From the Independent..
This is my final column. I've severed links with The Independent on Saturday magazine after what seems like 106 weeks.
I went to get some engraving done this week on a metal box thing that I've bought for a special lady. I'd not been engraving for a while so I experienced a real frisson of excitement. That feeling of anticipation you get when you're clutching a metal box thing in Timpson, and waiting for a man to carve your sentiments on to its base.
Last Sunday, I went and watched Whiplash with some friends. No, that's not fair. I didn't do that. But then again, in many ways I did. Well, it's a grey area.
I'm 38 now, so I had a dinner party this week. Stuffed a couple of lemons into a bird and stuffed the bird into the oven for a couple of hours and served it up with green beans, green broccoli and scrumptious golden-brown roast potatoes. It was as delicious as it sounds, but it's the reaction of one my guests that I want to talk about. He was fervent in his appreciation for what I had achieved in my modestly-sized kitchen. It was the way he showed his appreciation that I had a problem with. I'm still having flashbacks.
There is nothing more disorientating or more demeaning than finding you've fallen asleep on a sofa. And no more dismal age to do it at than 37. But, stiff-necked and gummy-eyed, that's the situation I find myself trying to adjust to right now. Contorted, sprawling and unclear what the time is, I am squinting like a mole. There's sailing on the telly.
I've just ordered 'off menu'. I think that's the phrase I'm after. What I'm saying is, I've asked the guy for some stuff that's not written down, he's given me the nod, and now I'm sat here waiting for it. And I am feeling very, very alive.