Mad weather, aggressive birds and lifts, human waste potential, and bliss
WEDNESDAY: It's been a schizophrenic week. It's not just the fact that the stress of the expansive budget cuts and the realisation that I may be forced financially to move into a cave and live on lichen has made me a bit crazy and out of sorts. The weather has also been schizophrenic, as evidenced by the fact that when I got on the bus only 15 minutes ago the windy sky was darkly dripping with the threat of thunderstorms, and here I am sitting in the Winter Garden eating my lunch, having removed my jacket, my shoes, and my socks because it suddenly became a brightly sunny and hot day.
And my sandwich is schizophrenic as well, made up of whatever leftovers haven't gone bad yet. My avocado, smoked Austrian cheese, and sun-dried tomato sandwich is like a Mexican skier who has moved to Genoa in order to be closer to the Alps. And my fruit, a result of my own purchases and whatever I could get free at work, features apples and pears of winter doing a dos-à-dos with raspberries and apricots of summer. And in a few minutes I'll report to my job, where I will be using my talents and experience designing a poster on the computer while being paid library-scum birdfeed for the effort.
So everything is schizophrenic, everything is a result of chaos, and the next time I hear somebody comment that something isn't "normal" I'm going to scream, "Well, of course nothing is normal! On a rotating planet in a moving universe, there is no such thing as a straight line, much less a perpendicular one!"
(Sorry, just had to rant about something irrelevant.)
THURSDAY: Sprinting through town with a frantically traumatised expression on my face is a great alibi for knocking aside the "Hi, could I have a few minutes of your time?" clipboard brandishers. "Sorry -- I'M ACTUALLY IN A HURRY!" I snapped today as I sped past in turbo-charged fifth gear. With all the ambling and moseying pedestrians with a collection of shopping bags in one hand and dripping ice creams in the other, why do these marketers and fundraisers pick instead on the cheetahs racing across the plains in pursuit of their daily bread?
(I realise I'm madly mixing metaphors, but I do like the image of a herd of rustic Italian loaves grazing in a pasture.)
And I was in a hurry. I was desperate, before work, to find a circle template. And because I didn't stop to listen to someone's spiel, only to finally tell them I couldn't afford to donate anything, I did find my circle template. What a successful day!
THE FOLLOWING THURSDAY: After donning more layers because of a suddenly cooler weekend, I awoke Monday morning to a warm and impressively muggy day. So I switched back to summer wear. As I stood at the bus stop a bird shat on my new straw trilby. Later on I was nearly trapped in a lift, as the female voice repeated conflicting warnings ("Doors opening. Doors closing. Doors opening. Doors closing. Doors opening. Doors closing. Mind the doors. Exterminate!") The week has progressed with this schizophrenic theme, each day promising weather that is contradictory to all the forecasts and each minor experience promising unexpected results. That's why I'm sitting in the Winter Garden, eating my Normandy Brie sandwich with peach slices and raspberries, the bottoms of my feet nice and dry but the tops completely soaked. I don't really know what to expect next.
This morning I read that an abandoned bomb shelter in Helsinki has been converted to a database centre that heats the city. Water is pumped through pipes to cool the computer servers, and the resulting hot water flows out to heat 500 homes.
This is a brilliant use of otherwise wasted resources. So why not expand on this ecologically and economically beneficial idea? Perhaps the hot air produced in legislative chambers could also be used to heat water that would then heat homes, while the carbon dioxide-rich air could be circulated into commercial greenhouses and back as oxygen-refreshed air to fuel the speakers. And just think of all that wasted methane produced by belches and other methods in all the conference and meeting rooms of the world, as the attendees slurp cup after cup of gas-forming instant coffee and tea and chomp away on fatty, salty, and sugary snacks. Why continue to waste this rich source of gas? Let's power our vehicles with it! Save the earth by taking advantage of human potential.
FRIDAY: I'm having a slice of Mediterranean vegetable and mozzarella pizza at the Clearly Food Kitchen, formerly Alfie + Bella. I'm upstairs by myself, gazing out the window onto the Sheffield Hallam University students, with my Tramlines schedule in front of me, planning my weekend of live music, and I'm about to go check out the Emilie Taylor exhibition of Sheffield-inspired pottery at the Yorkshire Artspace before going to work for 2 hours. Then it's home and off to Tramlines. I have nothing to complain about today. Bliss...
