Sunday Lunch, Unplugged

The rain that they had threatened came. Tabby cat sensed its arrival and wailed piteously in the bathroom at a few minutes past six in the morning, a wail that meant if she wasn't allowed outside soon she would use the bathmat. I got up, opened the door for her, (for some reason she will come into the house through the cat flap, but not go out through it), and noticed a fine rain had just begun to fall. I hung around for long enough to check that the water butt was empty, waiting to be topped up, and then Tabby cat was back at the door. I let her in and went back to bed.

When I got up again three hours later, the rain was falling harder. I risked a slight soaking to check on the water butt and found it overflowing. Half the length of my 24 paces drains into it, so now I know what the refill time is, and how many extra water butts I would need to buy to ensure that not a drop of rainwater is allowed to go to waste down the drains. More than I could afford.

We drove up to Shaftesbury to have lunch with some friends in a restaurant at the top of Gold Hill. Gold Hill, for those of you who don't know, is the very quaint and unbelievably steep hill on which the bread adverts were filmed, where a Yorkshire lad pushes his bicycle up the hill to the strains of a colliery brass band. Only they couldn't find anywhere in Yorkshire that either had the cobbled hill or a working colliery, so they came down South instead. The restaurant looked dark and closed as we trod carefully down the slippery slopes around the side to the front door.

Inside, we found our friends, and no lights. There was a power cut affecting one, some, or all of the properties in Shaftesbury. We would be restricted to salads and cold drinks. But no matter, for this restaurant can produced wondrous food no matter what the restrictions. We began to talk, little petal to male friend about the web-site she is building for him, and myself to female friend about pedal-power.

"I saw you the other evening near Pytt House club," I said, "but I don't think you recognised me. I was on my normal bike. I was going to flash you, but realised how difficult it is on a bicycle." She accepted the ambiguity gracefully. She and he both cycle terrific amounts, far more than I do at the moment. He drives each morning into the outskirts of London and cycles the remainder of the way into the college where he works, she will think nothing of riding up places like Bullbarrow Down that I at the moment would struggle to even raise my head to look at, never mind half-surmount. They are both older than I, but much fitter. To celebrate, they have bought a motor-home to drive their bicycles out to fresher pastures.

The waitress flitted from the gloom ready for our orders. Her metal earrings danced and twisted and shone little rays of light around her neck as we studied our menus in the half-light. I asked her if she would twirl again for me so I could watch the light a second time. She did so, and was also nice enough to let me change my mind, cancelling the prawn component of the prawn and avocado salad when I heard her tell my friends that there was some special smoked salmon in that day. I played my substitution card and brought on the fish. 'Is it called Billy?' I asked, but they were none of them Viz readers, apart from the Tynemaiden, who pointedly ignores all my whimsical witterings.

We had our salads, wonderful simple food that excelled because of the selection, preparation and presentation, without any units of carbon-derived energy having been used to transfer them from the larder to the table. I must learn some of the skills involved. The day before yesterday I ate the first produce from our 'garden', if you can call 24 yards long by 2 point 2 yards wide of industrial specification concrete a garden. Little petal had grown a lettuce in a pot as a proof-of-concept exercise, but then declined to eat it, on the grounds that it would probably taste bitter as it had just started to bolt. I picked a handful of dandelion leaves growing from a convenient crack, (and that is at least one thing I'm not too short of), chopped up some garlic and fresh ginger, and dashed a little Sushi vinegar over the top of them as a dressing. 'Delicious,' I told her. She wrinkled her face. That garlic must be strong, I thought.

I manfully resisted the sweet menu, explaining to them that my dietary concept was to eat minimally and simply, and restrict myself to half of what I would instinctively eat. Part of my problem is the convenient size of tins and packets. For example, I like red kidney beans, and for years I have opened the normal sized can, poured away and rinsed off the sugary solution they are packed in, and cooked the beans. I realised a few months ago, in my calorie counting phase, that I was effectively eating two peoples' food. That was not a problem years ago when I was a fit, manic, and physically active person. But now, when all I have left is the manic part, I have to think before simply emptying the can.

But when the ice creams arrived, my resolve flickered out like the electricity had done some time earlier, and I called the waitress back and asked her for 'whatever he's having.' Well, I could justify it. When I got home, I had to go out and saw wood for a while so that little petal could sit inside and be warm in the foul and squally weather that had finally lived up to the threats, so I probably burnt up all the ice-cream in warming myself up as well.