Author: Robert Wringham

Our final morning in London.

We’d been staying with my friend Wentworth and his wife Amelia. We don’t know Amelia all that well, so it was extremely kind of her, I felt, to let her husband’s layabout friends sleep in her house.

My alarm went off at 10:37 so we could begin our dash to Euston at the absolute last possible second, as is customary. On my way to the bathroom, I had pass Wentworth and Amelia’s bedroom door. It was open and I could see a humanoid shape on one side of the bed.

I had sleepily heard the front door being softly closed shut at about 7:30, which I’d taken to be Wentworth going off to work. I didn’t know Amelia’s schedule, but I’d imagined that she’d have gone to work by now too. If she was still in bed so late, I reasoned, perhaps she was ill.

It struck me as a bit strange that Wentworth should have left the bedroom door open on his sleeping wife, especially when there were guests in the house, but maybe she was hot with fever and had left it open. Who knows, I thought, It’s Amelia’s house and she can sleep with the bedroom door open if she wants to.

I tip-toed back into the guest room to warn Samara to be quiet.

“Psst,” I said.

“Mmm,” she said in the darkness.

“Amelia’s still in bed,” I whispered, “You’d best be quiet when you get up.”

“Okay,” she said, and I stealthed off like a silent puma.

I really didn’t want to wake Amelia. If she was ill or had not slept well or something, I didn’t want to further ruin her day, especially as she’s so nice to let us stay at all. More selfishly, I knew we had to get a move on to catch that train and, while we’d left just enough time to get ready and reach the station, we hadn’t banked on being sucked into conversation with someone just to be polite.

I tip-toed along the hallway in stocking feet, eyes darting left and right for potential noise-making disasters like something from Tremors.

A creaky floorboard, a motion-activated gizmo, or a precariously-stacked tower of musical instruments could be the end of it. Thankfully, there seemed to be nothing like this around. (I had no reason to think there would be a precariously-stacked tower of musical instruments, you understand, but it would be just my luck for such a thing to come clattering and jingling and honking to the ground if I failed to hold my face in the right position while passing it, a high-hat cymbal rolling speedily and inevitably into Amelia’s room. And exploding.)

As I passed Amelia’s bedroom this time, I switched to breathing through my mouth instead of my perpetually-stuffed-up, whistling nose. I risked another glimpse at the sleeping form, hoping that any squeaking noise my eyeball should make in rolling to the left would not be loud enough to disturb.

Bathroom. Made it. Phew. I decided against locking the door in case the clunk of the lock should reverberate around the house.

I brushed my teeth as quietly as possible with the tap turned on to an absolute minimum. Shhh!

When washing my face, I used water from only the cold tap in case the hot one should activate a noisy boiler somewhere. For all I knew, the boiler cupboard may even have been in Amelia’s bedroom. Or even right in her bed. As I say, we don’t really know her very well and it takes all sorts.

When balling up a Kleenex tissue and putting it in the bathroom bin, I carefully replaced the metal bin lid having noticed on previous occasions that it has a tendency to clang.

I even ran the (cold) tap while having a poo. The tap may have been a source of noise, but it’s arguably nicer to be woken by the sound of clean running water than the sound of a stranger having a big, messy shit. Arguably.

I exercised skilled anus control so that my poo would be lowered slowly into the toilet water in a single unbroken string like that of a goldfish. If it plopped, all was lost.

When I flushed, I compressed the handle softly so that the internal mechanism wouldn’t clank.

I made mental notes of all of this as I went along so that I could explain these little noise-cancelling techniques to Samara so that she too could maintain a silence on a par with the vacuum of space.

“BIG! LOUD! NOISE!” said Samara, bursting in.

“Shhhhhh!” I said, not quite knowing what to do with myself, “Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!“

“Why are you hopping on the spot?” she said.

“Because…” I said, “and…,” I said, “…what the fuck?”

“It’s just a cushion,” said the absolute apple of my eye and utter bastard, “Amelia left for work ages ago. Her bike’s gone.”

Once all of my blood had trickled back to its usual storage spaces and I understood that I wasn’t having a heart attack, it all made sense.

Of course! The bike. Amelia’s Brompton had been propped up in the hallway and ready to go the night before.

I’d even stopped to admire her glow-in-the-dark spokey dokeys.

And now, as Samara had correctly observed, it was gone.

Jesus.

We spent the rest of our getting-ready time singing our favourite operas at top volume before heading off to the station.

In London for a few days, we go for a saunter in the National Gallery.

“Mummy,” says a restless little girl, “why are they doing that?”

The child’s complaint, for once, was not directed at us but merely near us. She was asking about a painting we were looking at.

“It was the War,” said the mother, pulling the child along.

Brace yourself, folks.

It was a picture of Perseus with Medusa’s head.

Here are some other artistic depictions of the War we saw on our trip.

The diary’s back, folks! Tune in next weekend for your finer feuilleton.

I think I just woke from a satirical dream.

Many of the events I document in these pages are given a matte glaze of fiction to protect the innocent and to elevate the material ever-so-slightly from the fully quotidian (you’re welcome) but the dream that ran through my snoozing head like video tape this morning happened precisely as I’m about to tell it. Except for the part with the OXO cube. Watch out for that OXO cube for it is a lie.

I was trying to buy a bottle of wine to take to a party, an errand that ended empty-handed and took me through three different off-licenses.

The first off-licence looked just like the SAQ we used to frequent in Montreal though it was supposedly here in Glasgow, but that’s dreams for you. There was no wine to be found on the shelves, only cans of uninspiring beer, and there were few customers. The person behind the counter was a big sweaty man with a once-white vest with stains around the armpits and a sea captain’s hat on his greasy head.

The man looked at me with disgust and ridicule when I asked somewhat incredulously where all the wine had gone. It was as if he didn’t know what wine even was, though I was certain this was the place I’d normally come to buy it. “Just a bottle of red,” I said, “something for about ten pounds.”

I then noticed a door into the back of the shop, through which I saw multiple crates of wine being packed onto pallets and loaded onto a forklift truck as if to be sent back to the supplier. “This is because of Brexit isn’t it?” I said.

Yes, the stupid, not-yet-in-the-dictionary word “Brexit” actually issued forth from my dream mouth, the dominion of the shit-stirring media finally complete with the violation of my usually-lovely dreams. Vest man looked shifty as if he were part of some great conspiracy to banish all continental goodness from our island even though his own business depended on it.

When I pointed this out he shrugged disinterestedly and finally, with a sigh that could have sunk ships, took a single greasy bottle down from a shelf and told me it would cost £73. “Seventy-three pounds?” I asked, but he didn’t seem to understand what I was getting at. “Doesn’t it bother you that it’s over seven times the budget I came in with?” He looked at me pathetically like I was being a square or a pedant and that he’d never seen penny-pinching of this magnitude.

The second off-license was ever-so-slightly chichi with a bar and fittings made from highly-lacquered, nice dark wood. There was, once again, no wine on the shelves, only gift sets of largely inedible seasonal products like biscotti and panettone (which I realise are products of Europe and slightly complicate the message of this satire but, never mind). The servers at this off-license were two rather silly women who wouldn’t stop laughing when, proffering my useless tenner, I asked where the wine had all gone.

“Oh no!” they mockingly lamented, “where is the wine!?” as if I’d asked expressed outrage at not being able to buy lark tongues or snaffles mousse. I struggled to compute the disparity between the luscious shop fittings designed to attract middle-class custom and the way the young servers mocked me for being a hoity-toity, wine-demanding posho. They had no personal stake in their employer’s business, I suppose, and I left feeling embarrassed and pompous.

The third off-license had an all-chrome interior; I think my dreaming brain had attempted to create an American-style milk bar, but it looked more like an Airstream trailer schematically exploded and turned inside out. Needless to say, there was no wine to be found here either and when I asked what was going on, the helpful young man at the counter furrowed his brow as if trying to remember for £250,000 where chicory comes from, declared that I should “fear not” and that he’d “mix something up” for me. I watched, intrigued, as he mixed gin with rosewater, crunched an OXO cube into it, and presented it to me as “the next best thing to a French red wine.” It was £73 again.

This all, I swear, happened to me in a dream, right down to the number of pounds being asked for. But the three-act structure of the Brexiteer, the lackies, and the philistine combine to create a surprisingly cogent story for a dream don’t they? So weird.

Why was that guy wearing a sea captain’s hat and a dirty vest?

If there happens to be a psychoanalyst reading this or indeed anyone else who thinks they know about dreams, please let me know if this one indicates anything other than my being a perpetually-disappointed alcoholic remoaner with multiple class-based neuroses. Ta.

At one of the train stations I regularly use, there are four automated ticket barriers.

I tend to use the barrier on the left (let’s go wild and call it Automated Ticket Barrier 1) simply because it’s the first one you come to when you walk onto the concourse.

I suspect that almost everyone uses this particular ticket barrier, save perhaps during rush hour when lots of people need to get through and are forced to walk ever-so-slightly farther along to Barriers 2, 3 or 4, or are jostled in their direction by the crush.

But what might be the implications of Automated Ticket Barrier 1’s popularity in automated ticket barrier society?

Is Automated Ticket Barrier 1 their equivalent of a billionaire oligarch who slurps up more tickets than the other barriers purely due to the accident of being installed in a location slightly closer to the station door? The lucky, lucky bastard.

Or is ticket collecting actually seen as hard and undignified work in automated ticket barrier society and, in fact, Ticket Barrier 1 is some sort of ghastly pleb who, through same accident of installation, is cursed to stand there like a dumbass, taking tickets all day long while the others are living their best life and saying “gee, aren’t we a lucky lot. Shame about Automated Ticket Barrier 1, but what can you do?”