Whatever You Do, Don't Make Eye Contact
THURSDAY: It must have something to do with pheromones. I awoke this morning to the most personally devastating news to come out of George Osborne's nuclear war of a budget. As part-time low-paid University Library Scum I still have a job, although the secrets of what the autumn term will bring -- meaning Over There, Across That Mid-September Line -- are currently being guarded as if any leak of a conjecture will suck all of the oxygen off the planet. But as of this week many of my friends, including those closest to me, are either losing their jobs or in extreme danger of losing their jobs, the danger breathing down the back of their necks as they scramble past all the dire headlines and dodge the budget-slashing cannonballs.
Several of these friends, including the one I live with, work in a field that helps improve the lives of those with substance abuse problems, learning disabilities, and mental and physical problems. But that field has been axed down to the bare minimum, with entire organisations losing their contracts. So who cares about a few people who can't be "normal" like the rest of us? Just put 'em all on benefits; and if they don't die from neglect, abuse, or overdosing -- or, of course, benefits cuts -- they can damn well get out there and get a job like the rest of us. All it takes is proving you're a far better choice than the other 7,500 applicants for the same position.
So it was in this bitterly sarcastic and pessimistic mood that I alit from the bus and made the mistake of walking down the pedestrian shopping street of Fargate. Like sharks smelling blood they emerged, everywhere, every couple of feet, lunging at me with "Hi, how are you today? Have you heard of the Frog Protection Society?" or "Hi, do you have a few moments to answer a survey?" or "Hello there! Love those earrings! Don't worry, I'm not going to keep you too long…", etc. My pace accelerated to a mini-sprint as I dodged through the obstacle course of smiling clipboard holders, remembering a survival skill I had learned years ago at all the Seattle Center festivals: always wear dark glasses, stare straight ahead, and whatever you do don't make eye contact! It may sound harsh, but when you're stressed out about your exponentially dwindling finances, the last thing in the world you need is a charming, grinning, healthy young person making you feel guilty for not giving up food for a week in order to provide a village with clean water for a year.
THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY: As I had an appointment in Broomhill this morning, I'm now sitting in Weston Park having a Wensleydale and cranberry sandwich on a sunflower seed breadcake from the sandwich shop just down the road. I'm sitting on the grass in the shade, being watched over by a wreath-waving figure of Liberty and two bronze WWI soldiers, all part of the Yorkshire and Lancashire Regiment War Memorial. The setting reminds me of picnic lunches I've experienced in scenic cemeteries, specifically Mountain View in Oakland, Lake View Cemetery in Seattle, and Golders Green in London. As it's a warm and sunny but pleasantly breezy day, there are many other people here, students and hospital workers and OAPs and people of leisure, sitting on benches or sprawled on the grass, throwing frisbees or chatting or reading or eating their lunch or simply enjoying a peaceful moment.
Ah, yes, and now another memory comes to mind from years ago when I was in university, when I had at least an hour between lectures on a particularly pleasant day (in Southern California this means "big billow white and grey clouds in a blue sky" as opposed to "the usual cloudless brown haze"). There was nothing better than staking out my own plot of shady grass, and my pastime of choice was studying my Russian lesson. (Call me crazy, but I've always found learning foreign languages fun!)
Invariably a student I didn't know would stroll up, smiling, and comment on what a beautiful day it was, and I'd concur. And then they would say something like, "Have you spoken to Jesus recently?" To which I would respond with either a sarcastic retort or a quick heartfelt request for them to bugger off and go bother somebody else. One time, however, I was at the end of my stress rope, and I tore into the poor naïve soul, telling him that it had been a beautiful day until he came along and destroyed the idyllic sanctity of my Russian-conjugation meditation with his arrogant assumption that everybody else in the world should stop thinking for themselves and swallow his particular religion hook, line, and sinker.
I never saw that particular student again. I suspect he may have abandoned his studies and joined a monastery.
Being American in Britain during the World Cup, Spanish Dancers, and Art in Squash Courts
MONDAY: I'm sitting in the Winter Garden again enjoying some peace and quiet, interrupted only by a faint rumble of voices and the bladder-stimulating splash of at least 2 water features. I have a very special treat for lunch today: homemade feta, created by my friend Albert, famous for Albert's Pies at the Nottingham House. Not as dry and salty as your typical feta, it more closely resembles haloumi and is absolutely gorgeous, made with love a very short distance from my own front door. I was a bit worried this morning when I realised the crusty roll I hastily bought yesterday is actually a cheese roll. But not to worry: the cheddar in the bread is very mild so the feta still shines through. Although I've added a tiny bit of red pepper and spring onion, this feta can easily stand on its own, as if it's a Greek version of my nostalgically favourite sandwich Camembert which consists of nothing more than a good French Camembert on a buttered baguette.
