Saturday 27 June 2015

#110 Goose Green

Up the road from where I live, there is a row of shops. As you walk towards them, you can see the city skyline on your left. The roundabout near the main road has some kind of tree in the middle that looks just like a big pineapple or something.

If you carry on going past the shops, you come to the foot of Peckham Rye Park. There is a large grassy area. One morning, I got up at six thirty and went straight out there. It was foggy and by walking out into the grassy area, I got lost in the fog. Surrounded by nothing but fog, a small circle of grass at my feet.

There are often runners circling the park. Big ones, small ones. The faster runners go to Brockwell. It has a better running route, if you don't mind the hill. There's another park not too far away which is mostly a big hill. I think it has a small playground on the top.

There's a cafe on the way to the station that puts out a different message each day in chalk. They're always about coffee. The cafe often has tradesmen or labourers sitting outside. I wonder if they're having breakfast before work or if they already started their jobs and are on a break.

It would be interesting to have breakfast with colleagues. Perhaps.

Monday 22 June 2015

#109 Hoarding.

The first was when upon a trip to Tesco Metro I discovered it there, a solitary New York cheesecake in it's sturdy glass dish. No more than two or three inches in width and just as deep. Into my basket it went and home for a sampling.

Earlier in the month I'd seen a twin pack of creme brulees advertised in the Coop but looking more closely, mere space on the shelf and other things from the lines on either side as had found their way onto it.

It wasn't long before I was back at the Tesco Metro for more cheesecake. The larger stores didn't have it so there I was. Spoon in pocket. On the way to find the dessert again.

The second was the pack of two chocolate souffles which were on offer in the Coop. More delicate and harder to make than a brownie, they needed placing in the oven and baked for just the right amoubt of time, then cooled. I had them both while reading a book and talking to Marc about them.

By now a small stack had formed. The glass containers shimmering out of the dishwasher. Like the crown jewels I piled them, up in a top cupboard. Up away from the confusion of the shared glasswear. Out of sight. In the dark. I kept them.

The third were the two creme brulees, which eventually came into stock and were good value compared to the souffles. I had to wait for Marc to finish cooking his shepherd's pie just to grill one for five minutes. Then back in the fridge for thirty. The other one didn't get its singeing and was scoffed out of the fridge.

My collection of ramakins was growing.

Saturday 6 June 2015

#108 Waterloo

Joining several other thirty something men of East Dulwich who didn't get laid last night and wanted to feel satisfied and cool, I pulled on my sweat pants, wandered down the road and queued up for a breakfast burrito.

It's lucky I could find my way down the road. This week I was supposed to be meeting someone at the main entrance to Waterloo station and got lost. I think I was at what I thought but had temporarily forgotten was Waterloo East.

I can't see how ruining a bacon sandwich by using the wrong bread and putting hot sauce on it constitutes a business model but I'll probably go there again.

If you can think of a two syllable way of saying sweat pants without using American English and I like it, good for you. Good for me too.

I just downloaded Happn about two weeks ago. When it comes to dating apps, I'm always quite late to jump on the bandwagon. It seems like a decent enough rival to Tinder. The app'll let you know all the people that have it that walk within a certain radius of you. It hopefully means that, you know the cute person on the train once, who smiled back at you but you never talked to? Well maybe now you can message them.

The saddest news this week is that Liz is leaving the house. Being whisked away by some dapper young gent called Tom. Anyway it's all quiet unacceptable. I'm thinking of writing a short book to help me cope called Who's Not Stealing My Cheese Anymore?