Bewitched by the bean talk

Is there a finer vegetable than the broad bean? I think not. Broad beans have something of the summer about them, a reminder that the seasons change and so do we. They are as versatile as they are delicious. I have enjoyed them with chorizo and garlic, with a carpaccio of beetroot accompanied by a horseradish dressing, with scallops, with langoustine and in a salad with roast chicken. Even au naturel they are difficult to beat.

Let me be clear: this is a recent bean-based love affair. I was not always that taken with them. Their dull greenness was slightly off-putting as was their tough outer covering. My conversion came when a chef friend of mine informed me that this dull green tough outer jacket could be removed to release a vibrant, succulent, jade coloured jewel of flavour. How right he was. From that day on I have been enthralled by the broad bean and it has answered my every vegetable question, save one. Why a 'broad' bean? Broader than what other bean? And why was that other bean not called a narrow bean?

I didn't consent to text with stranger

Scenes From Modern Life:

I received a text message last week from a number I didn't recognise. Not meaning to be rude, I texted back asking the identity of the mysterious sender since it could well have been an old friend or colleague with a new number, a number unknown to me. The person replied with their name, explaining that he and I had never met. I texted back, asking why then he felt able to send me a message if a) we had never met b) I had not given him my number; and I asked him whether he thought this a little rude. I am awaiting his response.

Hardeep and the purple revolution

I received a new purple velvet blazer the other day. There's something about purple velvet that will always remind me of the artist formerly known as The Artist Formerly Known as Prince. Perhaps it's just a generational thing, but ever since Purple Rain and his purple velvet overcoat, it seems like he and he alone owns the colour and the fabric. Back in the late Eighties, in honour of the pixie Prince of pop, I purchased a pair of purple velvet loafers from a shop called Next To Nothing on Sauchiehall Street; there were about a hundred pairs on sale, as if the great man himself had instructed Glasgow to follow him in his love of purple and velvet. I loved those shoes.

I was by no means the city's most obsessed wearer of purple velvet. Shabina, an old friend from university, has never once been seen, night or day, without purple velvet on. From miniskirts to knee-length suedette boots, and everything in between, the girl was properly obsessed. Now she has a small child, I don't doubt he too is swaddled in it.

I am an older, more mature man now. My days of hoping that one day I too might have the sexual charms and multi-musical ability of Prince are now over. But I can guarantee a slight stirring when I don my new purple velvet jacket. All I can say is that my name is Hardeep and I am funky.

It's only classical music but I like it – even if I am still in the dark about orchestral manoeuvres

I have a confession to make – before last week I had never been to a classical music concert in my life. I know, it's shameful. Of course, I have been to those often-painful school concerts when your beloved progeny try to squeeze a familiar tune out of a tortured instrument, the parents scrabbling for the programme in pursuit of hopeful recognition of the aurally unrecognisable.

But last week it was for real; and it doesn't get realer than the BBC Proms at the Royal Albert Hall. What a place to lose your classical virginity. First off I had to check the dress code. Smart/casual. (What does that mean? A tracksuit with a tie? A suit with trainers?) I opted for a Nick Oliver creation, dove grey linen and a paisley shirt: rock and roll but in quality material.

Clothing was the least of my worries. I had been invited by an old friend from the BBC, and since it was the BBC Proms, we were to be treated to a box. How splendid. The programme consisted of three pieces. A Rossini, a Haydn and an Elgar (pictured right). Now I had heard of all of them and thought I quite liked what I was told about Elgar's elegiac pastoral vibe. I soon learned that referring to the sound of Elgar's crafted music as a vibe was a near-fatal musical mistake. The actual fatal musical mistake was to 'fess up to my co-boxees that I didn't really know anything about classical music. I was alone; so very very alone.

The opening 12-minute offering was the well-known, almost clichéd, William Tell Overture. I am of the generation that struggles not to think of the Lone Ranger and Tonto whenever this well-known bit kicks in. (Note: referring to classical music pieces as "kicking in" is akin to referring to the vibe of a piece). It is definitely a rousing and uplifting piece, full of passion and brio. The 'Lone Ranger' section is actually the least interesting bit. It was a tasty introduction to the night ahead.

In a gaffe-ridden evening I leaned over to my friend Mark, a classical music aficionado, and told him that I was very excited about the next piece by Haydn. Now I made the mistake of pronouncing the first syllable as if it was dried grass that farmers collect to feed to their cattle in the winter. Apparently the first syllable is pronounced as if saying a casual hello to close friends and it should rhyme with tie or pie. Haydn, as I pronounced it, is an Australian cricketer, not noted for his ability to write for the cello. I was suitably chastened. Musically I have to confess it left me cold. I think I would have preferred the sound of leather on willow.

The smoked salmon and Chablis eaten and quaffed during the interval, we returned to the melancholic beauty of Edward Elgar. I have to say that it was an informative and delightful way to spend an evening. That wood, string, reed and skin can come together and create such sweet and emotive sound before one's very eyes was a revelation to me. Classical music has always felt like a very closed world; a world full of rules, regulations, language and names that are unfamiliar and forbidding. I suppose it's just the same as the world of heavy metal must seem to a lover of jazz. I will be endeavouring now to further my horizons and attempting a bit of Chopin this evening with a glass of Glenmorangie. And I promise not to get Brahms and Liszt.