Cloud Appreciation Society

Most of this evening was spent in a cookery induced haze, as I watched an almost stranger make me french toast.

A discussion earlier in the day lead to me admitting I have no idea how one makes this student delicacy- and oh, but he was shocked. With a scandaled air, he informed me he'd be delighted to be my tutor in 'how to be a real student', and gave me a shopping list.

Eggs.
Bread.
A toaster.
Whisk.
Cooking oil.
Frying pan.

He's such a patronising bastard. And I live with a bunch of foodies, so of course there's a frying pan and a toaster in the flat.
But no whisk.

I rang him in a slightly sheepish panic.

"Stuart, I don't have a whisk, can you bring one?"
"Do you even know what a whisk is, Imogen?"
Pause.
"It's a metal impliment that whisks things for you," he explained, with an air of talking to the very culinary backward.

"Showoff."

So he brought the whisk, and I was late meeting him as I got lost in the supermarket while looking for eggs- I trudged back to the flat feeling just so proud of myself (absolutely hate food shopping) and found him sitting in the hall and Mrs Next Door gave me a knowing look as she unlocked her door.

I let him in, he made me french toast, and I was so shocked by the idea that someone would willingly cook that I forgot to pay attention, and still don't know how to make it.

----------------

So anyway, I'm working my little heart out to get him to lighten up a bit, but apart from a whole bunch of bad habits I'm not sure what he's out to teach me.
But there does seem to be something on his agenda; hopefully it's not little black book shaped.

He's particularly lovely, but just that bit too serious; I grabbed his hand while we were basking in the lovely sunshine in the park (with roughly half of London, it would seem. Don't any of these people have jobs to go to?) and pointed at a cloud hovering above us.

He's never played at finding shapes in clouds (in response to my undisguised surprise, he informed me he didn't do things like that as a child, but could recite all the points of a horse if I wanted?), nor has he ever got himself locked in a park at night. He told me off for walking on the outer edge of the pavement, and he's never skipped through a busy street (he didn't seem to appreciate my attempts to make him try it, but I'm working on it. Maybe Oxford Street was a bad starting point), and he certainly wouldn't dream of stealing flowers from a churchyard. He's not been felt up in an alleyway after a few too many drinks, and he's certainly never sung that Frere Jaques lullaby. Germaine Greer style.

He doesn't like the c word.

Who on earth doesn't like the word cunt? But I digress.

But then, he made me go jogging with him whilst I was wearing four inch wedges and a little dress; making me go jogging is a risky thing at all times, so maybe he's not that staid and serious, and he made me french toast while wearing a pink sequined chefs hat and insisted we communicate in French accents whilst it was being made/consumed.

And he uses the best Chaucer related drinking analogies.

But I'll get back to you.