TUESDAY: It's another Winter Garden lunch on an unusually cold June day. I'm wearing 3 layers and thinking of my mother, undoubtedly withering away in Southern California heat and wishing it were still winter. Ah, well, no pun intended, but everything's relative.
Including the time. My Bay Area friend Mistah Rick has just told me how one of his favourite Oakland pubs is opening early in the morning to show the World Cup matches from South Africa. I remember one of my local pubs doing the same thing during the last World Cup that took place in Japan and Korea. Although the idea of having a pint at 9:00am is decadently intriguing, I'm afraid my own personal sun doesn't cross over the yardarm until noon -- with the exception of champagne brunches, of course. But I don't experience those very often these days.
The first 2010 World Cup match I watched was England v. USA last Saturday night. After spending the afternoon at the Peace In The Park festival at the Ponderosa, encamped between 2 drumming circles for the last 2 hours, I was feeling quite burned out on drums; so the nonstop drone of the vuvuzelas only heightened my sense of inner short-circuiting.
As I watched the match, my head feeling like a large bottle filled to capacity with mosquitoes, I admit I was quite relieved by the outcome: UK nil, USA nil. I realise this is a bit selfish, but it means I won't have to endure a fresh round of stupid questions and comments by my British acquaintances asking me how I feel because a.) my team, USA, won, or b.) my team, USA, lost. I mean, I live in the UK, I'm American, I love Mexican food as well as cask ale, and as far as I'm concerned I'm both American and British. So I'd be happy for either side to win. But I won't go on about that because some people just don't get it...
WEDNESDAY: As it's a sunny breezy day I'm spending today's lunch in Tudor Square, sitting on some inset seating in one of the new planters, with the Crucible Theatre on my right, the Winter Garde on my left, the Lyceum behind me, and a view of the top of the Sheffield Wheel to the front of me peeking out behind Starbucks. And some sort of distant live music. Is there a concert in the Peace Gardens? Or is it someone's portable stereo? As I enjoy the view and the sounds I'm eating my second Albert's Feta sandwich for the week.
I've just gone inside the Winter Garden in search of the music source, and now I'm sitting on a bench under the palm fronts and glass ceiling watching a bevy of Spanish dancers. How thoughtful of them to have provided me with some lunchtime entertainment. I have no idea who they are and what part of Spain they're from, because there are elements of bellydancing as well. Oh dear, the recorded music has been miscued and the girls are angry…
THE FOLLOWING MONDAY: Lunch on this warm sunny Summer Solstice is an orange Orkney cheddar with red onion, sun-dried tomatoes, and fresh thyme in a brown breadcake. The cheese, although not very sharp, is very flavoursome. Dining on Orkney cheese makes me think of the 8-mile walk I took across the Orkney main island almost exactly 3 years ago with two friends, where we reached the most northernmost point I've been on this planet: the village of Twatt.
In a much shorter feet-related feat, yesterday I walked/sprinted/sprang 5K in Sheffield's Race For Life to raise money for cancer research. I did this with the 10 other members of the Cobden View Girls, all of us wearing pink ruffly knickers as we battled our way through over 6000 other pink females. I've never dived between so many bodies and bounded over so many prams in my life. At least we raised a good chunk of money.
THURSDAY: Today's lunch is at a secluded table in the university's atrium, with a view towards the building I had been told was Ponds Forge but isn't. I spent a half hour this morning searching for Ponds Forge, an extremely out-of-the-way sports and conference centre, but I'm glad I finally found it because I was there to see the Sheffield College Creative Exhibition 2010. Unable to find the exhibit of a friend whom I had come to see, I was about to leave when I ran into Josh, who took me over to his out-of-the-way exhibit wall in this out-of-the-way exhibit hall. As a young photographer who wants to become a successful photographer, he was pretty pissed off about the lack of exposure, if you pardon yet another pun, for this exhibit. (I learned later that this exhibit room is normally used for squash courts.)
After the trek back to the University I have just enough time to eat my lunch, an oddly precarious sandwich consisting of very dry and solid hazelnut tofu and sun-dried tomatoes glued to a sesame seed bagel with a bit of nontoxic cream cheese. My fruit is a gorgeous sunset of peach, strawberry, apricot, and peace/apricot hybrid slices. It looks loaded with Vitamin A, the better to help me view my art.