Maybe the others admire the hard work and the spiritual sacrifice of Automated Ticket Barrier 1 and they look to it as a Mother Theresa-like example of selflessness. Maybe they all pay their somber respects in some sort of Remembrance Day- or State Funeral-like ritual whenever the biped in the high-vis jacket comes along to relieve Automated Ticket Barrier 1 of its heavy accumulation of magnified cardboard slips at the end of a day’s work.

I should mention that the fourth barrier along is intended for wheelchair users and, as such, isn’t anywhere near as utilized as Automated Ticket Barrier 1 (or even 2 or 3), so I once decided to walk all the way along to give this underused barrier some action. If tickets are desirable currency, then I would provide Automated Ticket Barrier 4 with some much-needed business and attention. On the other hand, if tickets are some sort of terrible carcinogen in their world, then at least I’d be spreading the pain and giving the other barriers a well-earned break.

On the day I decided to use Automated Ticket Barrier 4, my ticket was rejected. The fourth barrier just didn’t want to take it. My ticket kept getting sucked in, seemingly chewed over for a while, and spat back out again even though it was as valid as ever. It’s almost as if the fourth machine was saying “Who do you think I am? Automated Ticket Barrier 1? Get ye downwind to the narrower gates.”

Perhaps Automated Ticket Barrier 1 is seen by its peers as a scandalous tart and the others look on with a mixture of moral indignation, disgust and a wistful fear of missing out. “Look at her,” they would say to each other with a nudge, and “yesterday, the biped had to come three times to empty her bin.”

But it all depends on ticket barrier society’s attitudes to sex doesn’t it? Maybe the others look upon Automated Ticket Barrier 1’s shagging about with open envy and in fact aspire to one day being pulled together enough — maybe even facing the necessary mechanical upgrades — to be so decadent as to slurp up so many tickets.

Whatever tickets mean to them, maybe Barriers 2, 3 and 4 are superbly envious and don’t understand how Barrier 1 can be so successful in its automated ticket gobbling. Perhaps in their world, Barrier 1 appears on the covers of magazines and has a lucrative sideline in producing books and videos about How You Too Can Make A Rip-Roaring Success of Noshing The Tickets of Perfectly Unremarkable Passengers Some Of Whom Have Glasses.

Anyway, long story short, I finally decided to ask. According to the station manager, it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference which barrier one goes through and, actually, I should sling my fucking hook.

I spent most of today walking around with a can of red kidney beans. They’re sitting on the desk as I write this.

This came to pass because I’d known since last night that I’d be making a vegan chili for dinner this evening but that I was lacking one all-important ingredient.

Yes. The red kidney beans.

You might think it is suspiciously well-organised for a young man to know what he’s going to be eating for dinner almost 24 hours in advance, but I say no! it’s practically brinkmanship.

You see, when I order my groceries online I usually have a ten-day cycle in mind and while I don’t eat my ten dinners in any particular order, the vegan chili is usually the last thing I decide to cook. I don’t know why but that’s the way it tends to go. And tonight, being Day 10, is chili night.

So you see, I am no Nostradamus, nor are my culinary habits regimented to the point of total predictability. That is, if you don’t count the unbreakable appointment with destiny that is eating a vegan chili every tenth evening.

Three-times-a-month Vegan Chili Boy, they’ll call me. This is mildly preferable to Mr. Tunafish.

Anyway, I knew that the only shops I’d be passing on my journey today would be around 11am when I’d be passing through trendy Finnieston. The rest of my day would be spent at home and on trains and on Concrete Island (the name I give to an office complex in a wasteland near the motorway where Nothing Shall Growe).

So I bought the can of Red Kidney Beans at 11am in full knowledge that I’d be walking around with them for the next seven or eight hours.

People kept giving me strange looks. “Hark,” their glance said, “at that man with his red kidney beans,” and “what’s a lad like that doing with a can of red kidney beans? This ain’t no Mexican chili cook-off. Unless it is of course. Is this a Mexican chili cook-off? I hope it is. But I bet it isn’t. My hopes are routinely dashed.”

At first I didn’t understand their problem. What is wrong with carrying a can of red kidney beans around. Is it so strange and improbable?

But after a while, it began to occur to me that in the sorts of places I was spending time today — a library, Concrete Island, some commuter trains — there could never be call for cans of red kidney beans. The can wasn’t stashed away in a grocery bag or anything, I was just carrying it around as if I had something in mind for them –something relatively imminent and, given the lack of cooking equipment in the vicinity, something out of the ordinary. Did they think I was going to crack it open and start eating the beans with my hands?

I was also wearing a three-piece suit as usual, which admittedly isn’t the typical outfit of someone who is about to do anything reasonable with a can of red kidney beans. They probably wondered if the can of red kidney beans were my pet or something. Maybe they thought that the can of beans was my friend.

I began to feel a bit silly.

“I see you’ve noticed my beans,” I began say to people when they gave me a particularly funny look, and then I would find myself going into a defensive ramble about the workings of my ten-day grocery cycle and how I wouldn’t be going near any shops today aside from the ones I’d be passing around 11am and that I had little choice but to carry them around all day.

But then people really started giving me even stranger looks, as if I were some sort of kidney bean pervert.

Eventually, I decided to embrace the eccentricity that apparently comes with innocently carrying around a can of red kidney beans all day long by getting in before people had a chance to find it strange. “I don’t think you’ve noticed my red kidney beans,” I said to a passerby, “What do you think?”

“Thank for seeing me today,” I said to someone I’d been meeting, “I’d like to introduce my can of red kidney beans.”

I am home now and thinking about preparing that chili. It feels a shame to eat them now really. Maybe I’ll take my beans out to a restaurant.

Friend Matt emails to say that he found (and seemingly bought) a copy of my book, A Loose Egg, in a Welsh charity shop.

I have decided to take this as an indicator that I have finally made it as a writer.

A pessimist such as yourself, madam, might point out that my book must have been purchased by someone who didn’t enjoy it enough to keep it on their bookcase.

Or even that they’d been bought the book as a gift and didn’t read it even once (it does look relatively unthumbed in the photograph doesn’t it?) before handing it over to Chaz.

As much as I might like a reader to treasure my books and to give them pride of place on their own personal “faves” shelf along with their Great Works of the Philosophers and their Viz annuals and whatnot, I’m more inclined to say “NO, STUPIDHEAD,” they clearly thought it was good enough to donate to charity rather than to simply lower quietly into the bin. That is a good thing.

I’ve also been a champion of minimalism for a long time and I understand that ridding yourself of a book (or a DVD or a baby or whatever) is to liberate it. Information wants to be free. Look, that’s my bubble of delusion and I’d like to stay in it if that’s okay by you?

But it really does feel satisfying to know that my work has gone right through the system now. It has gone from being written with my keyboard-tapping fingers at home, through the various distribution systems afforded to books, through the eyes and brain of the person who originally bought it and, finally, out of the other side.

I find that genuinely pleasing. It feels like I’ve shouted loudly enough out of my window to startle the dozing crows from a tree on the other side of the planet.

I feel proud in a way that a plastics manufacturer must feel when their work shows up in the stomach of an autopsied seabird.

How can something from your own little factory floor have traveled so far and established so many relationships with other people and systems and things? It’s miraculous. It blows my mind to remember that there’s something in the region of 20,000 books with my silly name on the cover moving around the surface of the Earth as we speak — like so many slow-moving cruise ships or migratory beetles — some of them now in people’s hands, others in boxes and on shelves, others next to beds and toilets.

People sometimes send me pictures of themselves reading Escape Everything! on a beach or in some tropical location, which I always enjoy and is very much in the spirit of the book.

I wonder, though, where the most strangely located Wringham books might be? Could there be one in space yet? Buried with someone in a grave, either by request or in error? I understand from Worldcat that there’s a copy held by a school library in an American town called “Normal,” which is pretty cool.

In the case of Loose Eggs that end up in charity shops or in the bin, I suspect the person who bought it had enjoyed New Escapologist and Escape Everything! and had anticipated more of the same. It’s like when Queen Victoria, impressed by Alice, had insisted that Lewis Carroll send her a dedicated copy of his next book. When it turned out to be a mathematical thesis she was not amused. I am the Lewis Carroll to Welsh Escapologists. At last!

For a long time now, the bus has been my absolute last choice of transport. Before resorting to a bus, I’ll find a complex way of getting there by multiple rail connections or else I’ll walk for miles and miles in impractical shoes. Anything but the bus.

This week though, I had a tricky journey to make for which the bus was the only reasonable option. It was that or learn to swim or hang onto a car as it enters the Clyde Tunnel and hope for the best.

And you know what? It was fun. It was an adventure. I sat on the top deck, rattling and clanking along like an eerily tall Bash Street Kid, looking down at all the bald spots.

It was nostalgic. For instance, I’d completely forgotten about the experience of tree branches coming at your face to make you flinch and then dragging their claws, screeching, along all the side windows. It was ace.

What was not to like? Why had I avoided the bus for so long?

I suppose I’ve had the same negative experiences of buses as everyone else: mad people refusing to talk to you (hah!), glimpses of backseat boys stroking their nun-chucks, schoolchildren mocking your cravat. But you get all of that on trains and it doesn’t put you off.

Moreover, I’ve had some extremely positive experiences on buses. Growing up in Dudley, there were few places a young rascal could be intimate with his girlfriends so we used to just ride around together on top decks for hours on end. In hindsight this is probably how I lost my fingerprints.

No, what makes buses so awful and why I stopped using them a decade ago is the need for exact change coupled with not knowing how much it’s supposed to cost.

