I had a most enjoyable day pottering about in London in the sort of way that tourists and visitors are in the right psychological place for, but those of us who live here so rarely give ourselves permission to be. It left me thinking that I really should make better use of my own city. In my view, this is exactly what time off work is for, rather than going to abroad on holiday (aka – as the Guardian so wisely suggested – an opportunity to maximise the number of likes inspired by one’s performance on social media). But even so, it took a few days’ leave and catching up on my chores, before I felt able to have a genuine day off gratify my curiosity about the new Design Museum and the Chelsea Physic Garden (two places that I had long wanted to visit).
It was also the day of the Parsons Green station bomb. It should not need saying that this did not put me off (once I had ascertained that the circle line was still in operation). Apart from relief that nobody had died, my main preoccupation was whether there was an apostrophe in the name of the station. You let the terrorists win as soon as you end up letting the fear take over; living one’s life in a secure bunker is neither possible nor attractive. So it’s necessary just to get on with things even if it means pretending to oneself that the numpties in Parliament – yes those numpties that are going to commit economic cultural and constitutional suicide in the form of brexit – have this under control.
The Design Museum was really rather a disappointment, although, I suppose, it disappointed in a way that was rather revealing about our contradictory thoughts on design. I guess this is inevitable with such a slippery (if not downright incoherent) concept. For design seems to embrace everything from type face to hoovers, from IT hardware to dinner plates, and to aspire to be simultaneously effective and beautiful, hand-crafted and a major industry, contemporary and timeless, elegantly restrained, and distinctively individual.
As a building, the Museum (apparently the former Commonwealth Institute) was the epitome of modern magnolia minimalism; restrained, tasteful and expensive. I have seen more distinctive chain hotel lobbies. This was all a very conventional mononchrome (literally) vision of design: sensuality, individuality, daring and playfulness were all missing. It was as daunting as a library – with a thousand beautifully coiffed, expensively bespectacled viragones waiting to hiss HUSH – or a carpet so noise-absorbingly thick that you felt you had no right to tread on it. I ignored the special exhibitions – each £18 per ticket – and contented myself with the free stuff.
I started in their shop, which used to contain some interesting stuff that was perfect for Christmas presents, when it resided in Butler’s Wharf. It now looked like an inferior version of the David Mellor shop, with hardly anything that looked as though it hadn’t been personally blessed by Sir Thomas Conran. It was all rather bland, with the exclusiveness that comes from prohibitive price tags: everything seemed to be the kind of thing that you would buy to show off your taste or the size of your bank balance. William Morris would have wept. Design does not have to be a spineless, unthinking endorsement of capitalism. This stuff was neither drop dead gorgeous, nor idiosyncratic, nor even very artisanal. Indeed hard to distinguish from high end Habitat.
The shop still sold the ridiculous – and, so I’m told, impracticable – Philippe Stark lemon squeezer. – albeit on inaccessible top shelves like porn mags in a newsagent – which very much suggests that world of design does not move on very fast grooves. (I guess they are too expensive to sell off cheap, which would, in any case, rather give the game away.) And the stuff on sale did all look very homogenous – as though all of the designers were following the same conventions – whilst being in deep denial about its conventionality, rather like those maverick cops in Hollywood films, who – surprise, surprise – don’t do things by the rule book, have issues with authority, a difficult relationship with their partner, and an attic full of traumatised psychological baggage. The characters may not be box tickers but the script-writers certainly are.
I guess that it’s all about who the design is for. If it’s the manufacturer’s convenience or the the seller’s profit margins, then the result is unlikely to end up in a design museum. But if it’s the designer’s quest for perfection or the user’s delight – form follows function but still has to be beautiful in its own right – then maybe the intention is at least in the right place. Not that it takes much to corrupt a designer’s innocence. Arguably, Apple have not been the same, since they abandoned their beautiful intuitive perfection for an ongoing continuous project development and dedication to maximising profit that has disappointed many of their dedicated users, myself included. I still love my Joseph cooking timer, where the time remaining is shown in a different colour, making it simultaneously gorgeous and very usable. But they don’t seem to be on sale any more.