Meetingspeak, Food Festivals, and Rebellious Eating
MONDAY: Lunch today is cheddar, tapenade, and sun-dried tomato on a very tall, very whole-grainy, and very seedy Somerfield roll. I intentionally chose cheddar because it was less likely to crumble up or squidge out the sides as I forcefully shoved down the sandwich box lid on this statuesque roll. When I just now opened the box I expected my sandwich to come leaping out like a jack-in-the-box. But fortunately it didn't. And it's yummy and wonderfully chewy.
THURSDAY: Today's sandwich is my typical basil tofu with slices of my first peach of the season and well as some pear, satsuma, and some surprisingly delicious blueberries. Summer seems to have suddenly arrived, and I'm looking forward to the berries, peaches, nectarines, and melons of the season. What more can I say?
Ah yes, there is more I can say. A couple of days ago I endured -- er, attended -- a staff meeting. Now, nearly everybody who works for a company or organisation experiences the seemingly useless ritual of the staff meeting. I remember the regular staff meetings held for our group when I worked as a software developer in California. Everybody took along notepads and pens, and some attendees actually jotted down notes, although many of us used the opportunity to hone our drawing and cartooning skills. When we had weekly morning staff meetings I quickly developed a hatred for the smell of microwave popcorn. I wasn't personally offended by the donuts and other cold snacks that would often be laid out for the attendees; but there was always some food-obsessed employee who thought that saturating the already stuffy air with the stench of ersatz-flavoured popcorn would be an excellent idea, not realising that some of us had only recently finished our breakfasts and had no desire to be assaulted by the smell of food.
But the main aspect of staff meetings I remember is the unique lingo: Meetingspeak, as some call it. In 1980s Los Angeles we would often "put the whole ball of wax on the back burner" so that we could "run it up the flagpole" in a future "time-frame". A few years on with a new manager we learned how to "identify the players", making sure that we stopped when "our plates were full".
Times and buzzwords change. I can't vouch for what they're doing these days at American staff meetings, but here in England we are busy turning nouns into verbs. For instance, everybody is into "evidencing", whether they have a job, are trying to get a job, or are still in university. And it doesn't matter if you're a book shelver, a secretary, a marketing professional, a psychiatrist, a quantity surveyor, or a politician: at some point in your job you'll be expected to perform the act of evidencing.
And if you're all finished evidencing you can always action a few things. Just think of all the things available at your desk that you could action. You could start by actioning up the PC and doing a little spreadsheeting, and then perhaps you could do some Powerpointing. Or you could keep it simple and stapler some pages together and then file-cabinet them. And after you've communicationed a couple of colleagues you could take a few minutes out for some coffeebreaking and relaxationing.
There's really not much pointness in communicationing or languageing anymore.
FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY: Lunch is experimental: some Pié de Angloy, a lovely creamy yellow Normandy cheese, with sliced baby beetroot in sweet chilli marinade (which was languishing in the fridge), with chopped spring onion, fresh thyme, and lots of fresh ground black pepper and paprika. I know it's another schizophrenic combination of spices, but it is good, like a Russian picnic in Paris -- or perhaps a French picnic in Moscow.
THURSDAY: I just want to mention another good sandwich, with lots and lots of avocado spread with a bit of olive tapenade, lots of fresh thyme, and thin slices of really sharp cheddar with spring onion. A little leaf would be good, too. I'm calling this the Michelangelo.
THE FRIDAY FOLLOWING THE FOLLOWING WEEK: As this is the first week of my summer break, when I'm working only three afternoons a week, the settings of my lunches will be varied. Today I am sitting on the grass in the Peace Gardens among throngs of other people enjoying the Sheffield Food Festival. I'm eating a slice of spinach and feta pie purchased at a stall. It's tasty but it would have been nicer heated rather than cold. And, of course, nothing can compare with my own spanakopeta, or "spanky" as a friend calls it.