I mean, that’s quite a big ask isn’t it? Unless you’re a regular bus traveller and subscribe to all the latest bus literature, how are you supposed to know? And where are we supposed to get all of this change? From the excellent coin-dispensing ATMs we’ve always had? Or are we supposed to line up in a bank to ask a cashier for £1.80? And if so, how are we suppose to get there? By bus I suppose?

Are we supposed to say “don’t worry, have a fiver!” and squash the note down into the change-receiving receptacle with a ruler?

Let’s say you’ve consulted the oracle (by which I mean the designed-by-a-maniac bus company website) and used a map and some long division to work out the exact fare, the driver will probably have a different opinion. And the driver, of course, is the one you have to impress or you won’t be going anywhere. When he says “two pound twenty” and you were expecting to pay £1.80, you can’t very well say “I beg to differ, darling.”

No. What we’re supposed to do is bring along a pouch of mixed doubloons and to count out exactly whatever sum the driver feels like requesting that day.

You stand at the front of the bus, hurriedly counting out a palmful of little coins and you’re praying that you don’t drop them all over the floor because the driver has already started to roll. This while the already-seated passengers — the successful applicants — scowl at you in disdain. There might well be a queue behind you too. How could anyone cope with that, especially at 8 in the morning when your mouth tastes of hurried shreddies and you just want to be dead?

But today I learned that buses have contactless payments now. Whoa. How long has this been a thing?

This is a game changer. One might say it’s the “exact change” we’ve been looking for. Ho-ho. It could be the smartest application of modern technology since Grindr. It takes away an awful lot of pressure and the world becomes your hot, salty oyster.

The ability to touch your debit card to a pad and be on your way? Holy actual Christ. How did it us take so long to get here? (I realise “How did it us take so long to get here?” is #1 on any bus company’s FAQ, but I mean it differently.)

Did you know there was no such thing as a suitcase on wheels until 1987, before which time we all just got along perfectly well with curvature of the spine?

Anyway. The bus. Finally usable for the first time since conductors went extinct.

At a co-working space this week, I found myself sitting on the end of a row of desks in a pod of eight.

I don’t usually like a co-working space but for various, complex reasons I was in one now, blearily squinting in the fluorescent light and wondering what happens next. Someone get me an Alka-Selzer.

The desk I was using normally belonged to someone else and the space before me was littered with her bits and bobs. Key among them was a small, plastic post-it note dispenser.

Don’t go thinking it dispensed full-size post-it notes please. I want you to picture the right thing and if you think of something large enough to dispense full-size post-its, then you’re thinking of the wrong thing all together.

No. It dispensed miniature post-it notes like the sort you use to mark a line in a book and you want to scare everyone else into thinking you’ve got your shit together.

And don’t go thinking they were made of paper like your typical post-it note either. These ones were made of plastic.

It’s not important what sort of plastic it was, madam, but if I had to guess as you seem to be implying I’d guess it was acetate. Okay? Or maybe a biaxially-oriented polyethylene terephthalate known for high tensile strength, transparency, and chemico-dimensional stability. I don’t know. I’m not a plastics expert and neither are you, so please calm down.

Anyway, I had an urge to pull one of these little post-it jobs out of its dispenser and to stick it on my chin like a little King Tut beard.

At first it wouldn’t stick because of my stubble so I had to get up and go to the bathroom and shave. I used the travel shaver I carry with me for all such non-adhesive chin crises.

By the time I’d come back to the desk, the urge to stick a post-it note to my chin had gone. It was one of those small tragedies of life.

Even so, I wanted to honor the original urge, so I did it anyway. This is just a little thing I like to call “commitment to a bit.”

I stuck the post-it note, as promised, to my chin like a King Tut beard but, since the mood had passed, the gesture didn’t feel adequately mischievous and I certainly didn’t feel anything like King Tut. I just felt like a bored man with some plastic on his face. Weird, I know.

I made a few King Tut-style gestures to try and get into character. It didn’t help.

My next plan was to get the attention of the person sitting next to me, point at the beard and make her laugh. But that felt a bit hack. I was my own audience, remember, and I knew this wouldn’t impress me.

Instead, I tapped her on the shoulder and held out the dispenser as if offering a stick of gum. I didn’t say anything or draw attention to the beard. I just offered it with slightly raised eyebrows, as if in reference to a common understanding that nobody’s really comfortable without a little King Tut beard so, here, have one of mine.

My absolute Dream Hope was for the podmate to take one gratefully and to stick it on. When she moved to hand the dispenser back to me, I’d make a generous “pass it on” gesture so that she could offer a beard to the next person along. Let’s see, I thought, if we can get all eight people to Go Tut.

“Hey look!” someone in another pod would say after cottoning on, ideally a few hours of silent beard-wearing later, “the people in that pod are doing a thing!”

And we’d all laugh and pat ourselves on the backs for being the fun ones.

Tragically, my dream was never realised. The first girl didn’t take a post-it note from me. She just gave me a pitying frown as I was the lunatic and “got on with her work.”

From now on, I will stay at home where I can stick whatever I like to my face and make whatever “gestures of the boy pharaoh” I feel like making.

Christ, I’ve got to get on with this book, haven’t I?

This morning I found myself looking through the Fringe Programme for shows to watch this year without being sick.

Many of this year’s acts look too young to be out on their own let alone performing professionally. They don’t look ready.

It gave me a chill to consider how I’d have handled the stress of a full Edinburgh run at the age of 18. After four days of not turning up to my venue, they’d have found me rocking back and forth in the Edinburgh Zoo penguin enclosure, murmuring “the show’s free, boys, but I’ll pass the hat around”.

Even some of the more seasoned performers look like they don’t have much of a show in mind. This is because the production of the Fringe Programme requires you to submit a show synopsis five months ahead of your first date, when you’re still suffering the hangover from your last one.

My mind, anxious on their behalf, began to drift in the direction of what I’d do if I had to cobble together an hour-long show to be performed next week. Would would I do?

This happens to me a lot, by the way. It’s an empathy surplus or something. I always wonder how I’d cope with something even if the circumstances are unlikely to ever happen to me. I remember sitting in a cinema, watching Tom Cruise scale a cliff face and thinking “I’m not sure I could handle that.”

Anyway, the obvious way I’d pull a show out of nowhere would be to read from one of my books. Naturally, the book I’d choose would be A Loose Egg, since the stories in it are funny and short.

In fact, a stage version of A Loose Egg is something I’ve wanted to do for a while and I have various thoughts on how to present it, none of which I’m totally convinced by.

What puts me off doing it is, in my heart of hearts, I’m not sure how to stage a book. I don’t like it when authors just go up to a lectern and read from the book. It’s not enough. This is okay at a book launch or for a one-off book festival show, but for a proper one-person show that people have paid to see, you need a little more: some sort of dramatization or slideshow or puppetry or something clever with music.

What’s more, my tendency to end a story abruptly with little to no conclusion risks enraging a live audience. On the page (I think) the abrupt ending is funny. It’s like a projector suddenly running out of film. I like that. But, in the room, the silence that would happen as people wait for closure could be gruesome.

“Maybe I’m overthinking things,” I thought. (Which is weird really. Do other people think about their thoughts or is that just me as well?)

So maybe I am overthinking things. There’s many a popular author who tours a show with nothing but the book in hand. In many cases, the audience are already familiar with that very book, so they’re essentially just showing up to re-read it in a different accent.

The author just rocks up to the podium and…

Of course! The podium! That’s what they have and I don’t! I don’t have a podium!

Well, that can be corrected with a single trip to Staples can’t it?

Yes! It turns out you can get a perfectly good collapsible podium — ideal for when I take the show, which is definitely happening, on its forty-date national tour — for less than £30.

I’d only have to sell one ticket to break even. Easy.

If anyone objects to a lack of preparation in my show or asks for their money back, I can point to the podium and say “really? You’re asking for refunds in the presence of a podium? What more do you want? Talent?! In this century? Dream on.”

I could read my stories from the podium obviously, but the podium itself could provide at least ten minutes of material. I can talk about why I chose this particular podium, remind them of how they might have played the recorder in primary school at a podium like this one, the semiotics of the various podia I rejected for the show, the reason why I insist on calling it a “podium” and not a “lectern.”

etc.

The show would write itself. Which is lucky really.

I envision now a show called “Robert Wringham: Podium” or “Robert Wringham and his Amazing Collapsible Podium” or, simply, “Robert Wringham: equipped.”

(“Robert Wringham: upstaged”?)

If you want me to perform next week, just drop me an email. I’m ready!

Everyone loves to spot a celebrity in the wild. Until a couple of weeks ago, my top three celebrity sightings were probably:

3. Scroobius Pip buying a twix,
2. JK Rowling cutting a queue,
1. Peter Davidson doing a wee in the next urinal along.

I’ve also seen Walter Koenig using a payphone, but that was at a science fiction convention so it doesn’t qualify. A celebrity sighting has to happen in your world, not theirs. You can’t very well, for example, get a job as an extra on Coronation Street, perch yourself on a bar stool in the Rovers and sit there stroking your chin saying, “blimey, that’s Rita from Coronation Street.”

Also inadmissible are celebrity sightings that took place through a celebrity’s bedroom window or at the bottom of a pit you dug.

Anyway, we enjoyed an excellent sighting recently — one that shits all over Peter Davidson — at the Picasso Museum in Malaga.

I gave Samara a little nudge and said, “Look who it is!”

Yes, it was the lad himself.

Even if it doesn’t fully qualify as “in the wild,” the ultimate celebrity sighting is the sighting of a celebrity thought to be 40 years dead.

