Lack of sleep is a rude awakening for zombies We all have to get up early every now and again. I am not whingeing, thinking that it is me alone that has blurry-eyed mornings of miscoordinated, insufficient-caffeine caused catastr
ophe. But I have to confess that of late I have had a run of particularly early starts, stomach-churningly brisk wake-up calls.
On Tuesday I had to fly up to the beautiful Edinburgh for a day's work. This involved a 7am plane which involved a 6am check-in which involved a 5.15am cab ride which involved a 4.30am alarm clock.
The itinerary hadn't originally involved a late-night Monday night dinner party that delivered me back to the flat a little after midnight, delivering me to bed a little before 1am, but that's what happened. I had three-and-a-half hours' sleep which for anyone (apart from a certain Lady from Grantham) is nowhere near enough. The alarm jolts you out of the sweetest slumber and that all too familiar sick feeling reminds you that you have a pit in your stomach.
There's something about waking before 6am that seems to constitute a direct attack on one's body. Sure, I'll be tired after a 6am start, but it's a superficial fatigue; I don't find myself falling asleep at every available opportunity. Tuesday was a succession of snoozes, joined together with a wee bit of work. Sometimes I wonder whether it isn't better to eschew sleep altogether and wander the day zombie like instead? But then some folk think that's what I do anyway.
Ace of cards just the trickI was lucky enough to be invited by my friend Mark to a wee intimate dinner for a dozen or so folk. We were there to meet David Blaine, magician, stuntman, artist and all-round entertainer. I've been an admirer of Blaine for many years. For me he is a genuine star.
As soon as I arrived I was assailed by a pack of cards and invited to examine and shuffle,
re-examine and re-shuffle, select and re-select. Blaine wowed the room with astonishing tricks, the most amazing sleight of hand and utterly inexplicable stunts. Cards were signed and made to disappear and reappear. Cards were torn and magically reformed. Coins were bent without so much as a by your leave.
It was incredible to watch a room full of intelligent individuals being dumbstruck by one man and 52 cards. Even the most hardened cynic would have struggled to explain the simplest of Blaine's stunts.
There's something so alluring about close magic. Simultaneously we want it to fail and to succeed. We want to believe in magic yet we wish to rationalise against it. I don't know a single Glasgow boy who didn't wander doon tae Tam Shepherd's Trick Shop in Queen Street at some point to get some special cards, fake blood and stink bombs. I tried and failed to pull hats out of rabbits and soon realised that I never had the dexterity or dedication to be a magician. But there was a part of me that always believed in the beauty of illusion.
There are cynics who have mocked Blaine, ridiculed him and lampooned him. They are entitled to their opinion. All I know is that I went to meet David Blaine believing and left there in awe. As we say in Glasgow, that evening was pure magic.
Gunning for a room in RomeMy team is playing in the second leg of the Champions League semi-final. Arsenal have their future in their own hands. We were lucky to leave Old Trafford just a goal down, albeit battered and bruised and anonymous upfront (like Partick Thistle but without the iconic strip). The reverse fixture on Tuesday will be a tense game: it always is against arch rivals Man Utd. The footballing drama will unfold; there will be trials; there will be tribulations.
The only thing there definitely won't be is a penalty awarded to the away team at Old Trafford. The valiant will travel to Rome for the final; the vanquished will travel to oblivion. And much as I cannot bear to think beyond the outcome of 180 minutes of football I am painfully aware that I will get a much cheaper deal on a Roman hotel if I book before the outcome.
The difficulty is this: tempt fate and book a room and risk losing the deposit; or book a room and enjoy my team in the final. It's a quandary. The only upside is that it gives me something other than our defence to worry about.
Saucy secrets of duck surpriseLast Sunday night, I was popping round to Robin's to cook a wee meal in aid of Borderline, the homeless charity for Scots in London. Duck was the main course offering. In my opinion, duck of all meats (perhaps with the exception of turkey) needs a sauce, a gravy or (for the more fancy pants among you) a jus.
Rather than turn up at 6.30pm and attempt to rush my reduction of red wine, chicken stock and whole spices, I decided to devote the afternoon to the loving pursuit of creating a sauce packed with flavour, defined by its intensity. The liquid bubbled without toil or trouble; the chicken stock melding seamlessly with the grapey richness of the red wine, the cinnamon, star anise and cloves imparting spikes of sharp flavour.
As I decanted the thick, unctuous liquor into a glass jar I remembered being distinctly pleased with myself. For years I was singularly useless at all sauces and stocks. After years of training and application, no longer do my attempts to moisten meat find themselves coating the depths of the china bowl rather than a plate.
I should have been more selective in choosing the way I was to transport this creation towards my destination, because my glass bottle inveigled its way out of the flimsy carrier bag and fell. Broken glass and a beautifully reduced sauce decorated the pavement like an entrant for some modern art prize.
I was broken. I had an hour before eight diners arrived and I had no sauce. I rallied and decided to improvise. I was an alien in an alien kitchen. I tried a little bit of this, a handful of that and hoped against hope that the results might just work. And surprisingly, they did. The duck was plated up and sauced. My diners were none the wiser to the fact that they had been served a substitute sauce. And I went home and chucked out all the rubbish plastic bags.