It's a sunny day, sunglassed children are playing in the pools, and I'm starting to realise that my new straw trilby is not going to protect my back from the sun. I'm surrounded by people eating burgers, curries, Caribbean dishes, Chinese ice cream, and Italian pastries and sipping on smoothies, milkshakes, and beer. It reminds me a bit of the Bite of Seattle, except for the advantage of being able to drink one's beer and margarita outside the restriction of beer gardens. Ah, but it's still got a long way to go to match Seattle's festival. For one thing, there are very few restaurants involved, and there is no live music. It needs at least six different stages with music starting at noon and continuing until midnight. And, of course, a Russian stall selling smoked salmon piroshkies and a seafood stall selling barbecued pesto salmon wouldn't go amiss…
THE WEDNESDAY FOLLOWING THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY: As I just mentioned, this summer I'm enjoying eating my packed lunch in pleasant city centre settings before arriving at work. On warm sunny days I have the choice of the Peace Gardens, St Paul's Square, a shady spot of lawn by the Sheffield Cathedral, or even one of the fountainside tables in front of the train station. And when it's cold and/or damp my choice spot is on a bench inside the Winter Garden. Today, unfortunately, everybody else seems to have come up with the same idea, as the benches are all full up, and the only tables are reserved for Zooby's customers.
So here I am in the Sheffield Hallam University Atrium, sitting at a quiet table in the Cutting Edge café, consciously ignoring the sign next to my head that asks patrons not to consume their own food and drink at these tables. In an act of rebellion I openly brandish my extremely garlicky baba ghanouj and cream cheese sandwich made in my own kitchen as if to say, "Take that, you catering curmudgeons! I shall stand my ground and fight to the death for my right to consume my own strawberries!"
Besides, it's the summer break and the place isn't exactly buzzing with customers.
I will admit I'm a bit of a food rebel at times. Although I'd never foist the stench of a hot greasy meal on my fellow bus passengers I will happily much away on nuts or raisins on my homeward journey. A friend recently told me that eating anything is forbidden on the buses; but I think she misinterpreted the pictogram of the international "No" circle surrounding a steaming kebab. My raw cashews are never even remotely steaming, and my flame raisins are far from flaming.
So I shall continue to boldly nibble my snack like a rebel-rousing squirrel. Viven Los Anarcardos!
The Absurdity of Tiny Horses
TUESDAY: I've got something a bit different today: an onion bagel with haloumi, basil pesto, sun-dried tomatoes, and chopped red pepper. It's slightly reminiscent of a place I used to love in Seattle for sandwiches, the now defunct Bruegger's Bagel Bakery. Although a classic lox, cream cheese, capers, tomato, and red onion sandwich on an onion bagel never went amiss, I also liked one of their vegetarian sandwiches which involved Havarti cheese and roasted red pepper on a sun-dried tomato bagel. There were several bagel bakeries in my neighbourhood until I went away on holiday for a couple of weeks. When I returned they had all closed down. This was not as traumatic as my previous flights which caused major earthquakes and riots, but it was still a bit disturbing.
In memory I'll christen this sandwich the Lower Queen Anne.
THURSDAY: Lunch is a restorative houmus and cream cheese with the usual crunchy bits and plenty of black and cayenne pepper. It's Election Day in the UK, and all of my British friends are battling with the decision of whom to vote for. I think it's obvious myself, yellowishly obvious, but I won't be voting because I'm not a UK citizen. Perhaps that's why I'm so fascinated by the election.
There has, however, been something else on my mind. Recently I've been reading about Einstein, the horse whose owners claim is the smallest horse in the world. Considering he's 14 inches high and weighs 6 pounds, we are indeed talking about a tiny horse. Apparently the Tiz Miniature Horse Farm in Barnstead, New Hampshire breed these tiny horses. In contrast Shetland ponies range from a lofty height of 42 inches down to a minimum 28 inches, towering over poor Einstein. So it sounds like he has broken the record.
But what's the point? Why create a tiny horse? Isn't there a reason why horses, when left to Mother Nature's genetic devices, are the size that they are?
For one thing, although a child can ride a Shetland pony, nobody can ride a horse the size of Einstein -- not that a horse who never carried a human on its back would miss that experience. But if you kept a tiny horse as a pet, although it would be the same size as a medium-sized cat or small dog, it would make a lousy lap pet because of those sharp hooves. And it would look absolutely ridiculous peeking out of a woman's handbag or sprawled between the sheets with its owners. Imagine the insult to its proud equine nature if you dared carry it to the vet or on a train packed safely away in a pet carrier. A horse needs to feel the grass and dirt under its heels, not blankets or bits of carpeting or overstuffed furniture.
And what about the dangers of being so small? Imagine a tiny horse grazing in a pasture near the sea, quivering with fear every time a seagull flies over and eyes it as if it's some tasty morsel of human snack detritus. A tiny horse is not even safe from large dogs. Not that a large dog would necessarily want to hurt a tiny horse; but a particularly horny dog might find the horse attractive and, well, one can't be blamed for trying.
