamb shank nihari… My expression resembled one pictured above: the brooding, mafioso henchman look – spot it?
Another cotton towel ecstasy (over a lazy Susan) – multiples now, I guess, counting Stockport… Positively skipped to the lavies; tunes and swank. Misting the sink mirror with my calypso rendition of Rusty Lee’s “Barbados”. Don’t ask me why. In the sharpening reflection a sign read “Out Of Order”.
Hey, it’s true. I sometimes hear those guys like the taste of long aged spirit on the palate, sampling a fine blend. I don’t know what they’re telling me; they talk like dancing bumble bees.
Ignore me, it’s only the great-great-grandfather talking….
Judge ‘Gonzo’ Pickles