Friday, November 6, 2009


Perhaps it was the messages on the road to look right and look left, or refusing to carry maps because she couldn't read them, or avoiding the Tube if Norman wasn't with her because how the hell would she know where to go and who the hell is she going to ask, or spending the past week in Shropshire in close communion with a dozen English speakers, or having taken a day trip to Aberystwyth where her son had exhausted his meagre capacity to translate between Kathy, himself, his father, his mother between Cantonese, English, and three words of Welsh, or finding Chinatown today where she could finally speak without effort, whatever it was that inspired grammatical clarity, at that moment, the mother used an apostrophe superbly.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Tuesday, November 3, 2009


Two hours to eat lunch in France? Are you fucking with me? Who is fucking with me?

That's incredible. That's my kinda pace. I never once felt rushed while eating in France, at both restaurants and friends' homes. Those of you who grumble mutter when dining with me 'cause I take fucking fore-e-e-v-e-e-r to eat a-a-anythi-i-i-ing*, consider it my gastronomic ballad to the French. They do it right.

* I can make a Kit-Kat last a month.