I suppose the advantage of owning a tiny horse would be that it wouldn't cost much to feed or demand much room. A small garden would probably be sufficient, and if you had a lawn you could probably retire your lawn mower.
FRIDAY: Lunch is a one-off: a potted scallop sandwich. The "potted scallops" are leftover bay scallops from the other night, originally sauteed in butter with vegetables, and the leftovers were chilled in the fridge. The sandwich also includes lettuce. It's like...leftovers in a breadcake.
THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY: Lunch is cheddar and wasabi mustard with a selection of chopped Greek olives, spring onion, and red pepper on a granary breadcake. As the breadcake is quite large I decided to go easy on the cheese and let the olives and wasabi do the talking. It's a mixture of Japanese and Greek, perhaps the Japanese language written in Greek characters or vice-versa. Wasacheddakkis!
I'd much rather say "Wasacheddakis" then talk about the new coalition government. I'm sorry, but there's not much I can say at this point except that I'm a bit concerned; but we shall see what happens in the next couple of weeks. In the meantime I'll click my heels together ten times and say "Wasacheddakkis!"
Oh, the hemidemisemiquaver's connected to the demisemiquaver...
TUESDAY: Lunch is a touch of updated nostalgia: a tuna sandwich flavoured with cumin. It's also got capers and caper vinegar, dried mixed herbs, spring onion, chopped pointy red pepper, and a spoonful of yogurt on a granary breadcake with cream cheese and sun-dried tomatoes, so it's definitely one of my 21st century sandwiches. But way back when I was a university student in California I flavoured my tuna sandwiches with cumin. I also used mayonnaise, sunflower seeds, and cheddar cheese, and the bread was something sliced, possibly Oroweat Wheatberry or Roman Meal, because I had yet to discover the wide-open universe of sandwich-making possibilities. Back then baguettes were meant to be eaten with a meal, not filled, and little did I know the vast catalogue of sandwich bread choices far beyond sliced wheat and rye bread and bagels. And it would be years before I encountered my first bap.
Because our old one had been reduced by heavy use to a chaotic mass of torn and ragged paper fragments, I recently invested in a new dictionary. Although nowhere near as massive and weighty as my Random House Unabridged Dictionary of the English Language -- which I don't use very often these days not only because it's American but because it requires a forklift to move off the bookshelf -- the new Chambers dictionary is satisfyingly complete for a comfortably lap-sized book, and it's got a hard cover which should make it last much longer than the old paperback one.
As I was browsing through the dictionary the other day, I happened to look up a word I used to love as a child, hemidemisemiquaver. As a classically trained musician I had learned that a hemidemisemiquaver is what us Americans call a 64th note; so I was a bit disappointed to find the Chambers definition is "a note equal to half of a demisemiquaver". So I looked up demisemiquaver which was defined as "a note equal to half of a semiquaver". So I looked up semiquaver, and it said "a note equal to half of a quaver".
Intrigued by this lack of further definition for the poor music-ignorant browser, I pushed on. Quaver was defined as "a note equal to half of a crotchet". Crotchet was explained as being "a note equal to half of a minim". Finally I was getting close to the gist. Or so I thought: minim was defined as "a note equal to two crotchets".
So I felt as if I'd been spun around in an endless circle of fifths. At least I learned something new: that a note equal to half of a hemidemisemiquaver is a semihemidemisemiquaver.
This reminds me of another interesting dictionary experience. Years ago when I lived in California I invested in the aforementioned Random House Unabridged Dictionary of the English Language. This tome was so weighty that it wouldn't fit on any of my bookshelves, so on the suggestion of a friend I went to a Christian bookshop and purchased a "bible stand", sort of a small wooden pulpit that I could stand in the corner. On this I could prop my new dictionary in an open position, ready to consult whenever I wanted to, and especially handy when reading anything by Will Self.
But before I could get out to buy the bible stand I placed my dictionary in the only location I could think of: on the floor next to a nice comfy bit of carpet. On that first night of proud ownership I poured myself a glass of wine and settled down in front of my treasure, looking up all of the words I could think of that wouldn't be included in any of my shorter abridged dictionaries. Besides words like antidisestablishmentarianism and cyclopentanoperhydrophenanthrene I also looked up words such as fuck, twat, cunt, and so on, delighted to find them fully defined with examples and conjugations.