Somehow I found the strength not to leap all over Picasso and shout “Busted!”

The skeptical among you are probably thinking that the person we saw was merely someone who looked like Picasso and that, after all, there are many bald, Spanish men in the world with a certain portly charisma.

But, ladies, he happened to be dressed exactly like Picasso too. He had the horizonal stripes, the adorable little Daisy Dukes, and the jaunty hat. I could have eaten him up.

Just another old fellow on his holidays? Possibly. Samara admitted the similarity but, like you, wasn’t completely satisfied that the man in our sights was The Master, so she tried to explain it away as “Picasso cosplay.”

As fond as I am of the idea of a sixty-year-old man getting out of bed, excited to slip into his Picasso outfit for his trip to the museum, (“Today’s the day, Margaret!”) I’m still not dissuaded. It strikes me as a bit of a “weather balloon” explanation. I know who I saw that day, dammit, and he was alive and well and looking at his own paintings.

As a final piece of evidence, I offer that the man we saw was also there with his wife, a very graceful and stately-looking woman, who with hindsight was obviously Jacqueline Roque. Top that.

I followed him around the museum a little bit, peeking at him over the top of my floor plan, looking for additional clues. I suppose I was hoping to catch him appraising one of the works with pride or (the holy grail) a hint of regret that he painted those women in such a silly way.

But above all, I did not want to let him know that I’d seen him. He was clearly here, of all places, in the hopes of being recognised and I didn’t want to contribute any further to his obviously staggering vanity.

If there can be any lingering doubt as to my claim that we saw Pablo Picasso on our holidays, I can also bring in some evidence from Clive Bell who writes in his book, Old Friends, that when in Paris Mr. and Mrs. Picasso seldom socialised with the Bohemians and instead “lived apart” in bourgeois surroundings — and where, I ask you, could be more bourgeois than the tourist trap Museo Picasso Málaga?

Check mate.

Anyway, we’re off to the Sherlock Holmes museum next month. I’ll keep my eyes peeled.

Dear Robert,

I wanted to send a quick email to say how much I appreciated your latest diary entry – A Few Quick, Horrible Words. I agree entirely with your examples.

As a sports fan I am constantly annoyed at the the use of the verb “medalled” when referring to people who actually “won a medal”.

To the word “myself” I’d add the use of “yourself” in place of “you” which some seem to regard as somehow more polite and less abrupt.

Thank you for your ever-entertaining writing.

Best wishes,
M

Thanks M! I never have a clue if anyone reads this blog so comments and back-and-forth are truly appreciated.

Not being the biggest sports fan, I hadn’t come across “medalled” until you so cruelly brought it to my attention. It’s horrible isn’t it? It’s especially unfortunate as the word more usually means “tampered” or “interfered with,” which is not ideal territory when you’re talking about sporting achievement.

Yes, “yourself” seems to have less of a jabbing finger to it than “you,” doesn’t it? I think you’re right that it’s why some people use it. Maybe it has a slight Celtic twist to it too, which is not entirely without appeal. Still a bit crap though, eh?

Have a lovely sunny Sunday wherever you are,
RW

Once, when Spencer was telling me about his burgeoning fear of flying, he said “the plane could flip upside down.”

“Yes,” I said, still chewing, “it could flip upside down a lot.”

Spencer went pale. It had never occurred to the sweet summer child that the plane might actually corkscrew should the pilots lose control. I had not tried to appall him with this vision. I’d imagined it by accident.

Imagining strange and often-horrific scenarios is my gift. I don’t particularly want to cook up these things but I do. It’s a direct line from the unconscious and there’s not much I can do about it. It’s like being Walter Mitty but fucked up.

Forget the airplane thing for now. What I want to tell you about today is a funny (if horrifically violent) fantasy that took me by surprise on a bridge.

Yes, on a bridge, though that is not the important thing about the story.

One of my regular walks takes me over and around a network of footbridges. It’s quite an impressive thing, actually, a sort of Spaghetti Junction for pedestrians.

One particular bridge has a tight, blind corner where you have to be a little bit careful in case a jogger or a cyclist should come zipping around it.

I’ve never actually experienced such a collision, but there has been the occasional “Whoops, I’ll step aside,” / “no, I’ll step aside” jitterbug dance between two walkers. (The thing to say in such circumstances, incidentally, is “Once more and then I really have to go.”)

This sort of thing — expecting a sudden cyclist — I’m assured, is a natural “crisis management” function of the brain. It might even be what the imagination evolved for. It helps you to predict possible threats or opportunities and to rehearse for them in a sort of ambient, back-of-the-mind kind of way so that you’ll be ready in case they should happen.

The other day, when rounding the blind corner, my internal crisis manager kicked in and told me that the person who comes around the corner this time might not be a jogger or a cyclist but a big man who takes it upon himself to crush one of my nuts.

Yes, one of my nuts, not both of them. The vision was that specific.

He’d just roll around the corner — a big, barrel-chested fellow with a chinstrap beard and a nautical-style sweater — and would suddenly, irrationally, grab my balderdash in the palm of his hand and brutally destroy one of my love eggs in a single, practiced finger-click motion.

I’d fall to the ground, shivering, and the man would continue on his way without so much as tucking his insurance details beneath my windscreen wiper.

Now what was the point of that little vision, brain? How is that frankly extraordinary level of crisis management supposed to help me? A collision with a fast-moving bicycle is at least somewhat likely but what are the chances of this nihilistic assault by a nut-crushing stevedore supposed to prepare me for anything? Pesky brain. Back in the freezer.

What would you do in such circumstances? What could you do? Absolutely nothing. You’d just be there, nursing your broken Infinity Stones, the back of your mind scanning desperately for sense in what just happened. It’s hardly a case of “forewarned is forearmed” is it now?

Later on — and this truly all came to me in the same information blast — I’d be in the hospital, explaining the event to the nurses.

“What happened?” they would ask.

“A man crushed my bollock on a bridge.”

“On a bridge?” they would say.

“Yes,” I’d say, “on a bridge, but that’s not important.”

They’d ask who the man was and where he was now and I’d have to say that I had no idea who the man was and that he just continued on his way after crushing one of my palm pets.

“What sort of bridge?” they’d ask.

“Forget about the bridge,” I would say, “that’s not important. What’s important is my broken ‘nad.”

And so on. Years later, I’d be getting interviewed on YouTube about a book or something and the incident would come up as a curious biographical fact.

“Is it right that you had one of your nuts crushed on a bridge,” the interviewer would say.

“Yes it is, Kent,” I’d say, “it all happened very quickly and it was very painful and confusing.”

“On a bridge though?” the interviewer would say.

“That’s not really important,” I’d say.

“Was it a suspension bridge or a nice old viaduct? Did it take you over a river or perhaps a railway track?”

“It was a 1960s footbridge,” I’d explain, “and it went over a dual carriageway. But as I say, it’s not really relevant to the story.”

And on it would go, forever and ever, people asking me about the bridge and not the assault on my Koh-i-Noor.

This all happened in my brain in less than a second. Should I have it scooped out and replaced with something nicer?

Two weeks ago Samara and I were in Spain and Gibraltar for a holiday.

I was going to write about it in the diary today but I can’t be arsed because although it was a wonderful time I just spent half a day captioning the photographs and now I think I’ll go mad if I have to try and get the facts straight again.

Besides, there was something funny I saw on holiday about which I remember thinking “oh, that’s diary-worthy,” only now I can’t remember what that was. It may have involved a waiter. Or possibly a ceramic tile. I’d have to go into a sensory deprivation tank to catch the tail of that memory and I’m not sure I have the time to do that before my dinner’s ready.

Instead, let me tell you about Dave the Coconut.

Apparently (and this story was told to me, apropos of nothing, just this week) while on vacation at the age of six, Samara found a coconut on a beach and brought it back to her mum and dad.

“What is it called,” asked her dad, presumably meaning botanically but to which she replied, “Dave.”

Little Samara carried Dave the Coconut around with her for the rest of the holiday until it was finally confiscated by customs officials at the airport.

The thought occurs that this is a strange thing for customs to confiscate. It was 1991 which — in your traditional Euclidean universe, madam — is before 9/11. And they didn’t forbid fluids on planes back then. You could take a super-soaker full of kerosene on board in those days and use it to light your fags.

Maybe customs were thinking of the effect of non-native seeds on the ecology but a whacking great coconut is hardly going to get tracked around on somebody’s boot only to push a glorious tropical palm tree up through the frozen Canadian tundra.

No, it’s more likely that the official had a grudge against coconuts. He’d probably heard of them crossing vast oceans without a proper travel document.

I felt bad for the coconut-hoarding sprog that would eventually grow up to become my wife.

But then something else occurred.

“Could it be,” I asked Samara, “that this is your origin story?”

She did after all grow up to become a border-defying coconut herself. One of my million love names for her, you see, is Coconut Head. And she did, despite all the hassle, move to live in another country.

“No,” she said, “my origin story is when the baby fell out the window.”

I should probably explain quite quickly here that this refers to a Punch and Judy show Samara saw as a child in which Judy’s baby was flung by Mr Punch, not just out of the puppet kiosk, but out the window of the kosher pizza place at which this birthday party was happening. She says that this unexpected breaking of the fourth wall blew her tiny mind.

So maybe Dave the Coconut isn’t her origin story after all but ours.

“Dave the Coconut” does, after all, sound almost exactly like Day of the Coconut, the name we give to the day we got married.

But more pertinently, Samara and I, being an international couple, have had to painfully walk away from each other at airport gates several times. Doesn’t it strike you as curious that this prologue exists? I’ve often wondered what the beautiful, clever, talented Samara sees in me and now I know. She is projecting her childhood loss of Dave the Coconut. Don’t you see? I’m Dave the Coconut.

