What heresy is this? I won’t have it. Surely if whatever supreme being’s RSS feed (Godcast?) you may or may not subscribe to had meant us to worry about such things, s/he/it would have sent some form of messiah to warn us all of the error of our ways, spreading their gospel via some populist broadcasting medium like, say, reality TV.
Oh wait. Hang on a minute…
They’re just trying to make me look bad. No sooner does one cook up (well, half bake anyway) a thesis about England’s apparent inability to play one-day cricket, and their perverse determination to shorten the game into a format that they demonstrably cannot understand, than they go and win a game. After having their innings shortened to, yes, 20 overs. Sheesh. Still, well played Mr Strauss. And well played again Mssrs Duckworth and Lewis 
I hesitated to tag this post with ‘the other beautiful game’, and but for Chris Gayle I wouldn’t have. I got home from work today in time, I had forlornly hoped, to see the second half of today’s one-day international between West Indies and England. I knew this was going to be unlikely when I looked at the ‘score‘ before leaving work. It has been noted in these pages before that England seem consumed by a desire to shorten the one-day game to a maximum of 40 overs. However, given their apparent distaste for the 20Twenty game, it seems beyond reason that they should take this campaign to such austere extremes. Maybe it’s the straitened times we live in, deflation and all that. Certainly their performances have one thing in common with the recession: increasing levels of poverty.
Anyone who tells you that things can only get better clearly doesn’t watch England play one-day cricket, and is not to be trusted.
Ashes, anyone?
If things had worked out differently – say I didn’t have to pay Corporation Tax, for example – then today would have been the day when I’d have been able to finish work and prepare to light out for the territories. As it is, while the counter (which I must delete, but was interested to see would happen to it – it tells me how late I am, it seems…) ticks down to zero days remaining, in reality I have another year to go before I can, erm, go. Well, that’s not quite true of course. If all goes to plan, or The Plan 2.0™ as I might call it, then I’ll be able to stop working at the end of this year (assuming I’m working for the rest of this year), winter in India (I like the sound of that – I’ll say it again – winter in India…), then come back and spend a month sorting domestic arrangements before heading west. Frankly the notion of spending the month of January on a beach in Goa instead of freezing on a dark, early morning station platform in Scotland appeals more than you can possibly know.
I’m tired. I’m always tired these days. By Friday my body aches. And I’m working again tomorrow. I need a rest. I’d be a liar if I said I hadn’t considered the idea of carrying on until I could retire for good (I worked it out – another 5-7 years…) but I don’t think I could possibly do any more after the end of this year, not even if you paid me. I am tired. Oh I am weary. I could sleep for a thousand years. Hey, there might be a song in there somewhere you know. But yes, I need to take a break – and this might sound odd – before the serious business of travelling begins. I am expecting that to be fun, but I’m not necessarily expecting it to be easy all the time. Certainly I won’t be idle. To begin with, I think it’ll take a bit of getting used to as a lifestyle. But hey, I’ll give it my best shot. For you guys 
So – nine months to go (fingers crossed) before my, umm, deliverance. Onward, ever onward.
It’s fair to say I’m not the cook I once was. Some would say I wasn’t then, either, but then they never got invited round for dinner. So there. Anyway, this morning I was seized by the urge to cook myself a roast beef sunday lunch. This is something I used to do regularly when I was a kid, but like so many things over the years, the habit died away. My yorkshire puddings were once the stuff of legend, and my roast potatoes were ever things of beauty, even if I say so myself. Now, I’ve still got the roast potato knack, as evinced by christmas dinner, but I haven’t made yorkshire pudding in decades. Time to bite the bullet, then. As it were.
I think I’ve been encouraged by the venison experience. Beef is a little more fatty than venison but is somewhat less, erm, deer. Ahem. It is, of course, pretty simple to cook, and now I wonder what I was worried about. A lack of confidence more than anything I think. My gravy still isn’t the best, it never was, but one can always improve, n’est pas? The yorkies came out well enough, though, especially for a first effort in so long. Behold, today’s lunch:
washed down with a very nice bottle of Languedoc from my ever-lovely local vintner, Mr Cornelius, who now opens on sundays, which is very civilised of him.
“But Ralph”, I hear you cry, “have you no qualms about the cooking of your beefy brethren?” Not so, dear reader, not so. For you see we llamas are Camelidae, rather than Bovine. So we can munch beefs quite happily, thank you. Your concern is appreciated, however – we are well known for our delicate temperament.
A quick mention is due to the England women’s cricket team, who last night won the ICC women’s one-day world cup. Well played, indeed, even if I was too tired to stay awake for the batting.
Another quick mention for the rather spectacular week enjoyed by the capricious liverpool fc, beating Real 4-0 in the home leg of the CL, then coming from one down to beat Man U 1-4 away, and today beating Villa 5-0 at home. Nice, especially after Fulham’s performance yesterday. The PL title is still out of our hands, but this sort of thing is most enjoyable
Well now. I got home from a very yawny tunnel just in time to watch england defend 270 in the first one day international in the windies. And a fine game it was, pitching and yawing like a Carib brigantine. We were ahead. Then chanderpaul took to harmy and the barmy army went calmy. And then WI needed 28 off 21 balls…and they were offered the light…and they came off. Except – the WI management (hello, John Dyson), waving their players off the pitch, clutching their Duckworth-Lewis sheets, clearly couldn’t see straight in the gathering gloom, because at that point england were 1 run ahead. One run ahead of par. Strauss could barely contain his laughter, and neither could I.
