Once he’d stopped steaming and gasping and gagging, Graham’s verdict on yesterday’s curry was that he was much encouraged with its success. I was blissfully happy with it, and slept the undeserved sleep of an old man with a much-improved leg and a cast-iron digestion.
It really was a high-grade curry. Saturday’s curry will, at my request, be a chicken tikka masala. Mostly to give Graham’s singed taste buds a rest but also so that I can see what makes this one of Britain’s most successful currys. So successful that they export it to India, I am informed. Nice to know we can export stuff to India instead of always being on the receiving end.
I woke in the late small hours wanting coffee, and peered out of the curtains to discover a dark, dismal, wet world outside. Still pitchy black at 06:30. The street lights showed that we’d forgotten to put the trash out so, once I’d had my coffee, I troddled out in my dressing gown to do the wheelie-bin and recycle box shuffle to the kerb and back. It was very mild out there and apart from the damp and the fine penetrating drizzle, quite pleasantly fresh and invigorating. Once I’d got my breath back, that is.
So I spread my dressing gown over a radiator to dry out and fell back into bed.
At about 09:30 Graham shook me awake. “I know you’ll be happy,” he said. “The interweb is up and working again.”
“Oh, what a poifeck day,” I sang.
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