The fourth wall breaking of this story has blown my mind.

Time is tight this week and even though I have much to tell you about (a trip to Spain, some thoughts about Time Lord Regeneration and a weird fantasy I had while crossing a bridge) we’ll have to make do today with “a few quick words.” In particular, some words I don’t care for.

Ready yourself, dear reader, for a dullard’s glossary.

My dislike for these words is not political (though a political argument could be made against them) but aesthetic. In fact, my dislike of them is so visceral that my response when hearing them or seeing them in print is to say “eurgh!”

I should also mention that they’re not necessarily “wrong” in the grammatical sense (so don’t go looking for ye-olde examples in Shakespeare or mounting an argument about the evolution of language), they’re just ugly and stupid. You know, like your mum. Hah.

Gift or gifted. I fucking hate the word “gifted” when used as a verb — as in “this book was gifted to me last Festivus,” or “I gifted him a swift knee to the knackers.” There’s a commercial poster I’ve seen a few times in the street this week, which reads “Gift them your data and keep the whole family happy.” Well, how utterly nauseating.

Pen or penned. It’s unpleasant to see “pen” where “write” is what’s clearly called for — as in “he penned a letter to Her Majesty the Pope,” or “she’d been penning such therapeutic novels since Uncle Mildred tragically fell to moths” — and it’s especially foul given that it arises specifically in conversations about words and literature. Yuck!

Like “gifted,” I suppose, it’s a noun awkwardly masquerading as a verb but that’s not exactly my problem with it. I think it’s just that the person using it is trying to avoid saying a more regular word in order to avoid a cliche or to sound clever when in fact the simpler word is perfect. There’s nothing wrong with being linguistically creative to entertain yourself or others, but if “penned” or “gifted” is your idea of creativity you’re probably better off staying in the soft play area where you won’t get hurt by the bigger poets.

Eatery. This was originally my girlfriend’s peeve but it’s rubbed off on me and she’s right to dislike it. It’s revolting enough to witness in a restaurant review but people actually say it now too. Why would anyone say “eatery?” As in, “oh, it’s over there between the readery and the drinkery but not the one downwind of the shittoria.”

I think my dislike for this one comes from its inelegance (all those unnatural elbows in the space of three short syllables is like a bag of mismatched spanners) but also the guttural, philistinic, functional emphasis on eating. Even the lowliest restaurant or cafe — yes, even a Chicken Cottage — is for eating in but it’s also for meeting, gathering, talking, reading, spending, tipping, helping someone’s business, resting for a moment, watching the world go by, and a hundred other things. “Eatery” reduces it to a pit-stop where one might go to reluctantly work some matter through a tract.

And it denies a range of other, more specific and evocative options — restaurant, cafe, bistro, diner, chippie, bar, brasserie, carvery, vegan place, cannibals’ lair — and so has a terrible flattening effect. I wonder if there’s the DNA of irony in the usage of “eatery” — that someone saying it knows they’re reducing a venue of multiple complex transactions to vulgar basics? It’s possible but I still don’t like it.

Myself. There’s a rising mania for deploying “myself” in place of “me” or “I,” and can’t begin to fathom where it’s come from. People say “Davina and myself will be at the drinkery if you’d like to drop by” and “Parry, Dave, Andrew and myself all managed to fit into the wheel arch.” Why? Myself can’t understand it.

There you have it — How not to sound like a twat at parties. Just avoid using these words or ranting like a maniac about how you don’t like them and you’re on your way.

Look! Look! It’s Mike’s Fishing Tackle Shop!

You know when you’re on a train or something and you zone out for a little while and just stare into the abyss? Only it’s not the abyss at all but the crotch of an old man who just happened to be sitting there minding his own business?

Well, that’s what happened to me on Portobello High Street the other day. Except instead of the abyss or an old man’s crotch it was Mike’s Fishing Tackle Shop.

You do know the significance of Mike’s Fishing Tackle Shop don’t you? Mike’s Fishing Tackle Shop is where, in 1993, Simon Munnery bought the worm that he’d execute with a miniature gallows on stage at the Fringe Club to a furious audience.

I told you all about it in my 2012 book, You Are Nothing. In case you weren’t paying attention, here’s what I wrote:

The invertebrate itself had been acquired from a fishing tackle shop called Mike’s Fishing Tackle Shop. Little is known about the shop but we can assume it sold fishing tackle and that the proprietor was called Mike. Actually, there’s nothing mysterious about the shop at all: it remains a thriving business on Portobello High Street in Edinburgh. I personally think English Heritage should consider Mike’s Fishing Tackle Shop for a blue plaque. But they can’t. Their authority, passed down from King Arthur, is not recognised north of Hadrian’s Wall.

Am I not a funny boy? And also a half-decent reporter of facts?

Sadly, Mike’s Fishing Tackle Shop is closed now. Even worse, according to that sign, the word “Fishing” was never actually in the name. But never mind. I will continue to erroneously call it Mike’s Fishing Tackle Shop.

When we planned this little trip to the seaside a couple of weeks ago, I remembered the significance of Portobello High Street and what could be found there. I thought briefly that it would be fun to visit Mike’s Fishing Tackle Shop, perhaps telling Mike about the execution of one of his worms to see what he’d make of it, and then buying a worm to ceremonially release into freedom only for it to be inevitably snatched up by a seagull. That’s how it would all happen, I thought. But then I forgot all about it.

Back in reality, Samara and I spent a nice day, rolling around on the beach and feeding chips to pigeons. We went into an arcade and played “the two pee machines” and a really terrible whack-a-mole, on which even I was unable to achieve a high score on account of it being utterly knackered.

It was only when we geared up to come home that the miracle occurred and I found myself staring at the birthplace (in a way) of all the comedy I like.

We shouldn’t even have seen it at all. It was fate. We arrived too early at the bus stop and decided to walk along to the next one. It was here where I zoned out and stared at Mike’s Fishing Tackle Shop for about five minutes before realising that it was in fact Mike’s Fishing Tackle Shop.

“It’s Mike’s Fishing Tackle Shop!” I said.

And it was. It was Mike’s Fishing Tackle Shop. Well, it was “Mikes Tackle Shop,” anyway, all closed forever and offering no chance to liberate or murder a worm.

At least the frontage was still intact and I was able to take a quick photograph of this historic landmark before the bus came and we got on board and I shook my head in wonder all the way home, saying “Wow, Mike’s Fishing Tackle Shop,” over and over and over.

It is my new mantra.

A local cat called Monty disappeared this week to much consternation.

When I saw the MISSING poster reporting that he’d been CATNAPPED no less, my heart sank in part for the cat but also for myself. Being a bit silly about cats in general and fond of this one in particular, I just knew I’d end up trawling the neighborhood at night, hollering “Monty! Monty!” like the bargain basement Jon Ronson I so clearly am.

As I rounded the corner, I saw some people in line at a bus stop. They were laughing. “How could they be so callous?!” I thought, “How could anyone laugh on a day like this, when Monty has been seized?!” Some lunatic out there was feasting upon his bones or — worse — dressing him up in little ribbons and making him dance. I for one wouldn’t be laughing again. I’d wear a black armband, I decided, until he turned up.

But then I saw what they were laughing at. They were laughing at Monty, who was sitting in his usual spot, surrounded by his own MISSING posters.

I stopped, hands on hips, and looked down at him. God help me, I think I might actually have expected an explanation.

He gave me his usual coquettish “meow” as if nothing odd had happened at all, the little bastard.

I’m awfully fond of Monty. I see him almost every day and the only times I don’t stop to fuss him behind the ears is if someone’s already there and fussing him behind the ears.

He has an excellent personality. His way is to sit on the ornamental beer barrel outside a local bar, simply waiting for the attention of passersby. He gets an awful lot of it too, from neighbours, shop workers, commuters and school children.

Clearly, the secret of a successful cat is foot traffic.

The other secret must be social media presence; later in the day, I checked Twitter to see if I might learn what had happened to warrant the MISSING posters. Twitter had been momentarily in uproar at reports of his being catnapped. There were people in Australia tweeting about him. I also learned that the little prick has two different Facebook pages. One for friends and one for fans.

He’s even on Google Streetview. Well, he would be wouldn’t he? Anyone can get on Streetview if they’re committed and consistent enough, though it should be noted that Google didn’t see fit to blur Monty’s face, so winning is his personality.

Anyway, from what I could gather, he’d been taken off by someone who’d mistaken him for a stray, but who had then returned him when she’d spotted the posters and understood her mistake.

Strangely, I can see how this would happen. I’m not saying he brought it on himself–no cat victim blaming here–but Monty has a certain charisma and it’s easy to feel bit drunk when he’s around. He’s also quite docile himself and I’m certain he’d have been perfectly amenable to being lifted by a stranger and stuffed into a box. Look, we’ve all been there.

He’d been returned some hours before I came along and saw the MISSING posters so I only had to worry about his fate and mine (“Monty! Monty!” — I mean, my God, that’s no dignified activity for a tall man) for the time it takes to walk one block and gnaw just two fingernails to the hilt.

I wonder what he thinks about it all now? Does he remember his little jaunt? Does he have any stance on this unusual chain of events whatsoever? I’ve been trying to gauge any change in his mood but he just seems to be his usual old self, reluctant to follow my finger or answer any questions.

I’m glad he wasn’t away long.

Waking in fright this morning, I found that a very special bulb had lit itself on the control desk inside my head. It was the one labelled “Alka-Selzer.”

“Yes,” I thought, running an exploratory tongue over furry teeth, “Alaka-Selzer. Don’t worry, Head, I’ve got this.”