Upstairs in the free galleries there seemed some evidence that there is more to design than expensive knick knacks. I saw good public design, for example, although the choice of the logo for the London Underground was not exactly adventurous, and had been nominated by the visitors to the gallery. There were also some interesting corpses that no longer had a use but had been wonderful in their time: typewriters and early computers looking very passé now, although beautiful and desirable in their time, like 80 year old blondes. There were also hints – but never any more than hints – about the sheer hard work involved in designing something and the hard graft of craft. But the overall effect of this blandness, was to leave me sympathising with the hipsters – who, I think, would also have hated this place – which is an unusual place for me to be.
A couple of final gripes: the loos were singularly unimpressive – although I took a certain gleeful pleasure in the way they recognised the game was up where stylish but unintelligible sinks and taps were concerned. They actually resorted to helpful words like soap and water and hot air to indicate which buttons to press – in a suitably modish sans serif typeface, naturally.
I was sad to see styrofoam cups in the cafe. I guess if the cups and saucers had been really good, people would never stop nicking them. Maybe if I had actually had one of their exorbitant flat whites, I would have discovered that even styrofoam cups can be perfectly designed instead of being an inadequate substitute for china, but I rather doubt it.
Then it was off to the Chelsea Physic Garden, a little known jewel that is a long walk/short bus ride down to the river from the Royal Court Theatre. It was all very herbaceous border – looking disorganised, haphazard and random in a way that can only be achieved with phenomenal effort and planning. Design that is designed not to look like it has been designed.
It may have been Paradise for horticultural trainspotters, but it was rather intimidating for the rest of us. There was a sense of being overwhelmed by too much detail. Everything was labelled and there was lots of information. Things were lumped into all sorts of arbitrary categories; a salvia walk; poison plants; dyes; healing; or under arbitrary anglocentric geographical categories, with Africa and China lumped together, and Europe and America each having their own mini garden.
It was easier just to wander about aimlessly. I was very much encouraged to go on one of the guided tours, but this was scary as it would have meant being lectured to by one of the very formidable tour guides, who would have bent over backwards to be welcoming and informative, but would have still had me wanting to run away after ten minutes (“What was it that made you think that that might be a fuschia?”). There were also lots of efficient volunteers ferociously gardening, and clearly rather annoyed at the paying visitors for disturbing them.
I made myself sit down on a seat and contemplate a little, but the tranquility was disrupted by astonishingly noisy airplanes – a west London problem I guess – and any sense of calm eluded me. The shop was disappointing – lots of stuff that every garden centre in the world seems to sell, but hardly any plants for sale, when I had been hoping for some suitably recondite herbs, hyssop and comfrey perhaps. But then I guess it was the wrong time of year, as summer has now definitely commenced the sad slide into autumn.
Then, it was a trip to John Lewis to buy a new ipad cover, as I’d managed to break my last one. It was a strange and complicated process: Peter Jones, my first port of call, where I bought the original, told me that they no longer stocked them for my now (barely a year) out of date ipad, as did the Apple Store, although both held out hopes of something on their websites. However, I eventually got one at John Lewis. I also bumped into a former colleague there – it’s so lovely to have that feeling that London is still a village – particularly as I’d also bumped into a mate I used to sing with on Kensington High St.
I also shopped for birthday cards – like buses, birthdays all seem to come at once – and some crystallised ginger and pistachios. These were rather needed after cooking the following, both of which are now favourite recipes.
Spicy tamarind Biscuits
Dan Leppard. Very good. They go extremely well with lemon posset.
125g softened butter
250g caster sugar
25 g tamarind concentrate – or more if you prefer
3 teaspoons ground ginger
1 medium egg
2 teaspoons garam masala or mixed spice
200g chopped glacé ginger
250 g plain flour
3/4 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
Beat butter, sugar, tamarind and egg until smooth.
Beat in spices and glacé ginger.
Stir in the flour and bicarb evenly.
Wrap in greaseproof paper, and store in fridge until needed (for up to a week).
Scoop small balls from the mixture the size of a small unshelled walnut.
Roll in your hands til smooth.
Place on greaseproof paper 5 cm apart.
Bake in oven preheated to 170C for about 15 mins.
Leave to cool on paper.
