The Songstone

One of the joys of living in another place is the local food, so I am amazed when I see other expats purchasing flabby farmed salmon; there are excellent barracuda steaks right next to them  at half the price and  with twice the taste. My barracuda recipe for 2 Two barracuda steaks Yoghurt Mustard (wholegrain works best) Chives, roughly chopped Garlic, finely chopped Salt and pepper Gently fry the steaks (about 5 minutes each side depending on thickness) in olive oil and the garlic. Mix the yoghurt and mustard and add salt and pepper to taste. About 3 minutes before the steaks are done pour the mix over them and let it heat through. Sprinkle the chives over the top and serve on a bed of rice or with mashed potatoes and wilted spinach. Nothing to do with fish, but Old Actress has made a lovely recording of Sappho's Hymn to Aphrodite . I have a vested interest here, as it was my suggestion she do it.

By popular request, Betjeman's Myfanwy :

I have decided to make use of the technology and record myself. Here is Autumn Birds . Thanks to Audacity for the wonderful free software and Tony Northrup for the photo. If people like it I shall do it again. and why's she wrong...

Off again to Mubarak's for dinner, bearing a dozen bottles of the finest Scottish mineral water. He picks me up himself and en route we stop off at an Exchange shop from where he sends money to his Filipina friend in Bahrain. I express surprise that he should have to travel to Bahrain, given the availability of Filipina friends in Doha. We then have a jolly five minutes discussing Arabic equivalents of the phrase 'never shit on your own doorstep'. "We're having fucker for dinner, Mr. Simon." "Pardon?" "Fucker, it's very good. My cousin found a good amount in the desert last year." The light dawns. He is talking about faq'h , the desert truffle, which we had discussed in class a few weeks before, and which grows only where lightning strikes... Voiceless uvular plosive, not velar. We sit in the مجلس sipping the mineral water. Mubarak's son is going to France this morning for a football tournament, and I discuss the delights of...

A certain lady poet has declared that chavs can't vote, because we're too impaired: distracted by the 'Sun', by beer n fights to know the difference 'tween 'trician n 'phile 'Bollocks!' I say, they're paedos, n it's right to treat 'em all as though they're fuckin' vile. We see that votes from crumbly citizens put in the Tories, time and time again, thereby denying us a decent future through education, art, museums, culture. So wild we are, n beastly chippy too, don't give a fuck, n quite determined to crush, to the best of our ability, snaggletoothed legions of senility.

Another oldie, this time from about 2007 and the infamous Paddy Field, Guangzhou: 'Nnnerrr,' said Roger, like old Wilfrid Bramble 'Grammar schools, nnnerrr, hanging. South Africa used to be great, that’s where I would ramble when the ni-nnnerrr were down, in the sixties. Pah! It’s no good today, crime and disorder. Nnnerrr, I was apprenticed, kids now no plan. Even the beer don’t taste like it oughta...' 'G’night,' I said quickly, and fled from the man

Funny thing happened the other day. I was on Skype and the ex was wittering on about something while my son sat there, sighing. Suddenly he put out his hand and clapped it over her mouth. 'Shut up, mummy; my turn now!' She was furious!  'How dare you!' she rasped, while my son blinked, demure and innocent. 'Are you going to do it again?'  He shook his head and she flounced off. 'Now, dad, tell me more about Odysseus.' I had to protest, a little, 'Harry, are you being naughty?' He stuck his tongue into his cheek and grinned, 'Odysseus, dad.' I'll give him one thing. He managed to keep her quiet for five seconds, which is more than I managed to do in five years. Kids these days...