But I didn’t. I didn’t have “this.” I didn’t have anything. And last time I checked, “anything” included Alka-Seltzer.

I cursed my lack of foresight. How had I discounted the future so completely? Had I really believed last time that I’d learned my lesson?

Note to self: You never learn your lesson! That’s the one thing you know for sure about yourself. Also, you’re fond of jam.

Why hadn’t I stocked up on Alka-Seltzer? It’s like that time I threw all of my shoes away after deciding “once and for all” that life is better spent indoors.

Woe, woe, all is woe. I couldn’t even slither down to the cornershop or squint my way along to the pharmacy because I knew I’d be fobbed off with some awful pill. Alka-Seltzer, once a staple of any degenerate’s bathroom cabinet, is weirdly difficult to get these days.

There was a time — 1955 probably — when the plink-plink was the go-to throbber relief for almost any recidivist wastrel you’d care to name; Hemingway, Vonnegut, Elizabeth Taylor, Ulysses S. Grant — they all knew. Buzz Aldrin had a special flap built into his spacesuit just for the plinky. (I don’t know that for certain but it doesn’t feel libellous.)

But the fifties and sixties were more stylish times. Everything today is about efficiency, solving a problem so you can get back to your miserable work and never have a sick day. Nobody wants to truly enjoy an illness anymore, to luxuriate in soupy wretchedness.

I don’t want to swallow a pill, dammit. I want Alka-Seltzer! Someone get me an Alka-Seltzer before I tear this town to pieces!

Now look, I know what you’re thinking, madam, and I agree that I’ve said “Alka-Seltzer” an awful lot in this post, but this is not sponsored content. Having said that, the good people at Bayer Pharmaceuticals could certainly do worse than “Someone get me an Alka-Seltzer before I tear this town to pieces!” as a catchy marketing slogan. Get in touch, Big Pharma, if you’re interested. I am willing to be an enthusiastic brand ambassador for… well, I’m not going to say it again for free.

“Oh! for an Alka-Seltzer,” I thought, “I’d give my wife’s left kidney for an Alka-Seltzer.”

But wait. Didn’t I see a boxload of Alka-Seltzer at the pound shop recently? And was it not the case that I couldn’t believe my eyes and bought a fiver’s worth? Was I not thinking forward to just such an emergency as this morning and the next fifty or so this mornings? Did that happen?

It did?!

What took place next involved a drawer, some rifling, and the word “hooray!” but I’ll leave it to you to fill in the blanks.

I half-filled a weighty-bottomed highball with cold water, tore the little blue packet down the middle in what felt like an emergency field attempt at separating Siamese twins, and gaily flipped the tablets from a couple of feet away, one after the other — plink!™ plink!™ — into the water.

They fizzed and foamed immediately, as is their wonderful wont, and I knocked it back. It may be my imagination, madam, but I’m fairly certain the sun began to shine and a little bird somewhere began to sing.

An Alka-Seltzer tablet really is a design classic, you know. I’m always surprised by how skinny they happen to be and how perfect these proportions are. In my memory they always seem as fat as a rubber bath plug — perhaps an exaggeration suggested by their efficacy — but in fact they’re very slender discs like something you’d bet with or push into a meter, and they have a slightly thicker edge like a shirt button, and the brand is embossed into them. You can just imagine the machine that presses them. It’s probably a Big Bertha of a machine and entirely automated, but I like to think that a person in overalls or a cheerful octopus pulls that embossing lever, happy in the knowledge that her work will save many writers’ lives.

A spiritual miser would say that none of an Alka-Seltzer’s aesthetic beauty is strictly necessary. I daresay they could scrap the embossing and whatnot to save on costs, but they don’t and I think that’s neat. There’s no twenty-first-century skinflintery about Alka-Seltzer and that is why they’re ace.

Also they cure hangovers.

*

My legal adviser (who may or may not be this guy) would like me to point out that Mr Buzz Aldrin was never inebriated or hungover while on the moon and also that “on the moon” does not in any way ever mean “drunk”. Now, to distract everyone, here’s Buster:

At last! They’re gone!

I’d been carrying a pair of old pound coins around for the best part of nine months. I’d open my wallet and there they’d be, peeping back at me like the eyes of a small cat.

The problem was that none of my regular journeys take me anywhere near a bank during working hours to get the bloody things exchanged. I could have gone out on a special mission to solve this problem, but that would have meant a tedious Shire-to-Mount-Doom walking saga or a £1.20 subway ticket, reducing the net gain to 80p.

Say what you like about Robert Wringham but he doesn’t get out of bed for that kind of money. Or any other kind of money, admittedly.

I’d have to wait to chance upon an open bank and then pounce. But after nine months, I was beginning to think I’d have to carry these coins forever and that they’d end up weighing my eyelids down when I languish in my coffin.

Knowing my luck, I’d arrive on the banks of the Styx, proffering my coins to the boatman only to be told, “sorry mate, I can’t accept these.”

Lamenting the situation in the pub one night, Spencer offered to buy my two pound coins for £1. Well, he’d love that wouldn’t he? I’d sooner sling them into a field.

Originally, the problem was not mine but my wife’s. They sat on her bedside table for a couple of months until I decided, completely irrationally, to make them my business. I gave her a pair of new, spendable coins in exchange and vowed to get rid of the old ones somehow.

Now here I am. Weighed down by this crappy shrapnel. And a riddle.

The supermarkets won’t take them, the nation’s vending machines were adapted far too efficiently for my liking, and I’m too decent to hoodwink a tramp.

Whenever I have this sort of practical problem, my dad is the person to whom I naturally go for advice, though I don’t for the life of me know why. It must be some sort of evolutionary vestige or an unconscious idea that mustaches are good in a crisis.

You know what my dad told me? He said that supermarket trolleys still accept them.

Yes, I said, but then the trolley gives you them back. I suppose I could just abandon the coins in the trolley slots but then we’re essentially back to slinging them into a field aren’t we?

It crossed my mind that the “all currencies” charity box at the airport might be a good place to dispose of them. It’s one of those charity boxes where your coin spirals around on its side for a minute before plunging with a satisfying thud into a central abyss. At least then I’d have the pleasure of watching the coins roll around and around into the vortex of hopeless causes.

And that’s exactly what I’d have done if only I’d remembered to actually do it when we went to Paris via the airport in March. Instead, the two coins came all the way to France in my wallet, yes, and all the way back like a couple of pointless hitch-hikers. They probably cost the world their weight in airplane fuel.

Besides, the “all currencies” charity box welcomes legal currencies from anywhere in the world, not expired currencies. It would welcome the six-foot diameter of a Rey Stone, apparently, before these useless tokens-of-nothing.

Trying to look casual on Perth High Street this week, my mind drifted in the direction of the feckless coins and how, in a last-ditch attempt to do something useful with them, I could use them as a joke competition prize for the Patreon gang (“the two coins go to the first patron to send me the £1.99 shipping costs”) when suddenly, like an oasis in the desert, I spotted an HSBC. No mirage, I went inside and the clerk exchanged my coins.

I could not believe my luck. He didn’t even sigh or tell me to go fuck myself. The shitcoins are gone. Gone! Success!

Last night, suddenly remembering the sorcery of fungibility, I exchanged the two new pounds along with three of their fellows for a pint of beer, successfully converting so much shrapnel into a pleasantly dizzy feeling and a bladder full of wee. Economics is magic.

Lovely! It’s a bit of the old whatchamacallit. You know, the old anti-sad.

Sunshine. That’s the one.

Yes, the sun is out for springtime and everybody I see on the street is wearing a pair of stylish sunglasses as if it doesn’t mean a thing. Let me tell you, a Scottish person in sunglasses is quite a sight. They act all nonchalant as if it were perfectly normal to look like a million bucks.

Given a pair of sunglasses, we swagger around with a Ray Charlesish sort of vibe, trying to give them impression that we’ve never so much as heard of a wind-blasted, barnacled northern/Scandie promontory let alone ate our every breakfast on one.

Personally, I ditched my sunglasses long ago as part of my minimalist credo. This means that when the sun finally shines, everyone says to me “Aha, Mr. Minimalist, I bet you wish you had a nice pair of Ray-Bans now don’t you?! Eh? Eh? Eh-eh-eh?” To which, I say, “Not really, for I have the gift of the squint!”

And then I give them the squinting of a lifetime.

Look, we only get about ten days of sunshine in a Scottish year, meaning about fifteen Scottish hours of actual Scottish exposure to it. Plus, when the sun finally shines in late April and you get your sunglasses out of the drawer — the drawer in which you also keep such treasures as the yellow Ikea AA batteries, your cuff links, and the expired condoms — you have to blow the dust off their case, an act which makes you feel like an Eminent Victorian.

That’s no way to start a nice spring day is it? Lytton Strachey, get back in your box where you belong until October. Thank you.

I saw a chap riding around in a soft-top car with the hood down this morning too. I bet he just drives around and around for as long as the sunshine lasts. I know that’s what I’d do. The rest of the year, that soft roof is just a place for his cat to sleep.

*

Anyway, this is all by way of saying how nice it is come out of the shadows for a while and enjoy the odd pootle along the banks of the River Kelvin, often with a friend or two.

It has been quite the business, these warm little strolls. One such walk this week was with my friend Ian and it was quite eventful inasmuch as it allows me to write the following words:

“Dear Diary, I succeeded this week in making Ian laugh.”

Ian has been a comedian for 64 years (40 professionally) and he’s already thought of everything that could possibly be funny. It’s hard to surprise a person like that. You have to leap out like Kato when he least suspects it and, frankly, that’s just too much waiting around inside airing cupboards for my liking.

