I had a meeting with a client yesterday afternoon. Due to a communications cock up it was 50/50 she’d make it, but mercifully, she did. We sat in the bar in the Queen Elizabeth Hall and I sipped tea whilst she perused some confidential information I am not allowed to let out of my site. I felt like something out of a John Le Carre novel.
Being Valentine’s day there was something rather nice about being on the South Bank away from all the business in the city, the sun was bright, the air was crisp and despite the fact that, in essence, I had my Valentines day (of sorts) the previous evening, I was feeling a little more than adequate, good almost.
I relished the train journey from Waterloo back to the edge of London; I was distracted from reading my book about Japanese women slicing up stiffs in a bath, choosing instead to watch the day dwindle from the carriage window as the world passed by as if in a state of somnabulation, the shards of remaining light cut through the passing cityscape and transformed the criss-crossing rails into liquid mercury, the sky to the west was flooded with a glorious blood-orange hue as the sun descended silently behind the horizon.
When I got home I had a wank. After a bath I set about preparing supper. I knew exactly what I was going to do. I ripped the remaining meat off the chicken carcass I’d enjoyed the previous evening and placed the bones, skin and remaining flesh into a large pot, added some stock, wine, seasoning, parsley and shoved the lot in the oven. The manually recovered meat and drumsticks were consumed in an orgy of grunting and growling, I felt like a fucking Roman Centurion.
I planned on cooking the carcass and all it’s mates for a good few hours, so I slipped off into the lounge with a glass of wine and a fatty and divided my time between the TV and a book. I was feeling perfectly relaxed, indemnified, even.
At about 11pm I checked on the carcass. The bones and flesh had become sticky, slightly charred, and the dark liquor was beginning to thicken. I tested a sample, I’ve rarely tasted anything so rich in flavour and so perfectly balanced. It was sublime. I went to take it out the oven and dropped the whole cunting lot.
Without wishing to go into too much detail, I managed to pull the oven shelf from under the pot that fell backwards into the oven. It took a tad under an hour to clean the whole lot up. I didn’t say anything; I just got down on my hands and knees and got straight to work. I didn’t even mourn the loss of what was to be chicken soup, ‘I can make it again’, I thought, aware that my display of sanguinity is the antonym of my self.
I returned to the lounge, drained my wine, grabbed my book and shuffled off to bed putting the whole matter behind me. That is until I came to write this blog.
What a fucking shithouse.