In the many minutes that ensued while various parties argued over the score, during which time three overs could have been bowled twice, it got darker and darker. There was no prospect of going back out. And, erm, thus it was that england won their first international cricket game of the winter. There was much gnashing of teeth in the WI dressing room afterwards, but, well, just for denying the sell-out crowd a fine finish – fuck them. Talk about taking the spirit of the game, stuffing it into a hessian sack, weighing it down with rocks and chucking it in the river, and then, if you’ll pardon the mixed metaphor, realising too late that you’d not got into the wooden rabbit. Blimey.
As always, there’s always someone more stupid than yourself. The trick is to find them, point at them, and laugh out loud. WI management – you’re it. LOLTARDZ.
Irony-watch – the stadium has floodlights.
I realised last night that I haven’t said anything about books for a while, and since I also seem not to have said enough (debatable, I know) about anything for a while, I thought I’d catch up.
I’ve just finished the monster that is Shantaram, having been lent a copy by Penny, Imogen’s mum. Im raved about it and is usually right about most things, and I’d been meaning to read it since she first mentioned it to me in India. At 920-odd pages it’s the sort of thing I’d probably have avoided in my youth, just as I did Middlemarch. Not many books need to be this long, and this one, frankly, is no exception. I enjoyed it, it was fun, although obviously less than a laugh-riot in certain places. That’s no excuse for what felt like a lack of editorial control, though. Then again, given the impression of the man that one gets, would you tell him he had to cut 250 pages? Thought not. Nor would I. If, as I understand to be the case, they’re going to film this, you’d better bring plenty of popcorn.
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This evening after work I peered out of the tunnel long enough to pay a brief visit to my solicitor. There, in a quiet, well-lit room, on a large table, she showed me the three inch-thick pile of documents that constituted my ownership of this flat. Actually, most of even that was superfluous, strictly speaking. The one thing that really mattered was the thin, yellow-covered A4 Register of Title, no more than ten pages long, that had about three very very long sentences in it, along with an address, my name and next to it, an important word that defines my legal relationship to this place: Proprietor.
She was right: it isn’t much to look at. Then again so was I: it depends very much on one’s point of view. Gone, lost many years ago unfortunately, was the possibly slightly more characterful and interesting, but long since redundant, original Title Deed. This would have shown an unbroken record of owners – the flat’s genealogy, if you like – stretching back all the way to that first transfer of ownership in 1886. Now, a new document is prepared on each sale and the previous one is annulled. There were fragments of this history, mainly from the records of Burdens – those shared obligations upon occupants of feudal dwellings such as these. There were plenty of supporting documents that would prove expedient in the event of a sale, that give the flat more context within its existence as part of the whole building. A clean, simple Ordnance Survey map. Much of it I could have taken away, but it seemed sensible to leave it in one bundle, bound with a rubber band and hidden in the safe. A home from home for my home, as it were.
We probably spent as much time talking about what I should do when I come to rent the place out as anything else. My lovely solicitor, Robyn, even recommended a decorator for me, and promised to email me the names of the better letting agents. In many practical ways it was a useful visit. It also helped put the whole thing behind me, I think (good, I hear you say – now maybe he’ll stop banging on about it…), in the sense that having seen the evidence, I can believe it’s really mine, and file it away mentally. There’s nothing more to be done.
On the way home I mused to myself that this is typically me – ever a llama of little faith, I seem to have trouble believing in things. Once I’ve had it proven to me, of course, there’s nothing much to believe in anyway: it’s just there. On to the next thing. Don’t get me wrong – I’m happy about the flat, of course. I’m happy, too, to have the whole thing done and neatly tucked away – it frees up some mental space. I just wonder sometimes whether it’s a bit reductionist. Or maybe that’s just the way of things: that whatever I learn, whatever I do, it just informs me how much else there is left to learn and to do.
I could tell you about the film but in truth you’ve probably either already seen it or know quite enough about it. It is a great watch – funny, emotive, appalling, comic, tragic, heartwarming – all these things, and wonderfully shot and scored, much like some of the characters, as it goes.
But the real treat was the cinema itself, a Sue-engineered surprise. I’d never been to the dominion down in Morningside until last Sunday afternoon and, unless you’ve been there too, you won’t know what I mean. If you have, then I don’t need to tell you. All I’ll say is go and treat yourself to seeing a film there, and when you have, you’ll know what I mean. It was an unabashed pleasure, the more so after a tedious morning spent at work.
All cinemas should be like this. My living room should be like this.
The other week I finally received a letter from my solicitor telling me that the deeds to my flat had arrived back from the registrar and were now sitting safely in her, erm, safe. Now, six months after I finished paying for it, I officially own my own home. And I have proof.
I’ve arranged to go and see the proof, just to have it sink in properly, I hope. Apparently they’re not much to look at but that, I suspect, depends very much on your point of view. Ever one of little faith, it will be good for me to see the evidence of what I spent all that time saving for. I’ll let you know how they look