Pomegranate and pistachio meringues
Thomasina Miers – and an absolute classic. Makes meringues really interesting.
4 egg whites
210g caster sugar preferably golden
3 tbspoons of pomegranate molasses
60g pistachios
1 large pomegranate
400ml double cream
Preheat oven to 100C. Line two baking trays with baking parchment.
In a clean bowl, whisk egg whites with an electric whisk, till you have stiff peaks.
Whisk in sugar little by little, followed by half the pomegranate molasses and a pinch of salt, until the whites are shiny, stiff and voluminous.
Put spoonfuls of the meringue onto the baking sheet. Put the pistachios in a bag and crush with a rolling pin, or finely chop them. Dust the meringues with the pistachios. (You can reserve some for a final garnish.)Bake for 2-3 hours until they are firm and come away easily. Turn off oven and leave the peeled merginues to cool inside with the door ajar.
Extract the seeds from the pomegranate, discarding the shell and the pith. Blitz half in a mini blender and sieve them.
Softly whip cream and stir in the rest of the molasses. It may not need whipping at all.
Just before serving, add half the pomegranate seeds to the cream, and sandwich the meringues together. Toss over remaining seeds and pistachios and splash with the juice.
I’m also sticking this down, which is from the Guardian, courtesy of Anna Jones, as I tried it recently to use up ingredients that had been languishing in the fridge a bit too long.
Anna Jones’s vegetarian spiced eggs
I used frozen sweet corn, added tinned cannellini beans and didn’t bother with the eggs.
4 soft boiled eggs peeled ( optional)
Olive oil
2 teaspoons cumin seeds
1 tablespoon black mustard seeds
2 teaspoons Fennell seeds
1 onion peeled and roughly chopped
A piece of ginger chopped
2 red chillies finely sliced and deseeded
Sweet corn (tinned or frozen) or peas and/or tinned beans or chickpeas
1 heaped teaspoon turmeric
A pinch of cinnamon
3 tablespoons coconut cream
A tin of tomatoes
2 lemons
Fresh coriander
Heat a splash of oil in a large pan, and add cumin and mustard seeds.
When they pop, lower the heat and add the fennel seeds and onion.
Fry til soft and sweet (at least 8 mins).
Add ginger and chillis and cook for 5 mins.
Stir in turmeric, cinnamon, coconut cream and tomatoes. Cook for ten mins.
Add eggs to warm through.
Squeeze over the juice of a lemon and garnish with chilli and coriander.
Then it was off to Borough Market to buy a birthday present. Borough Market is, perhaps, not quite as exciting as it used to be, but still fun. It was wonderful getting there late on a weekday afternoon, when it wasn’t impossibly busy but still open (5pm on a Friday is also perfect for this). It was possible to have ostrich or kangaroo or even crocodile burgers. Grouse, widgeon and goat were all on sale, as well as purple cauliflower, globe artichokes, and samphire.
I picked up a corcicle – a wonderful gadget that keeps your water cold, and your green credibility intact, as you don’t need to keep buying water in plastic bottles. It’s sort of like a miniature flask, but a lot more cool. It would also provide a nicely portable gin and tonic – or some hot soup in cooler weather. A perfect birthday present I reckon.
The really wonderful stall for me was the spice one, where kaffir lime leaves and curry leaves, and different blends of sumac and zatar were available, along with dried lemon grass, turmeric root, and more kinds of chilli – whether dried or ground – than I knew existed. In the end, I was very restrained and only got some black mustard seeds – which seem to be hard to find in my part of south east London – and some raspberry powder. Alas, I forgot fennel seeds. Fruit powders, according to the recipe books, seem to be the next ‘thing’, and provide hugely concentrated flavour. It’s certainly the sort of place where it’s easy to go mad and discover that you are going to be charged twenty three pounds fifty, as happened to the very keen American in front of me in the queue. Indeed, I had a downmarket version of this experience when I popped into Holland and Barrett, where I was relieved of over a tenner for some pistachios and crystallised ginger!
