Last night I cooked a roast chicken on a borrowed webber. I haven't cooked a chook in a year and a half and it made me feel good.
A man of simple pleasures? Undoubtably. But when you can spring a meal and invite people round at no notice and they stay 'til midnight; and the guy who was only 'dropping by' ends up staying for dinner; and some other people pop unexpectedly; well, it is pretty much what life is all about.
And that was just a chook.
Then this morning I sat in the sun, in my shorts (cut off black army pants of doom, of course), drinking tea and reading the correspondence on the recent Birmingham article in The Quarterly; and thinking how much like Fyodor was Birmingham's response of equal measures of condescension, invective, artful insult and counter-fact.
And then there are the more complicated and extravagant dreams such as:
"I want to learn Spanish too. And then go to Spain. And eat paella and drink wine until the wee hours of the morning, then pass out in the gutter in front of the Gaudi musem."
What a great dream!
Go to, anonymous person who won't be named, and make it so.
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