This is the sight that greeted me this morning, on shuffling my way to the kitchen to make Clare’s breakfast smoothie: two very middle-class, very well-fed felines on a balmy summer’s morn, giving their best Bob Cratchet and Tiny Tim, freezing and starving in a cold Dickensian winter…
I left them outside. I’m that kind of guy.
Another hot day today. Not a lot of movement from the sis, but I’ve lost count of the smoothies she’s consumed – very heartening, as I use a base of a prescription drink called “Ensure” that has all the various vitamins, minerals etc in it you need, but, as it’s calorie-rich, it’s wildly sweet – so, mixed in with that and whizzed up, a combination of raspberries, blueberries, Galia melon, nectarine, banana, apple and a dash of lemon juice. Very scrummy.
I know we live in a time when we can get everything we want whenever we want. And, being an old fart, sometimes that saddens me. I remember the wild excitement of spending summers with my German cousins and coming back to the UK with a jar of Nutella (for those of you not in the know, a chocolate/hazelnut spread, to top toast, ice cream, or whatever); the great joy of mid-summer, just at the moment of the Wimbledon tennis championships – the first strawberries. Amazing. Now I can buy Nutella not 100 metres from where I’m typing this, in the same store that sells strawberries year-round. But… and there is a point to this rant… the fruits we are eating now, in our summer, the fruits I am whizzing up for Clare’s smoothies: berries, peaches, nectarines, are all so wonderfully tasty – because they are in season, locally. Not brought, semi-ripe and chilled, half way across the world by plane, but are picked when ripe and eaten within moments. And the taste is the taste of pure, juicy, ripe summer. I tried to instil in my daughter, Gaia, the idea of eating seasonally – and I started to do this by planting vegetables in our garden in London – so that she knows not only where the various fruits and vegetables come from, but when they are pickable. I know I banged on a few posts ago about the glut of beans emanating from my garden at this time, but I still get a thrill from picking a bean that I have grown from a bean, pressed into compost in a pot, back in March.
I’m wittering now. Apologies. This is what comes from days with nobody to talk to. Apart from brief exchanges with Clare, which are either about the domestic, or slightly drug-fuelled. I’m having my first beer of the evening – it’s nearly 6pm – maybe the heat and the alcohol are getting to me…
I just checked my weather App – according to them at 6pm in London it is 91 degrees (that’s 33 Celsius) – I must have sun-stroke.
Love to you all