It was sad to see that even the admirable Konditor and Cook has gone down the way of having plastic cutlery and styrofoam. The lowering effect of these on the quality of one’s drinking experience (to use a bit of PR speak) and overall spirits is astonishing. Oddly, I was still given a proper white china plate for my (delicious) carrot citrus cake, which came with fabulous icing
– and superb hot chocolate that would have been even better in the right vessel. This was not fake artisanal but the real deal – so very different from the vile coffee place at Kings Cross that manages to be inferior to Pret A Manger on every level whilst simultaneously pretending to be a cut above a mere chain.
And after all that frantic shopping, it was time to head off to the Park Theatre, a wonderfully civilised place that does splendid and rather original theatre along with nice food and wine. It’s so civilised that people come just for the food and free wifi, although we were very much there for the play.
This was the first outing for the original uncensored version of Joe Orton’s Loot, which I last saw (censored) in 1983 (although you wouldn’t’ve known it), with Leonard Rossiter as Inspector Truscott, who brought a lethal calm to the part which was done this time with a demented and choleric force that was extremely scary as well as ridiculous. It’s fascinating how soon something scandalous – with someone hiding the proceeds from a bank robbery in his mother’s coffin and having to put the corpse in a cupboard, and then swap them about – turns into something that coach parties from the Home Counties will flock to because it has that man from the Cinzano adverts in it. I remember then being very shocked that the audience wasn’t more shocked. It was rather startling to think that passages had been struck out by the arbitrary blue pencil of a court functionary in black knickerbockers, and that this piece was a whole 50 years old.
And meanwhile we sleepwalk into Brexit and will wake up to discover that the Tories have got rid of all our human rights, while poverty increases and we discover that we are a third world country but with even more corruption and human rights abuses. It will make the era of Loot seem like the Enlightenment by comparison. Such a shame that Orton, with his sharp ear for the absurdity of authority figures trying to impose their will on the rest of us, won’t be there to capture it for us. Although, of course, if he were still alive today, he’d no doubt be a venomous dyspeptic old queen writing articles for the Daily Telegraph on why Brexit is a good thing and complaining that decriminalising sex between men and letting them get married has taken all the fun out of it.
This sick subversive shocker ended up providing a thoroughly jolly evening. Which I suppose is progress of a kindI had a most enjoyable day pottering about in London in the sort of way that tourists and visitors are in the right psychological place for, but those of us who live here so rarely give ourselves permission to be. It left me thinking that I really should make better use of my own city. In my view, this is exactly what time off work is for, rather than going to abroad on holiday (aka – as the Guardian so wisely suggested – an opportunity to maximise the number of likes inspired by one’s performance on social media). But even so, it took a few days’ leave and catching up on my chores, before I felt able to have a genuine day off gratify my curiosity about the new Design Museum and the Chelsea Physic Garden (two places that I had long wanted to visit).
It was also the day of the Parsons Green station bomb. It should not need saying that this did not put me off (once I had ascertained that the circle line was still in operation). Apart from relief that nobody had died, my main preoccupation was whether there was an apostrophe in the name of the station. You let the terrorists win as soon as you end up letting the fear take over; living one’s life in a secure bunker is neither possible nor attractive. So it’s necessary just to get on with things even if it means pretending to oneself that the numpties in Parliament – yes those numpties that are going to commit economic cultural and constitutional suicide in the form of brexit – have this under control.
The Design Museum was really rather a disappointment, although, I suppose, it disappointed in a way that was rather revealing about our contradictory thoughts on design. I guess this is inevitable with such a slippery (if not downright incoherent) concept. For design seems to embrace everything from type face to hoovers, from IT hardware to dinner plates, and to aspire to be simultaneously effective and beautiful, hand-crafted and a major industry, contemporary and timeless, elegantly restrained, and distinctively individual.
As a building, the Museum (apparently the former Commonwealth Institute) was the epitome of modern magnolia minimalism; restrained, tasteful and expensive. I have seen more distinctive chain hotel lobbies. This was all a very conventional mononchrome (literally) vision of design: sensuality, individuality, daring and playfulness were all missing. It was as daunting as a library – with a thousand beautifully coiffed, expensively bespectacled viragones waiting to hiss HUSH – or a carpet so noise-absorbingly thick that you felt you had no right to tread on it. I ignored the special exhibitions – each £18 per ticket – and contented myself with the free stuff.
