Nothing in particular....

"Three Signals". Gouache, 2010.


…so bloody cold and dark tonight – the street empty of souls.

The Seven Stars was like a waiting room, a waiting room for what or for where? Were these expressionless, dun coloured people on their way to the “other side”? Why do they bring their small dogs with them?

Bad news is bad news. Interrupted by Bob the landlord in my vacant minded survey of the optics, my choice was fall-stalled by the information that “all wines are three pounds tonight. It’s our anniversary. We have been here a year now.” “Oh right” I said. Thinking that white wine might be better with the fish and chips I was hoping to eat, I asked for one that they had just run out of. I had to have the Chardonnay, which I knew to be horrid. It was worse than I remembered, and, it cost me three pounds! I hate myself for being “bounced” into things don’t you?

I shall gloss over the fish and chips, except to say that I did eat all the chips. Oh, and I did wonder about the segments of dead fish inside their heavy casing of “crumb”. I though about them being dragged up from under the dark waves. Did they lead a blameless life down there?

Do you know why tartar sauce is called tartar sauce? It’s a long and tortuous route from the steppes to that white acidic gloop in a sachet. I believe that the Tartars, a nomadic breed, having little time to prepare food before a raid, would put meat under their saddle, where the pounding it got during a ride across the tundra, along with the horse sweat, made it tender enough to eat without a cooking fire, nice. The French of course turned that into “cusine”, by mincing some fillet of beef and serving it raw with finely chopped shallot, pickled cucumber, capers, parsley, and a raw egg yolk – steak tartar!. Somehow I don’t think the Tartars ever ate tartar sauce. I once prepared that dish for a couple dining in a hotel where I worked as “second chef”. It was sent back to the kitchen because it was “raw”, so the number one chef and I enjoyed it. Come to think of it, that’s the only time I have eaten it.

Smudge is so mysterious, not a bit like Fred, the younger tabby. He tormented my studio door at tea-time, until I rose from my siesta about seven o’clock to feed them both, then he eyed me with large, round, yellow eyes, staring out from his black furriness, until I opened the door for him to trot out into the night......... I love that cat!

Pip, pip,

The Leg.