In between the traumas of my Beckettian inner life (in a canoe), we have been enjoying quite a lovely Saturday.
The sun shone this morning, which makes up for the last three days of dank fog that have blanketed the garden on the rare occasions I’ve had the opportunity to sit out in it. Jason lounged on the new sofa, and said all the right things about my furniture building skills. Derek learned to climb onto the extension roof and prowled about the tiles joyously, overseeing things and annoying the squirrels. This is much better than earlier in the morning when she had taken up bee bothering as a hobby and I was wondering if you could administer epi pens to felines. The children were sproingling around on the trampoline and there was talk of going for burgers later.
Jason has been waxing lyrical about a burger he ate in Berlin all week. Apparently it was the best burger he had ever had in his life, and I would love them too because they make them from steak rather than cheap beef mince, and because the meat quality is so good and it is properly German, you can have it cooked rare if you wish – which I very do. It meant I had been fantasising about eating burgers all week. So today we went to the Handmade Burger Company for burgers, to see if they could compete with what the Fatherland had to offer.
It was most excellent. I was torn between the luscious sounding beef Wellington burger with a Portobello mushroom and horseradish on top, or a felafel burger, or a lamb burger with feta cheese and tzatziki. In the end I went for the lamb burger and it was blinking delicious. Jason had a chicken tikka masala burger, Tilly had a peri peri burger and the two little ones had classic chicken in a bun. We had masses of thick cut chips with mayonnaise and tomato sauce and it was heavenly. I am going to go back and work my way through the myriad burger permutations until I look like Las Vegas Elvis and die on the toilet surrounded by burger buns and napkins.
We pottered over to see our friends, The lovely Mitchells, in the afternoon and watched the men do manly things with petrol driven lawn mowers, which they seemed to enjoy very much, and we enjoyed by proxy.
On our travels the children regaled us with many jokes. Tilly has started inventing her own jokes again. She does this sporadically. They are never good nor memorable, but at least most of the time they make some kind of sense. She, at least, grasps the concept of what a joke should be, even if she is not very good at putting them together. The other two, on the other hand, do not make any attempts to make their jokes work. They just fling together random ideas, and because we laugh at how silly they are, this encourages them to believe that they are indeed successful, so they keep going.
I do not know how we break this cycle. It probably explains the birth of the surrealist movement.
Oscar’s best joke this afternoon was: ‘What is yellow and dangerous?’ the answer to which is: ‘A banana that jumps out from behind the curtains.’
His other joke was: ‘Why did the caterpillar die?’ the answer? ‘It touches the bucket.’
This caused huge hilarity. He is now convinced he is the next Eddie Izzard. For all I know, he might well be. Which would be nice.
Jason then instigated another game which involved giving the first line of one joke, but finishing it with the last line of another joke.
Here’s an example:
‘Doctor, Doctor, I feel like a pair of curtains’. To which you reply something like: ‘A nun rolling down a hill’
It got increasingly bonkers as the car journey went on, and by the time we got to our friend’s house I was crying with laughter.
Which was lovely.
Then, on our return I ate an excellent apricot Danish, which is one of life’s simple and uncomplicated pleasures.
Would that it were all this easy.