I started in their shop, which used to contain some interesting stuff that was perfect for Christmas presents, when it resided in Butler’s Wharf. It now looked like an inferior version of the David Mellor shop, with hardly anything that looked as though it hadn’t been personally blessed by Sir Thomas Conran. It was all rather bland, with the exclusiveness that comes from prohibitive price tags: everything seemed to be the kind of thing that you would buy to show off your taste or the size of your bank balance. William Morris would have wept. Design does not have to be a spineless, unthinking endorsement of capitalism. This stuff was neither drop dead gorgeous, nor idiosyncratic, nor even very artisanal. Indeed hard to distinguish from high end Habitat.
The shop still sold the ridiculous – and, so I’m told, impracticable – Philippe Stark lemon squeezer. – albeit on inaccessible top shelves like porn mags in a newsagent – which very much suggests that world of design does not move on very fast grooves. (I guess they are too expensive to sell off cheap, which would, in any case, rather give the game away.) And the stuff on sale did all look very homogenous – as though all of the designers were following the same conventions – whilst being in deep denial about its conventionality, rather like those maverick cops in Hollywood films, who – surprise, surprise – don’t do things by the rule book, have issues with authority, a difficult relationship with their partner, and an attic full of traumatised psychological baggage. The characters may not be box tickers but the script-writers certainly are.
I guess that it’s all about who the design is for. If it’s the manufacturer’s convenience or the the seller’s profit margins, then the result is unlikely to end up in a design museum. But if it’s the designer’s quest for perfection or the user’s delight – form follows function but still has to be beautiful in its own right – then maybe the intention is at least in the right place. Not that it takes much to corrupt a designer’s innocence. Arguably, Apple have not been the same, since they abandoned their beautiful intuitive perfection for an ongoing continuous project development and dedication to maximising profit that has disappointed many of their dedicated users, myself included. I still love my Joseph cooking timer, where the time remaining is shown in a different colour, making it simultaneously gorgeous and very usable. But they don’t seem to be on sale any more.
Upstairs in the free galleries there seemed some evidence that there is more to design than expensive knick knacks. I saw good public design, for example, although the choice of the logo for the London Underground was not exactly adventurous, and had been nominated by the visitors to the gallery. There were also some interesting corpses that no longer had a use but had been wonderful in their time: typewriters and early computers looking very passé now, although beautiful and desirable in their time, like 80 year old blondes. There were also hints – but never any more than hints – about the sheer hard work involved in designing something and the hard graft of craft. But the overall effect of this blandness, was to leave me sympathising with the hipsters – who, I think, would also have hated this place – which is an unusual place for me to be.
A couple of final gripes: the loos were singularly unimpressive – although I took a certain gleeful pleasure in the way they recognised the game was up where stylish but unintelligible sinks and taps were concerned. They actually resorted to helpful words like soap and water and hot air to indicate which buttons to press – in a suitably modish sans serif typeface, naturally.
I was sad to see styrofoam cups in the cafe. I guess if the cups and saucers had been really good, people would never stop nicking them. Maybe if I had actually had one of their exorbitant flat whites, I would have discovered that even styrofoam cups can be perfectly designed instead of being an inadequate substitute for china, but I rather doubt it.
Then it was off to the Chelsea Physic Garden, a little known jewel that is a long walk/short bus ride down to the river from the Royal Court Theatre. It was all very herbaceous border – looking disorganised, haphazard and random in a way that can only be achieved with phenomenal effort and planning. Design that is designed not to look like it has been designed.
It may have been Paradise for horticultural trainspotters, but it was rather intimidating for the rest of us. There was a sense of being overwhelmed by too much detail. Everything was labelled and there was lots of information. Things were lumped into all sorts of arbitrary categories; a salvia walk; poison plants; dyes; healing; or under arbitrary anglocentric geographical categories, with Africa and China lumped together, and Europe and America each having their own mini garden.
