The man from 41C stood on the platform, and looked up at the dirty orange LED display. The wind and drizzle made a light haze of colour around the sign, and turned the reading of “18:02 to East Grinstead” resemble something more akin to “18:85 to Bast Grlnstead”. The sky grew darker, and people poured out of the Tube station after the crush on the Victoria Line an hour before. 41C tucked the end of his scarf into the top of his overcoat, and walked slowly up the platform, bundled up as though in the depths of a Midwestern winter, with the top of his head and nose peeking out of the roll top of the woolen sweater. He reaches into his pocket as he pushes the button to open the door, and pulls out his mp3 playing phone^[i], and wiggles the ends of the headphones into his ears as he walks into the carriage. He finds a seat, and kicks up his walking boot covered feet onto the hot air vent under the little table by the window. Bag by his side, he pulls out the newspaper for the day, and a bottle of water.
The train, late as always, pulls out of Victoria, and rumbles through the City and a snail’s pace, heading southwest from Victoria to Croydon and Clapham, passing the towers of Battersea. The working lights shine up the chimney stacks, and makes the dirty white paintwork burn brightly in the early evening rain. The phone bleeps softly in his ears, and he reads a message about runways and sheriffs. The man from 41C sits back and thinks of the girl on Flight AA 3676. He wonders how it’ll go, and where she’ll end up. And where, in a few months, he’ll be. 41C leans back and listens to the clatter of the carriage over the rails, and the rain on the windows. The train rolls on into the evening, and the dirty orange of the station fades away. It’s time for another journey.

1. an iPhone, but it sounds silly in the context of the story [↩]

Cocoa, 80% dark chocolate chips, 60% milk chocolate chips, and two shots of espresso. It all makes for excellent muffins. Makes about 18

The last time I actually baked anything in this kitchen other than bread or pizza, I was no more than twelve years old; a decade ago. For some reason, I’d never felt confident enough in my mother’s kitchen to really experiment. She, The Chef, would watch me working, and while she never once criticized me, I could tell she did not approve of a number of my methods.

At University, I became known as a bit of a cook; I’d be called on by friends, with requests ranging from “how do I make a white sauce? (can I use margarine?)” to “what do I do with romanescu cauliflower?” and “how do I boil eggs properly?” - I was pretty hot shit; easily the most accomplished and confident in the kitchen of all my friends. I remember, too, the very last time I made muffins. I was in Sussex, with my friend Amiee. It was three in the morning, and we made pistachio and white chocoalte muffins, and they were excellent. Perfectly shaped, and a moist little cap on top. The taste was to die for. We’d eaten most of them by the next night.

And that was two years ago. Since then, the muffin tins sat unloved in the back of a counter cupboard. And today, I pulled them out, dusted them off, and found the Mokka. I made muffins for the first time in two years, just throwing what I found into the mix until it all looked right and felt right. And I still coldn’t bring mself to lick the bowl after dishing out the muffin mix into the little greased pots; it’s never felt quite right. Same for cookie dough; I can’t do it. I’ll eat raw fish happily, even undercooked eggs pose no issue, but give me raw dough and I gag. Anyway, in all, it produced 18 healthy sized muffins, of which five have already been eaten by various people. I think they’ve come out okay, but could do with more careful time in the oven.

I only wish I knew where Amiee was. I’d send her some.

Not long ago, the cable went out. That’s not an issue, other than I lost internet access. I still had GPRS and for email, that was okay. No major loss.

Come Friday morning, the cable was back on however. The bright sparks who’d chopped the lines open had been dispatched to some special Hell reserved for such atrocities. I had cable internet. And I had an email. Did I want to spend a week in the middle of nowhere and do some house/cat/chicken/duck sitting. With no DSL. And no night-life. And no caf√©s.

After some moments of contemplation, I emailed back and told them I’d be there at 1pm the next day. And here I’ve been since.

It’s just a case of dropping in, letting the two (three?) readers I have that I’m safe and sound, and in the country side, drinking vast amounts of hot scalding tea, sleeping late, petting kitties, and enjoying fresh eggs for my breakfast.

I’ve also had mounds of fun wielding chain-saws, working hard logging and chopping, cooking glorious things and roasting myself in-front of an open fire/furnace in the front room. I’ll make some bread later, too. Can’t wait to get back into the kitchen and have some fun.

More updates as and when.

We’ll see. Missing you all, kids.

As per the last post, I’ve managed to get out this weekend. It’s proven a welcome relief from the multitude of idiots I seem to have to deal with during the work week, and I need to do it again soon, I think.

The weekend was spent at Tali’s place, springing a surprise on her for her 21st Birthday which by all accounts went off superbly. Depending on who you ask, she was either very sneaky and knew about it all, or honestly thought we’d forgotten about her completely. In reality, she’s quite loved, and I’m sure she’ll remember it for quite some time.

Yesterday, Saturday, was spent just simply relaxing. Spent most of the morning with Ginny helping her with her iBook which is off to Apple on Monday morning for repairs, and then watching The Magic Roundabout which is quite quite brilliant, despite being a film for small kids; in the same way Nightmare Before Christmas is also awesome. After than, lunch, and then, to Wier Wood Sailing Club for a trip on the water. The water level is so low that only about 32% capacity is used at the moment, it’s been a damned dry summer. But all the same, loads of fun.

Kristian also made an appearance later that evening, and finally, I left with Damo at about 1.30am and we headed back to London, where along the way the car was attacked with gravel from some bastard kid on an overpass going towards EG Train Station; whoever they were, they succeeded in not only damaging the paint work to the top of the Modeo, but putting two chips and a huge crack through the laminate of the windscreen, driver’s side.

What a wonderful end to a weekend. And now, in twelve hours I need to be getting up and ready for work. Again.