Under certain circumstances, the camera on my phone refuses to work, which is yet another reason why there is no appropriate photo on the header here.
There is a Bluebell wood close to Bath where I stood and took photos of the swathes of ethereal blue haze, but there was one spot where the phone shut itself down for no obvious reason every time I pressed the shutter. Move six feet away and it worked fine, but step back to that precise place and down went the phone again. I ended up opting for either fairies or a subterranean high-voltage line as a plausible explanation for the technical difficulties. Fairies. Without a doubt.
So it was when I walked past the site of my old workshop yesterday - the old builders yard horse stable - and tried to take one last picture of it before it was reduced to rubble. It was as if the camera had a gizmo fitted to it which would prevent you from taking tasteless pictures of car-crashes or suicides - the sort of thing which should have been fitted to the freelance photographer's cameras for the 1960s editions of Paris Match.
Last night, I cooked a slow-roast version of a lamb dish which involves almost a whole bulb of garlic and almost a whole bottle of white wine, but didn't put it into the oven until about 7.00pm, so we ate late. Too late not to get somewhat sozzled whilst waiting for it to cook.
Under these circumstances, I become very fixed in my opinions, and very vociferous in airing them. H.I.'s reaction is usually to tell me I am wrong, and my reaction to that is to go into another room and try out these opinions on others by publishing them on social media sites, or - worse - sending personal emails to real people.
The time before last when I cooked this lamb dish was the days before emails existed, and I had vowed never to cook it again anyway.
A couple of friends came round for Sunday lunch and I put it in the oven, then the man and I went to the pub to drink beer - for about three hours. For some reason, the woman refused to come with us and sat around in the house waiting for us to return.
Everyone was very hungry by this time, but only one was sober. This large, sharing version of the lamb actually included two whole bulbs of garlic - peeled but uncut - and I reckon the man and I ate one each.
Ten minutes after eating, nobody could move at all, other than to try and raise one arse-cheek to let out the some of the massive back-pressure of built-up gasses caused by the consumption of so much garlic on top of so much beer.
Not a dish to set before a Queen.
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