It was easier just to wander about aimlessly. I was very much encouraged to go on one of the guided tours, but this was scary as it would have meant being lectured to by one of the very formidable tour guides, who would have bent over backwards to be welcoming and informative, but would have still had me wanting to run away after ten minutes (“What was it that made you think that that might be a fuschia?”). There were also lots of efficient volunteers ferociously gardening, and clearly rather annoyed at the paying visitors for disturbing them.
I made myself sit down on a seat and contemplate a little, but the tranquility was disrupted by astonishingly noisy airplanes – a west London problem I guess – and any sense of calm eluded me. The shop was disappointing – lots of stuff that every garden centre in the world seems to sell, but hardly any plants for sale, when I had been hoping for some suitably recondite herbs, hyssop and comfrey perhaps. But then I guess it was the wrong time of year, as summer has now definitely commenced the sad slide into autumn.
Then, it was a trip to John Lewis to buy a new ipad cover, as I’d managed to break my last one. It was a strange and complicated process: Peter Jones, my first port of call, where I bought the original, told me that they no longer stocked them for my now (barely a year) out of date ipad, as did the Apple Store, although both held out hopes of something on their websites. However, I eventually got one at John Lewis. I also bumped into a former colleague there – it’s so lovely to have that feeling that London is still a village – particularly as I’d also bumped into a mate I used to sing with on Kensington High St.
I also shopped for birthday cards – like buses, birthdays all seem to come at once – and some crystallised ginger and pistachios. These were rather needed after cooking the following, both of which are now favourite recipes.
Spicy tamarind Biscuits
Dan Leppard. Very fine indeed. Goes well with lemon posset.
125g softened butter
250g caster sugar
25 g tamarind concentrate – or more if you prefer
3 teaspoons ground ginger
1 medium egg
2 teaspoons garam masala or mixed spice
200g chopped glacé ginger
250 g plain flour
3/4 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
Beat butter, sugar, tamarind and egg until smooth.
Beat in spices and glacé ginger.
Stir in the flour and bicarb evenly.
Wrap in greaseproof paper, and store in fridge until needed (for up to a week).
Scoop small balls from the mixture the size of a small unshelled walnut.
Roll in your hands til smooth.
Place on greaseproof paper 5 cm apart.
Bake in oven preheated to 170C for about 15 mins.
Leave to cool on paper.
Pomegranate and pistachio meringues
Thomasina Miers – and an absolute classic. Makes meringues interesting again.
4 egg whites
210g caster sugar preferably golden
3 tbspoons of pomegranate molasses
60g pistachios
1 large pomegranate
400ml double cream
Preheat oven to 100C. Line two baking trays with baking parchment.
In a clean bowl, whisk egg whites with an electric whisk, till you have stiff peaks.
Whisk in sugar little by little, followed by half the pomegranate molasses and a pinch of salt, until the whites are shiny, stiff and voluminous.
Put spoonfuls of the meringue onto the baking sheet. Put the pistachios in a bag and crush with a rolling pin, or finely chop them. Dust the meringues with the pistachios. (You can reserve some for a final garnish.)Bake for 2-3 hours until they are firm and come away easily. Turn off oven and leave the peeled merginues to cool inside with the door ajar.
Extract the seeds from the pomegranate, discarding the shell and the pith. Blitz half in a mini blender and sieve them.
Softly whip cream and stir in the rest of the molasses. It may not need whipping at all.
Just before serving, add half the pomegranate seeds to the cream, and sandwich the meringues together. Toss over remaining seeds and pistachios and splash with the juice.
I’m also sticking this down, which is from the Guardian, courtesy of Anna Jones, although I have used frozen sweet corn, added tinned cannellini beans, and not bothered with the eggs.
Anna Jones’s vegetarian spiced eggs
4 soft boiled eggs peeled (optional)
Olive oil
2 teaspoons cumin seeds
1 tablespoon black mustard seeds
2 teaspoons Fennell seeds
1 onion peeled and roughly chopped
A piece of ginger chopped
2 red chillies finely sliced and deseeded
Sweet corn (tinned or frozen) or peas and/or tinned beans or chickpeas
1 heaped teaspoon turmeric
A pinch of cinnamon
3 tablespoons coconut cream
A tin of tomatoes
2 lemons
Fresh coriander
Heat a splash of oil in a large pan, and add cumin and mustard seeds.
