Thursday, 25 October 2007
Broken leg v death by boiling. You choose...
Poor Gavin. One minute he's crossing the road on a Friday evening filled with promise. The next he's in A&E having a broken leg put in plaster, the promise turning out to be as reliable as an Elizabeth Taylor "I do". Since he is now housebound, bored and lacking primate friends to play Sega Rally with, I offered to head up to North London and cook him lunch. In these situations, where the wounded or ill are feeling sorry for themselves, it's always best to put their injury into context.
En route to Stoke Newington I stopped by the fantastic Chinese cash and carry, See Woo in Greenwich, to pick up a live crustacean from one of their tanks. Together, we continued our journey to N16 side by side, singing show tunes and regaling each other with witty anecdotes from our respective pasts. I told stories of crazy japes in advertising. He told stories of Chinese lobster trafficking and the promise of a better life in London. We had the chemistry of a classic double act from the past - Laurel and Hardy, Morecombe and Wise, The Chuckle Brothers. But ahead I could see the steely eyes of the driver in front, glancing at me suspiciously in her rear view mirror. She knew my intentions. She could see through the charade. There would be no better life in London for this stalk-eyed decapod.
We arrived at Gavin's home and indeed he was an invalid. As he hobbled around the flat there was nothing for it but to show him that life wasn't so bad after all. No, there would be no can-canning for a while, no he couldn't go out and play kiss chase with the girls, and no, Bargain Hunt is no longer presented by David Dickinson. But let's not be negative. These things are mere inconveniences when compared with death by boiling.
And then it was over. No last minute pardon from the King of Thailand. With a dive worthy of Didier Drogba, my pincered pal went headlong into the salty maelstrom.
Lobster with chips and sauce vierge.