Besides, comedians aren’t often moved by jokes in the usual way. Comedians tend to look at jokes in the way normal people would look at a boiled egg.

There aren’t many boiled eggs with the kind of charisma that will garner much in the way of genuine human opprobrium. But it can happen.

So Ian and I were out for a walk, away from the hassles of life and the screaming, vertiginous horror of the blank page.

Suddenly, Ian spotted a penny on the ground and he stooped to pick it up.

“You don’t still pick up pennies do you?” I said, and geared up to tell him at length about my strict 5p policy, the exact ins and outs of which I’ll leave to your imagination (or a slow diary day).

“Well,” he said, rubbing the dirt off it with his thumb, “you know the phrase. Find a penny, pick it up…”

“…get AIDs,” I said.

That was it, folks. And you missed it. I know it’s not funny now, not here on the page. I know that. I’m not a complete idiot. But in the moment it was funny and it surprised Ian and it made him laugh. And he should fucking know, okay? He’s got something like a thousand stage hours under his belt. How many have you got? Twenty-seven minutes? I thought as much. Stick to your boiled eggs, madam.

Needless to say, I ran a victory lap around the park, waving my hands like an Olympic gold-medal winner. Rob’s joke. I savoured the words. “Rob’s joke.” It had to happen eventually, I suppose, but inevitability does not tarnish victory.

Anyway, this skin isn’t going to burn itself. Back out for a squint, I think.

We’ve been looking after Missy, my mum’s cat.

She’s getting on in years now — the cat, that is; Mummy’s the same age she’s always been — and her personality has changed since I first petted her tiny cat head.

Missy used to be a tremendously affectionate and cooperative cat, perfectly happy for you to pick her up and carry her around on your shoulder like a parrot.

Time was, you could even pop her on your head like a living fur hat and she’d stay there, content to grow fat on your loving brainwaves.

Now, in her advanced years, she’s developed a certain coolness. Though there are, of course, limits to one’s cool when one looks like a not-particularly-sophisticated glove puppet.

She succeeds, however, in a sort-of serious look. Where, once, you’d catch her eye and she’d come bounding into your lap like a little puppy, she now gives you a look of absolute pity. Its a look-to-kill that sits somewhere between the cultivated indifference of a High School Mean Girl and the icy contempt over half-moon glasses of an out-to-pasture librarian. “Look at you,” she says, “A human being. As if!”

Somehow, the glance reminds you that not so long ago you and your kind were swinging in the trees.

She gives off the impression that she knows that only one of us has ever eaten something out of a bin. As it happens, I have no memory of ever eating anything out of a bin, but one of us must have done and it certainly wasn’t her.

That’s an awful lot of glance language for someone who craps in a plastic tray.

The funniest thing is that she now feels that giving humans the time of day is clearly beneath her, she also still craves our affection. What this means in practice is that she no longer sits on your lap, but merely near to your lap.

Best of all, as I move around the apartment in the course of the day, Missy follows me but tries to give the impression that she’s not interested and doesn’t care. If I go to the kitchen, she’ll follow — but only after waiting an amount of time which she thinks is seemly.

Unfortunately for her, she’s on cat minutes so she impatiently arrives at my feet within a few seconds. She think she’s conveying nonchalance, but her performance is about as convincing as my father-in-law’s poker face.

A paying audience would throw tomatoes.

Of course, this prompts a whole new area of fun to be had. What I like to do now is rise from my chair, go into another room, and wait — stifling the giggles — for her inevitable arrival. I then pretend to change my mind (“no, on second thoughts I was in the right place first time”) and go back to where I was sitting originally.

There’s no way on Earth she can recover from the two-rooms maneuver with any dignity and, sure enough, she comes trotting in to sit near me again, the fuss-hungry fool.

“Oh, I thought you wanted to be in there,” I say, and she gives me one of her looks. I’m never quite sure if she knows she’s been duped, but she falls for it again and again. It’s hard to be clever, I suppose, when the space inside your skull is, like a steak bake, 60% eyes.

I’ve found other ways to have fun with Missy’s dignity act. I’ve long observed, for example, that she likes positive-sounding speech patterns and I’m able to please her with cooing noises and (“yes, that’s right!“) baby talk. She doesn’t seem to recognise words though so I call her a little thicko and my little fathead and things like that. So long as it’s all said in a positive tone, she adores it. This is funnier now that Missy has dignity. The joy is no longer in the pointless evil of insulting a baby who can’t understand and loves you blindly, but more like the insolent pleasure of insulting High Court Judge from the safety of a soundproof booth.

Oh, here she comes now. I can tell from her strut that she thinks she’s Herbie Hancock even though she looks like something you’d fail to win at a coconut shy. I love her completely.

One of my regular walks takes me through an alley which happens to have some truly top-drawer litter. You bet I’m going to tell you about it.

First, I should explain, it is not strictly an alley. Your classic Type-1 alley would have obscuring walls on each side. This alley has a mesh fence on one side and, on the other, a shoulder-height brick wall that stops everyone from falling into a railway cutting.

I’m not sure what exactly provides the illusion of alleyness but something does, as the amazing litter will testify. An alley’s ability to obscure you briefly from The Watchful Eyes promotes decadent ideas and, before you know it, things are falling off your person.

The scrubland beyond the mesh fence is the resting place, I’m not exaggerating, of hundreds of drained Buckfast bottles. The labels have been rinsed away by rain. It sparkles greenly.

When I told a friend about this Emerald City he said it was probably the work of people getting tanked up on their way to concerts at the nearby exhibition centre. I prefer to think it is the cumulative, daily effort of a single marauding bum. I can dream can’t I?

Still, my favourite litter feature must be the jeans. Two pairs of jeans — stonewashed denim, detail fans — have been captured in the corkscrew of barbed wire that runs along the top of the fence. Both pairs are turned partially inside-out, their wearers clearly having escaped and abandoned them after two aborted attempts to scale the fence, presumably followed by some desperate taxi-hailing.

It occurs to me only now that the erstwhile trouser-wearers (“Yeah, I used to wear trousers all the time but I’m trying something new.”) might not have been trying to get into Buckfast Beach in the dead of night as I first imagined but that they woke up there one morning, Crusoed and covered in dew, and had to make the bare-legged limp through the commuters and squinting in the daylight.

Today, dear diary, an impressive new batch of litter had arrived in the alley. At first I thought it was just more beer cans but I also spotted a number of baked-bean tins. I suppose it’s possible that someone out there likes to round off the night by guzzling a six-pack of Heinz, but I rather think it is someone’s recycling.

The fly-tipping of domestic refuse always catches the imagination. Who would carefully wash and sort their garbage with an eye to saving the environment only to lob the lot of it in an alley? Why, instead of using the bins provided at the back of one’s house, would anyone bother to transport and jettison a box of rinsed-and-alphabetized trash?

I see this sort of thing a lot. When I take my own recycling out, it’s not uncommon to see bags of glass bottles abandoned next to the plastics bin. So near, yet so far! It’s like the person has thought “I’ll play my part by saving all my glass but I’ll be fucked if I’m taking them to the right bin.” The best one I ever saw was a carrier of used teabags ditched next to a charity clothes bank. This particular environmentalist must have thought “I’ll just take these down to the teabag recycling bin then. Those exist. Oh no, this is for clothes! Better just leave these here then.”

The alley is strewn more generally with beer bottles, energy drink cans and miniature prosecco bottles. Few of them are ever broken and have often been placed tenderly on the ground, suggesting not angry alcoholics or off-the-leash teens but fairly regular people, perhaps on their way to a nice dinner party and seduced by the alley’s enchanting atmosphere, tanning their cargo on a deviant, out-of-character whim.

Something one might expect to see in the alley, but which I am yet to see, is a spent condom. That particular square of my Crap-Spotter’s Guide remains unstamped.

In fact, it’s been ages since I’ve seen a spent condom on the street. That’s probably a good thing really but it also suggests that al-fresco shagging is out of style, which I think is a quiet tragedy.

Reader’s voice: That’s not the only quiet tragedy around here.

Pfft. You’ll be back.

When you want to collect a package from our local postal depot, you have to wait in a room the size of a toilet cubicle.

The walls are decorated with photographs of naughty dogs who are known to have the taste for postal workers’ hands. I assume this Rogues’ Gallery is a bit like the “do not serve” photographs they keep behind the bar in some pubs. I don’t know why it’s kept on the public side of the desk, but I am not complaining. I like to look at the naughty dogs.

The queue is usually quite small and easy to understand. If there’s someone waiting at the service window, you simply stand to that person’s left. It’s intuitive.

On busier days, the queue continues around the walls so that the last person in line is actually standing to the right of the person being served. This can be a bit stressful as we all ponder what will happen if one more person should enter the tiny space before the next parcel turns up and somebody leaves. Will they squash in? Will someone take control and suggest that they wait outside? Will someone panic and take off all their clothes?

Somehow, it always works out for the best. We get through on self-organisation and blitz spirit. I usually come out of it feeling that people aren’t so bad, that perhaps there’s hope for the world after all, and that even naughty dogs are cute.

This morning though.

Ho, baby. This morning.

When I arrived at the depot with the little red summons and my photo ID, the queue was already spilling out of the door and down the ramp. I’d never seen the place so busy. With hindsight I should have gone home and come back on another day, but I didn’t want to miss a rare opportunity to witness cannibalism.

I joined the queue. In front of me was a woman in galoshes, a slightly-too-friendly man, and a sheepish-looking younger woman. Other people soon joined behind me. Occasionally, as one would hope, a person would come out of the depot with their parcel. They’d boggle at how long the queue had become.

