Friday, a shade past 5pm. Just the right time to hit Borough Market. Saturday mornings there are a little too much like middle class warfair. Your foot is run over by some four wheel drive pram whilst, simultaneously, fellow customers beat you with sharpened baguettes as a punishment for taking the last piece of an artisan, limited edition cheese made from the milk of a wild boar sow.
This week I bought some rather lovely pork belly and a leg of mutton from the Ginger Pig butchers' stand at the market. The bellies are currently dry curing in the fridge at home. Come next Saturday morning, we may well have some bacon! Oh yes.
My pork adventure may well, of course, turn out to be an unmitigated salty disaster. Never mind. You've got to try these things. Make hay while the sun shines, make bacon when the weather is dark and horrible. That's what Lord Lucan always told me.
According the bathroom 'scales of justice' I am very almost at the level of El Pauncho (see previous entry). Can 'The Tub' be reached within another week? 'probably not. Two and you may be on.
Other news. A strange thing happened today. There I was, all ready to go off swimming at the magnificent Tooting Lido, when... Flip me, Melon farmer: I couldn't find my membership card and (therefore) couldn't go. The thing that struck me was how annoyed I was about it. Surely a good sign, don't you think?
Now here's a strange thing. There I was at my sister's place this weekend when I heard The Undertones singing 'Here comes the Summer' over the stereo. My first feeling was that of discomfort. It reminded me too much of working in the hell hole that was the boozerama, Oddbins Islington Green (now a branch of the Nicholas wine emporium).
It took only a few seconds to recover from the 'Bins' flashback. Then, suddenly I remembered the bizarre chorus of the song. If anyone tells me that the chorus says something other than "Here comes Osama!" then they had better have a body of evidence.
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