Tuesday, 5 January 2016

On Food and Fallout.

Whilst eating my post-shower slice of buttered toast tonight (which sometimes extends, accompanied by a sense of abject worthlessness, into slices) it occurred to me that my habit of taking breakfast before I go to bed might be considered odd. (All I have in the morning is a small glass of grapefruit juice and a small handful of hemp seeds accompanied by a glorious sense of worthiness.) The old adage has it that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. In my case, my stomach seems to point the way to the Usheresque landscape of my brain.

And talking of Usheresque, I had one difficulty with The Fall of the House of Usher: Roderick. Not the character – he’s fascinating – but the name. Every time I read it, a picture kept forming in what passes for a mind on a good day – a picture of an irreverent crowd calling on the Roman Governor of Judea to Welease Woddewick. The humour seemed tragically misplaced.

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