Most locals know what it’s like inside this building — the tininess, the looping queue — so those of us outside were in no hurry to go in. It wasn’t raining and the longer we waited outside, the less crowded it would be when we got inside. If nothing else, it would give our neighbours’ farts the chance to dissipate.

I worried about the slightly-too-friendly man. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, but he had the vibe of someone who wanted to start a conversation or, ideally, a group sing-along.

He’d periodically leave the line, pop his head inside the door and come back to us with a bemused expression. Given the amount of time we could be stuck together, I decided it was best to avoid meeting his gaze.

People continued to exit the building, one by one, clutching parcels of every shape and size.

I started to think it was surely time for some of the outsiders to move inside and I was getting the vibe from the people behind me that they wanted to see some action too. It wasn’t my call though. I’d have to speak to Mr Friendly.

“How’s it looking in there?” I called.

“Fine!” he said.

“Is there space for some of us?” I asked.

“Plenty!” he said.

It became apparent that the sheepish-looking woman at the front of the outdoor queue wasn’t in the queue at all but waiting for someone else. This was why Mr Friendly kept opening the door and looking inside. He’d been trying to signal to Sheepish that she should move in. But why didn’t he just say that to her? And why didn’t Sheepface wait somewhere else? And if she really had to wait here, why didn’t she just explain to us that she wasn’t in the queue?

“Oh, for crying out loud,” said Galoshes, and she barged in, followed by Mr Friendly and me.

I thought Galoshes, after her justified chiding of Sheepo, would become an ally — someone who understood the business of queues — but I knew our relationship was doomed when we went inside and she didn’t stand behind the person who was clearly the end of the queue. She decided instead to stand to the right of the service window, immediately turning an orderly queue into a shambolic crowd. Mr Friendly didn’t seem to care and stood behind her. I, conformist nincompoop that I am, stood behind him.

Disastrously, there were now two little queues, the real one coming from the left and ours from the right.

Queuing to the right causes problems not just in that it’s counter-intuitive and confuses the next person to come in, but also because it causes the person at the end of the line to stand in front of the door, obstructing the exit and risking being belted in the spine by the metal door handle. Why had this galoshes-wearing idiot put us — put me! — in this situation?

Galoshes sighed. She couldn’t possibly think she was going to be served next could she? Hadn’t she seen the other people patiently waiting?

I wanted to share a therapeutic eye roll but nobody was willing to receive it, save for the portrait of a naughty chihuahua.

The man at the window accepted his parcel and made to leave. Galoshes, clearly understanding that she wasn’t actually in line, ushered the next person to the window. I’m glad she did this instead of barging up to the window, though I don’t know why she chose to stand in a weird place and then elect herself to the unadvertised position of Queue Director.

As he left, the man who’d been at the window issued the following terrible words — a black magic spell — to the queuing people out on the ramp: “Plenty of space inside.”

Why? Why?! Why?!?!

Nothing could have prepared us for the surge of badly-dressed flesh that would now gush through that door.

“Who’s at the end?” someone said.

It’s amazing what you can do to someone with your bare hands and a shoelace when you really have to.

One of my as-yet-unmonetized talents, along with a creditable proficiency at armpit music, is the ability to whistle quite loudly and for an insanely long time.

I don’t mean the sort of whistle that requires fingers in the mouth like the wolf whistle issued involuntarily by a retired bricklayer on hearing the clip-clop of heels on the pavement outside. No, I mean the sort of properly tuneful whistle formed only by the pursing of the lips.

“You hum it, I’ll play it,” a skilled musician might say. For me it’s more a matter of “You play it ten years ago, I’ll blow out a loud and shrill cover version when you least expect it.”

I can whistle anything that happens to be lodged in my consciousness at a given moment. Their being inane to begin with, my specialties are television theme tunes and the music from 16-bit computer games from the early ’90s. You should hear my James Pond II: Robocod. But, damn it all, I can handle anything Phillip Glass can throw at me. I can do the entirety of Einstein on the Beach — on the inhale.

I can do all eight tracks of Trane’s Blues through the gap in my front teeth. I can do Robert Fripp, Brian Eno and Scott Walker at such a pitch as to call into service as harmonizers any dogs in the vicinity. In fact, the only artist to whom I seek not to pay tribute is Roger Whittaker.

But I’m not here now to boast about the range of my whistling, merely to remark on the improbable volume of it. I can go loud.

Today, while washing up some dishes, I found myself whistling the theme from Dallas (a favourite) at a very special volume. It may have also acquired a certain resonance in the metal kitchen sink.

Somehow, Dallas evolved into a particularly horrible circa-2001 Nokia ringtone and I continued to whistle this on an extremely tight loop, in a completely demented way. It was perhaps the most annoying sound I’ve ever made with my face and I was extremely proud of it.

This is what I do behind closed doors when my wife is out, and I can’t help but feel that this information has a place somewhere in the ongoing privacy debate.

Suddenly, there was a fevered banging against the kitchen wall and a man’s voice shouting, “SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!”

It had never occurred to me, despite congratulating myself regularly on the impressive volume, that the neighbours would have been able to hear my demented whistling.

How utterly embarrassing. It’s an unzipped fly, times a million.

As borderline-millennial precariat types, we move house quite a lot, and only now does it occur to me the trail of carnage I’ve must have left in our wake.

David Emily Berkowitz, despite his success as an Andy Kaufman lookalike, was driven to madness by the simple barking of a neighbour’s dog, turning him into the Son of Sam (like how a radioactive spider turned Peter Parker into that other guy).

The “Son of Rob” serial killers I must have created with my up-to-eleven, tight-looped, double-speed renditions of “She’ll Be Comin’ ’round the Mountain” do not bear thinking about. I’ve probably made serial killers who can only kill other killers who also have killed another killer (a double Dexter), so insane are they in their need for revenge upon society.

Why did no one ever bang on the wall before? I’ve been doing this for about twenty years.

I can also do impressions through a whistle to make celebrities sound like Clangers.

I have a longstanding campaign — fought largely in private and only, it must be said, while drunk — to have France renamed “Frants” in accordance with its correct pronunciation.

“I have gone to Frants,” one might write in a note to the tax man or a loved one, “and I’m not coming back.”

As it happens, Samara and I have been hiding in Frants for the past few days. Overwhelmed by the horrors of regular life, we decided to come to Paris for a refreshing break of cafes and art museums (though it was my secret hope to get a few insane Parisians on side for my renaming-of-their-nation project).

The last time I was here, I’d set a “whole” Monday aside to visit the Louvre only to find that (a) the middle-class catchphrase that “a day really isn’t enough” is obviously true, and that (b) the Louvre and every other museum in Paris, is closed on Mondays. I spent my suddenly-free 24 hours abroad, as any devoted world traveller would, watching The Inbetweeners on DVD in the hotel room.

This time, determined not to fail so completely in front of my wife, I checked the opening hours of everything and together we plotted an itinerary in advance. We also became determined not to share the misery of the many sad-looking Japanese people in berets when we landed at Charles de Gaul only to find Paris rather damp and with an eerie, out-of-season feeling.

We chose to look on the bright side of everything being deserted. We benefited from the complete lack of a queue to get into the Musée d’Orsay and we were able to gaze upon the famous sauce for ages without being asked to move-along-please-sir.

In the same museum, we enjoyed a particularly garish collection of furniture and vases that looked like something you’d find at the home of Boycie and Marlene or possibly Saddam Hussein.

At the National Museum of Natural History, we saw a beautiful quail egg (“you can’t have it, Samara”), a pickled chimp ear (“you can’t have it, Robert”) and thousands of animal skeletons. If anything, it was too many animal skeletons.

A placard next to the skeleton of a Striped Hyena had been mistranslated as being from a Stripped Hyena, which was technically correct.

In the Saint-Germain neck of the woods, we enjoyed hot chocolates at the Cafe de Flore, presumably just like the ones Picasso used to drink; we also walked past Les Deux Magots where Sartre and de Bouvoir once chain smoked and where I like to imagine Georges Perec played pinball. The name, of course, means “The Two Maggots.” Everyone knows that.

Itinerary be damned, the highlight of the trip however was the blind luck of spotting a poster on the Metro advertising a Foujita retrospective. We love Foujita and one of our favourite books to leaf through at home is filled with photographs of him looking candidly glamorous with his beautiful outfits and his toothbrush mustache.

The show was at a far-smaller but less sleepy museum called the Maillol and we decided to go there instead of the Louvre. The show had only opened the day before our arrival so it seemed like impossibly good timing. It makes me want to be better at knowing what’s going on in the world as we almost certainly miss obscure little things like this all the time.

The Foujita show was lovingly summoned from private collections all over the world and it felt like an extremely rare opportunity. It included the chance to rifle through see some of his personal possessions. These included, as you might expect, paint brushes and tools but also a pair of mantelpiece dogs. We found it very charming that Foujita owned a pair of mantelpiece dogs. It turned out that they’d been the subjects of one of his paintings, which was also included in the show. This was quite a jarring personal connection and extremely lovely.

On our last night, we scrapped the plans we’d had for a healthy vegan meal when Samara overheard some tourists discussing a Canadian bar in which poutine was being served. Edible poutine is a rare thing to find outside Samara’s hometown of Montreal and we felt that if it could be done anywhere else it would be Paris. So our final night in Frants (if I keep slipping it in like that, it’s bound to catch on) was spent eating a delicious travesty of fries, gravy and cheese curds. Yum Yum.

*

Thanks for reading this rather-more-of-a-travelogue-than-intended diary entry. You can also see our holiday snaps with a little more commentary here. Back to sexy old normal next Saturday.