And then I looked up dick. It wasn't there. I decided to see if diddlysquat was there, but it was missing as well. I paged ahead to doodlysquat, but it was equally absent. The reason for this is because a section of pages from somewhere in the words beginning "de" to somewhere in the words beginning "do" were missing. Over 120 pages in my copy of the dictionary had been omitted.
The next day I took my dictionary back to the bookshop, plopped it on the counter, and told the sales clerk, "This dictionary doesn't have diddlysquat!" When he looked at me suspiciously as if I was some sort of nutter I added, "and it doesn't have doodlysquat, either. In fact, it doesn't have dick!" When I showed him why he grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, wrote down the missing pages range to report to the publisher, and went in the back to fetch me a new copy of the dictionary. We skimmed through it together and the pages all seemed to be in order.
Later I thought about how lucky I had been. Imagine if years had passed before I looked up a word beginning "de", "di", or "do", by which time it would have been too late to do anything about it. How sad would that be?
THE FOLLOWING MONDAY: Lunch is avocado and cheddar with cumin, cayenne, sun-dried tomatoes, and red chard and red batavia leaves in a fresh brown breadcake. It's un buen comienzo a la semana. The sun is shining, it's comfortably warm, and I wish I were still at home listening to the rockin' blackbird I mentioned in my last blog. It seems that my mobile tone he's nicked has evolved into a new blues lick reminiscent of Willie Dixon. When I popped down the road to the bakery this morning, I couldn't help laughing out loud with delight as I craned my neck upwards, scanning the treetops for my little bluesbird. I'm sure I looked out of my mind, but I couldn't believe everybody else could so easily resist the temptation to dance down the street. I've named my blackbird BB (Black Bird) King. If he progresses to Little Water, Junior Parker, and Magic Sam, I'll be in absolute bliss.
I'm tempted to buy him a tiny guitar, although I suppose birds would have a tough time fingering.
WEDNESDAY: Lunch is haloumi cheese with basil pesto and sun-dried tomatoes on a white breadcake. Sometimes, like with Wensleydale, one just needs haloumi. I'm very grateful for having it.
THURSDAY: My sandwich today is simply avocado and Wensleydale with sun-dried tomatoes, cayenne, and chipotle chilli powder on a granary breadcake. It's surprisingly nice and different from any of the other avocado or Wensleydale combinations I make. I'm happy, at least during lunch.
FRIDAY: Yesterday when I left work with an unexpected bonus in my pay, I was pleased to find the Continental Market set up in town for the weekend. And I was delighted to find my favourite Greek stall with all the gorgeous olives, antipasto ingredients, and sauces. So I purchased some black olive tapenade (similar to my own recipe but less alcoholic), harissa, and a big tub of mixed olives. So today I've got a sandwich with Wensleydale, chopped pointy pepper, chopped spring onion, and tapenade. When I was constructing my sandwich this morning I looked down at the tapenade spread on the breadcake and sprinkled with the red pepper and green onion bits, and I thought, "Kandinsky!" So that's what I'll name this sandwich, because it really is quite pleasing to look at.
The Perennial Easter Egg Hunt and Rockin' Blackbirds
THE THURSDAY BEFORE EASTER: Today was supposed to be the only day I was working this week, as the library is basically shut down to minimum staff for the 2 weeks around Easter. And with my new Permanent position I finally get paid for university holidays including those 2 weeks. Unfortunately I still have to work extra hours to be able to afford such luxuries as food, bus fare, loo roll, toothpaste, and the now-very-occasional pint or leisurely afternoon espresso (as opposed to the gulped-down ones brewed at home before work).
So when extra work is offered to me I can't justify turning it down, even on mental health grounds. As a result I've also worked yesterday and the day before, and I'm desperately looking forward to having next week completely off, when I can investigate and attempt to rediscover just what it is that makes life worth living. I seem to recall a time when I was paid for thinking logically and creatively, and not for filing, hoisting, and juggling textbooks.
Sorry, I'll stop whingeing for a few seconds. There: time's up.
(And for you speed readers...there. Time's up.)
Speaking of Easter, and all those eggy things that Easter celebrators do, reminds me of the following. At some point next week when I'm off I was thinking of stopping at a local supermarket I haven't had the time to visit for over a year. Fortunately I still remember how it's laid out and where everything is located -- except, of course, for the eggs.
