No small fête

a minor miscellany with two puddings, Brat & Blue & breasts

At work the other day a colleague commended someone’s efforts to resolve a challenging situation, no small fête they said. I knew they meant no small feat, but I’m not interested in correcting people unless the details of it really matter. Besides, I was so charmed by the idea of a small fête. Mentally I began planning one.

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Yesterday was the 53^rd anniversary of Joni Mitchell’s album Blue. I’m asked quite a lot if I’ve tired of Blue after spending so much time with it but I’m grateful to say no. That’s how I know it’s a perfect album. Next month I’ve invited a couple of new friends to come over and sing Joni on the karaoke with me. I tend to avoid this at my parties because I take the singing of Joni seriously, even if I don’t sound very good, and no one likes a karaoke singer who thinks they’re in communion. But the two new friends love Joni as much as I do so we can go to church together.

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I came a cropper again wrt home furnishings. I measured twice and assured myself I’d ordered the correct length curtains but when they arrived, and I hung them, they were 10cm short of the floor. They’re blackout curtains so this rendered them unsuitable for the job. I thought to myself, no probs I’ll send them back but when I took them down the hanging loops were in grime because I’d not thought to clean the curtain pole. Who cleans their curtain pole?! It’s honestly never occurred to me. So I’ve now got to the keep them. For now I’ve hung them in my bedroom where their pearly white colour looks faintly clinical against the sea-green of the walls. Maybe I can dye them? But will the blackout lining take a dye? I’m only lucky that at this point in my cycle I’m not taking this as a catastrophic failing that indicates my unsuitability for life.

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Charli XCX’s song ‘Roll with me’ saved me during lockdown. I’d play it once a day and jump around my flat to it, achieving a kind of ecstatic release. This is what passed for physical activity. I’ve loved her music a long time but never had an album feel for her, I’ve cherry-picked favs. But like everyone else I’m smitten with Brat, though it feels complicated to listen to ‘I think about it all the time’ when I actually have run out of time. It invokes a little grief in me, but I am grateful for a song about approaching potential motherhood with ambivalence. It’s about time.

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I’ve been enjoying watching The Secret Diary of a Call Girl on Netflix as I missed it the first time around. Billie Piper is a sensational actor and while I can’t speak to its authenticity (except for its portrayal of book publishing – can any author imagine turning up at their publisher’s office unannounced or writing a chapter and getting feedback all on the same day?) I appreciate the way the show presents different sexual desires without judgement, it feels compassionate. I’m watching the latest instalment of Bridgerton too. I don’t really love the show – I put it on more as a background thing – but it’s so nice to see a beautiful mid-size woman in sex scenes. God bless Nicola Cloughlan and her magnificent breasts.

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It's occurred to me that now my paperback is out the events I’ve got coming up might be the last ones I do for my book, which feels a bit strange! First up is 4 July at Manningtree Arts with Caleb Azumah Nelson. We’ll be talking about our work, including the essay collection By the River, recently out from Daunt. I know its election night, but I am not looking forward to the election and don’t anticipate the outcome will bring the relief or joy I’d anticipate from the end of a Tory government. So it feels like a treat to be something entirely disconnected from it.

And then on 11 July I’m in conversation with my dear pal Eli Goldstone for The Margate Bookshop. I love Eli and I love Margate. I spent holidays there when I was a kid, back when I lived in Kent and when Dreamland was called Benbon Brothers. Since then Margate has given me many happy swims and meals and drinks on the beach. I can’t wait for this one, if you can, please come!

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Unusually for me I had two meals out this past week. The first was Sunday lunch at the Anchor and Hope with the poet DA Powell who stopped in London on his way to Belfast. For dessert I ordered ‘Buttermilk pudding with apricots’. The pudding was bright white and looked like a large fresh cheese. It was absolutely delicious: fresh, soft and gorgeous against the sweet and mildly acidic apricots. Then on Thursday I had dinner at Rochelle Canteen with hot legend Monica Heisey who I’ve known for a while but never had a pal date with. I ordered ‘Yoghurt pudding with rhubarb’ which was more panna cotta-like, creamy and ideal with the syrupy and sour rhubarb. If I have a type, its these puddings.

Two really quite breast-coded puddings