Solobsession

The other night, a couple of friends came to dinner. They hadn’t been here before: I work with her, but I hadn’t met the boyfriend in any meaningful sense, and neither of them had met my wife.

It was a very good evening: easy chatter, relaxed drinking, lots of food.

He had said that she was fussy, obsessive, that she ate her food in a particular order: eating each type separately, and saving her favourite for last – so she would eat all the peas, then all the potatoes, then …

I wondered what she would do with the meal I had cooked: a rich vegetable casserole, with mushrooms and courgettes in a tomato and wine sauce. With onions and garlic. All mixed up. And served with a baked potato. I couldn’t see how she could eat each vegetable in order; I was curious to see what she would do.

What she did was intricately sift through the sauce, filing the pieces of vegetable away to different parts of the plate. It was a piece of seminal filing: I couldn’t have done it so accurately. And then she ate each pile.

It was fascinating. She said she loved the food, so it must have tasted ok. (Unless she was just being polite; which would be quite out of character.)

Solobsession

The other night, a couple of friends came to dinner. They hadn’t been here before: I work with her, but I hadn’t met the boyfriend in any meaningful sense, and neither of them had met my wife.

It was a very good evening: easy chatter, relaxed drinking, lots of food.

He had said that she was fussy, obsessive, that she ate her food in a particular order: eating each type separately, and saving her favourite for last – so she would eat all the peas, then all the potatoes, then …

I wondered what she would do with the meal I had cooked: a rich vegetable casserole, with mushrooms and courgettes in a tomato and wine sauce. With onions and garlic. All mixed up. And served with a baked potato. I couldn’t see how she could eat each vegetable in order; I was curious to see what she would do.

What she did was intricately sift through the sauce, filing the pieces of vegetable away to different parts of the plate. It was a piece of seminal filing: I couldn’t have done it so accurately. And then she ate each pile.

It was fascinating. She said she loved the food, so it must have tasted ok. (Unless she was just being polite; which would be quite out of character.)

Limbo the Law

I heard the other day that the Catholic church has changed its teaching about limbo.

Limbo was where for centuries they had said that souls of those who hadn’t had the opportunity to be baptised – but who hadn’t been condemned to hell – would go.

So babies who died at birth; good people who had died before Christ; maybe even unbelievers – they would all go to limbo.

The Vatican has decided that limbo may not exist: that it was a human construct to deal with the somewhat tricky problem of what to do with all these good – but unbaptised – souls. They have said that it is down to God to decide these things, not man, and hence limbo is no longer recognised.

So I am glad they cleared that one up. Limbo is a human construct.

Not like heaven or hell, then.

Limbo the Law

I heard the other day that the Catholic church has changed its teaching about limbo.

Limbo was where for centuries they had said that souls of those who hadn’t had the opportunity to be baptised – but who hadn’t been condemned to hell – would go.

So babies who died at birth; good people who had died before Christ; maybe even unbelievers – they would all go to limbo.

The Vatican has decided that limbo may not exist: that it was a human construct to deal with the somewhat tricky problem of what to do with all these good – but unbaptised – souls. They have said that it is down to God to decide these things, not man, and hence limbo is no longer recognised.

So I am glad they cleared that one up. Limbo is a human construct.

Not like heaven or hell, then.

Lost in Translation

I had agreed to meet some friends from work in Bert’s Bar before we headed off to a party. We were dressed up – the invitations said “dress to impress” – so I was wearing my kilt. (The invitation also said “an evening of decadence…”)

Bert’s is a typical pub, in the West End of Edinburgh. It isn’t large, and it was already busy when I arrived. The small rooms off the bar were crowded, so we stood near the bar; people had to push past us to get to the bar or when they came through the door to the street; the bar staff were ferrying food to the tables, resigned to having to force their way through the crowd - us. (Bert’s is renowned for its pies.)

In a vain attempt not to have too bad a hangover the next day, I was drinking white wine, which seemed a bit weird in what is clearly a beer place. (I had decided not to mix my drinks, whatever I did.)

This old guy, maybe 60 or 65, came up to me; he had white hair, though largely bald, and a neat white beard. He was a fair bit shorter than me. He started to speak. In a foreign language. Gaelic. He babbled a sentence; I looked blank. He babbled some more, until I said in my broadest north Lahndahn accent, “Sorry mate, I’m Scottish by marriage, not by birth.”

He babbled some more – really – and I had to tell him that I hadn’t a clue what he was on about. He wandered off to the bar, where he picked up a copy of the Scotsman and stood reading it.

It was very strange: as one of my colleagues pointed out, most of the people who wear kilts don’t talk Gaelic. Most of the people who wear kilts aren’t Scottish.

And I would swear he was talking English at the bar.

Lost in Translation

I had agreed to meet some friends from work in Bert’s Bar before we headed off to a party. We were dressed up – the invitations said “dress to impress” – so I was wearing my kilt. (The invitation also said “an evening of decadence…”)

Bert’s is a typical pub, in the West End of Edinburgh. It isn’t large, and it was already busy when I arrived. The small rooms off the bar were crowded, so we stood near the bar; people had to push past us to get to the bar or when they came through the door to the street; the bar staff were ferrying food to the tables, resigned to having to force their way through the crowd - us. (Bert’s is renowned for its pies.)

In a vain attempt not to have too bad a hangover the next day, I was drinking white wine, which seemed a bit weird in what is clearly a beer place. (I had decided not to mix my drinks, whatever I did.)

This old guy, maybe 60 or 65, came up to me; he had white hair, though largely bald, and a neat white beard. He was a fair bit shorter than me. He started to speak. In a foreign language. Gaelic. He babbled a sentence; I looked blank. He babbled some more, until I said in my broadest north Lahndahn accent, “Sorry mate, I’m Scottish by marriage, not by birth.”

He babbled some more – really – and I had to tell him that I hadn’t a clue what he was on about. He wandered off to the bar, where he picked up a copy of the Scotsman and stood reading it.

It was very strange: as one of my colleagues pointed out, most of the people who wear kilts don’t talk Gaelic. Most of the people who wear kilts aren’t Scottish.

And I would swear he was talking English at the bar.