It's probably difficult for your average American to understand what I'm talking about, because in America eggs are always kept in the refrigerated section and therefore would be found somewhere near the milk or cheese or, at the very least, the cold beer. In the UK, however, eggs are not refrigerated in supermarkets for various reasons that include preventing them from amassing condensation and absorbing other food smells and making them last longer.
As eggs can be kept on any shelf anywhere in the supermarket, I find it frustrating that every supermarket and grocery shop seems to keep the eggs in a section unique from any other supermarket or grocery shop. I've found eggs in sensible spots, like next to the jams and Marmite, suggesting breakfast. In the same context I've seen eggs parked next to the bakery section. All fine and good. But what is the reasoning behind keeping eggs next to the "World Foods"? Are eggs that exotic? And it's certainly disconcerting to contemplate why eggs should be kept next to the bin bags.
As a result, whenever I go grocery shopping and I have eggs on my list, I need to allow extra time for this constant non-Easter egg hunt.
MONDAY A WEEK AND A HALF LATER: After a gorgeously drudgery-work-free week of holiday, I'm back at the university library. I'd like to say that it's good to be back, but I don't believe that's possible. But I'll give it a try: Oh, how wonderful it is to see all the jumbled boobytrapped bookshelves! Oh, how I missed the hours spent locating exactly where 326.2834949449 HA goes. Oh, how I longed to hear all those ringtones and text tones clattering away against the background of builders pounding and drilling away. Sure, I spent a couple of days away last week at the seaside. But oh, how I missed that stale dust-filled air marinated with bacon fries, instant lattes, musky shower gels, and sweaty socks.
Sorry. I tried, but it's just not working.
Lunch today is basil marinated tofu and cream cheese on an extremely bakery-fresh granary breadcake with sun-dried tomatoes and spring onion. Fruit is fresh pineapple, red grapes, and orange slices. Actually they're more like orange shards, or rags, because these Spanish oranges are so impossible to peel, and once I've ripped my cuticles to painful shreds getting the peel off, I find it next to impossible to separate the segments. They're like Siamese twins: they just will not separate short of major surgery by experts. No wonder zipper-skin Satsumas are so popular.
TUESDAY: What a delight to open my sandwich container on this intensely busy and therefore physically exhausting day. I expected just a sandwich made with the Normandy brie I bought at Marks & Spencer last night -- 40p for a portion just right for a sandwich -- with cashews, sun-dried tomatoes, spring onion, red pepper, and plenty of fresh ground black pepper, all lying there inanimately waiting to be eaten. I wasn't expecting the brie, purchased only a few hours ago, to be bursting out of the sandwich, arms flailing madly, emitting an ear-splitting "FROMAGE FRANÇAIS!!!" across the room. Can they smell this in the next building? I hope they don't do a repeat of yesterday's evacuation and call in the fire brigade, suspecting a chemical spill.
Lovely! I must buy some more.
I love hearing the blackbirds this time of year. We didn't have melodic blackbirds on the Pacific Coast of America, although I did grow up in California listening to the patchwork medleys of mockingbirds. What is unique about British blackbirds is that they're constantly improvising, never repeating the same song twice. Like mockingbirds they do borrow licks from the catalogues of other birds, but the original borrowed tune is then developed into a symphony of variations. One never gets bored listening to a blackbird.
On recent weekday mornings when I'm awakened by my mobile phone alarm, I've been hearing a blackbird composition that I strongly suspect is borrowed from a new kind of source. As it was the best choice I could find on my current Nokia, my early morning alarm tone is a cheesy tune that sounds like the theme song from a 1960s British "Swingin' London" spy series, a la Austin Powers. When my alarm goes off in the morning, the blackbird that has been greeting the dawn suddenly changes his tune and starts singing the first bar of my ringtone over and over with variations. I'm not joking -- the rhythm and pitch are spot on. How amazing is that? At least the bird has the taste to copy something amusingly "groovy" rather than something like that boring old Nokia theme.
I wonder if I could find a ringtone of "Rockin' Robin" by Bobby Day. Now, that would be just way too cool...
FRIDAY: Yesterday's lunch was mature cheddar, sun-dried-tomato-stuffed olives, spring onion, and spinach leaves with Polish mustard and cayenne. It was sort of a 4/4 march, only on a Somerfield sunflower seed rustic roll. As the day became the official Quietest British Sky In The UK In My Lifetime Thanks To An Icelandic Cloud Of Volcanic Ash Day, I think I'll name my cheddary Polish spinach olive creation the Samloka, simply because that means "sandwich" in Icelandic.
