IT'S about a month until Christmas. Joy of joys. The kids will be with their mum. And I have chosen to spend this Christmas Day on my own. I could go home to Glasgow and cook for my folks and act like the prodigal son returning. Instead I wish to explore the experience of spending the day with myself.
There will be some flesh roasting in my oven, Bing Crosby and Davie Bowie singing "parup-apum-pum" on the radio, The Great Escape on the TV
no doubt, followed by the brilliant Only Fools And Horses; and I will eat a Christmas pudding for one, with a
wee dod of brandy butter.
I have never been anywhere but in the swim with my family for Christmas. Even on those holidays in India when the day itself felt like any normal day, there was no shortage of uncles, aunts and cousins around to keep one entertained. Being away from the western world also removes one from the context of Christmas. I remember being in Delhi on December 25 a few years back and seeing a lone figure dressed as Santa, complete with red suit, fake stomach and white beard. He had a hand bell and was wandering around the city centre shouting "ho ho ho" to bemused Indian shoppers. I think the incongruity was as much about the fact that the sun was shining and it was in the mid-30s Celsius as the fact that he was alone in his endeavours.
And in many ways I think I might know how that Delhi Santa felt this year. While he was ploughing a lone furrow in Delhi, I'll be doing the same in London. And strangely, while life is seldom ideal, I will be looking forward to my day. Maybe I should get a hand bell?
A rather rash move in the pharmacyI woke up on Wednesday morning with some insect bites on the back of my knees. They swelled up as if mosquitoes had ravaged me all night long. At first it seemed a tad peculiar that there would be mosquitoes in London in mid November. By Thursday lunchtime the pain was irritating in the extreme. So I paid a visit to my local pharmacist for advice and/or an ointment. To my surprise he asked to look at my legs to ascertain the type of bite and the severity, in order that he might dispense the correct medication. Okay, I said and dropped my trousers there and then. Clearly that was not what he was expecting since we were in the middle of the shop. He hurriedly sold me some Piriton and sent me on my way, trousers up of course...
The night Ricky turned the pub BlueLast week I wrote about the lovely Lorraine McIntosh from Deacon Blue. It sparked a memory in an old school friend of mine who now lives in Donegal. Apparently Lorraine's family hail from Donegal.
One night, some years ago when the band had only just hit the big time, Lorraine and Ricky Ross, right, found themselves in a famous music pub in the county. My Glaswegian school-friend Jackie, a singer songwriter herself, was there at the bar enjoying the craic.
The local singer finished his set and came to sit down. Ricky Ross apparently stepped up to the mic and started singing the anthemic 'Dignity'. It was going down a storm.
One of the regulars who was propping up the bar next to Jackie leaned over and said to her: "My, he sounds awfully like the lead singer from that band Deacon Blue."
Jackie informed the rather worse for wear punter that the singer was in fact the self same Ricky Ross, front man for none other than Deacon Blue.
The regular laughed a Guinness-infused laugh. "Sure, what would Ricky Ross be doing singing in a pub in Donegal?"
It's hard cheese if my dinner guests were expecting dessert
It was a radical step to take, but sometimes one has to be radical. I risked everything in the hope that ignominy would not follow. I followed my heart and hoped that those around me might appreciate the extraordinary risk I was taking. I followed the first two courses with cheese. I served no pudding. Dessert was a desert.
I realised that this was the sort of dinner party behaviour that topples regimes, the sort of anarchy that brings potential societal disaster. But I'm afraid I am not a fan of sweet things. Plain and simple. It was a Sunday night; a school night. Therefore the last thing I wanted to do was to fill my guests with three complete courses. The crab salad was a light opening salvo across their taste buds followed by the oxtail broth atop which was placed a fillet of herb-encrusted and roasted coley. (How often does one get to cook something that is a homonym of one's surname?). The last thing I wanted to do was to spoil the balance with a big stodgy pudding. So an array of cheeses was served. Growing up there were only two types of cheese in the house:
1)The ubiquitous Dairylea cheese triangle, evidence of how cheese can be processed, packed and marketed with great success.
2) Cheddar; regular orange Scottish cheddar. Brilliant when served between two doorsteps of a plain loaf, a treat reserved for my elder brother Raj.
That was the extent of my cheese experience. Now, however, I embrace the world of all things lactose. I am seldom happier than when I serve the ultimate middle-class after-meal treat: a cheese board. When I was young, we seldom had two courses; pudding was an occasional but much-loved treat. Perhaps I re-engage with my immigrant class roots by eschewing dessert.
To compensate those who craved a little something sweet, a handful of grapes, figs and dates were made available; all good accompaniments to cheese. And bread was served – not an oatcake in sight. And I have to say I suffered very little disquiet from my guests. Perhaps a pudding-free existence is the way forward in life.
The full article contains 1040 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
