Blossom falls

That's not what was for tea, that's not. That's a picture of the lovely Blossom, who stopped, never to go again on the A1 near Newark on Monday (on the way back from a very lovely wedding in Hertfordshire, with a ceilidh and the Bikini Beach Band) and is now sat in the yard of a garage by the River Don, awaiting dismantlement. I am very sad about it. Blossom was a splendid motor and took me to many wonderful places in the style (leather seats, turbo acceleration, raging thirst for petrol) to which I have become accustomed. (I get very attached to my cars. See also various Chevettes, Cortinas, a Maestro and even a Focus.) I am now confined to two pedal-driven wheels and the odd bog-standard hire car. For shame.
But life (and tea) goes on, so here's a picture of yoghurt-marinaded lamb cutlets, from a recent Guardian Weekend. Dog easy to make, and more for lunch tomorrow. This weekend I've a vegetarian guest, so it seemed only right to fill my face with bolt-gunned fluffy mammal. It was good, too, and there might be some ice cream to follow. I'm writing this having paused Synechdoche, New York, a film that seems to have been made largely in order to prove that I am a particularly dim sort of Philistine. Why is the basement on fire? WHY? To quote someone more on my level, it's like school dinner curries.

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