When they pop, lower the heat and add the fennel seeds and onion.
Fry til soft and sweet (at least 8 mins).
Add ginger and chillis and cook for 5 mins.
Stir in turmeric, cinnamon, coconut cream and tomatoes. Cook for ten mins.
Add eggs to warm through.
Squeeze over the juice of a lemon and garnish with chilli and coriander.
Then it was off to Borough Market to buy a birthday present. Borough Market is, perhaps, not quite as exciting as it used to be, but still fun. It was wonderful getting there late on a weekday afternoon, when it wasn’t impossibly busy but still open (5pm on a Friday is also perfect for this). It was possible to have ostrich or kangaroo or even crocodile burgers. Grouse, widgeon and goat were all on sale, as well as purple cauliflower, globe artichokes, and samphire.
I picked up a corcicle – a wonderful gadget that keeps your water cold, and your green credibility intact, as you don’t need to keep buying water in plastic bottles. It’s sort of like a miniature flask, but a lot more cool. It would also provide a nicely portable gin and tonic – or some hot soup in cooler weather. A perfect birthday present I reckon.
The really wonderful stall for me was the spice one, where kaffir lime leaves and curry leaves, and different blends of sumac and zatar were available, along with dried lemon grass, turmeric root, and more kinds of chilli – whether dried or ground – than I knew existed. In the end, I was very restrained and only got some black mustard seeds – which seem to be hard to find in my part of south east London – and some raspberry powder. Alas, I forgot fennel seeds. Fruit powders, according to the recipe books, seem to be the next ‘thing’, and provide hugely concentrated flavour. It’s certainly the sort of place where it’s easy to go mad and discover that you are going to be charged twenty three pounds fifty, as happened to the very keen American in front of me in the queue. Indeed, I had a downmarket version of this experience when I popped into Holland and Barrett, where I was relieved of over a tenner for some pistachios and crystallised ginger!
It was sad to see that even the admirable Konditor and Cook has gone down the way of having plastic cutlery and styrofoam. The lowering effect of these on the quality of one’s drinking experience (to use a bit of PR speak) and overall spirits is astonishing. Oddly, I was still given a proper white china plate for my (delicious) carrot citrus cake, which came with fabulous icing
– and superb hot chocolate that would have been even better in the right vessel. This was not fake artisanal but the real deal – so very different from the vile coffee place at Kings Cross that manages to be inferior to Pret A Manger on every level whilst simultaneously pretending to be a cut above a mere chain.
And after all that frantic shopping, it was time to head off to the Park Theatre, a wonderfully civilised place that does splendid and rather original theatre along with nice food and wine. It’s so civilised that people come just for the food and free wifi, although we were very much there for the play.
This was the first outing for the original uncensored version of Joe Orton’s Loot, which I last saw (censored) in 1983 (although you wouldn’t’ve known it), with Leonard Rossiter as Inspector Truscott, who brought a lethal calm to the part which was done this time with a demented and choleric force that was extremely scary as well as ridiculous. It’s fascinating how soon something scandalous – with someone hiding the proceeds from a bank robbery in his mother’s coffin and having to put the corpse in a cupboard, and then swap them about – turns into something that coach parties from the Home Counties will flock to because it has that man from the Cinzano adverts in it. I remember then being very shocked that the audience wasn’t more shocked. It was rather startling to think that passages had been struck out by the arbitrary blue pencil of a court functionary in black knickerbockers, and that this piece was a whole 50 years old.
And meanwhile we sleepwalk into Brexit and will wake up to discover that the Tories have got rid of all our human rights, while poverty increases and we discover that we are a third world country but with even more corruption and human rights abuses. It will make the era of Loot seem like the Enlightenment by comparison. Such a shame that Orton, with his sharp ear for the absurdity of authority figures trying to impose their will on the rest of us, won’t be there to capture it for us. Although, of course, if he were still alive today, he’d no doubt be a venomous dyspeptic old queen writing articles for the Daily Telegraph on why Brexit is a good thing and complaining that decriminalising sex between men and letting them get married has taken all the fun out of it.
This sick subversive shocker ended up providing a thoroughly jolly evening. Which I suppose is progress of a kind