What are you writing?
- Thread starter luka
- Start date
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- time travel
you
Well-known member
ha, unseen data.... Tea, you know, considering my course, exactly what I'll suggest next...go all rave politics and talk of seeing data in sound waves, go to a club and see the whirlpools of bass dancing around your shins.... sound is unseen but also data just like the ancient data you describe...Pareidolia, Lossy MP3 analogies abound.... you could get quite into this..... ◍ℾ ✞ℾץ ⅉɲṿℯƨ✞ⅉℊặ✞ⅉɲℊ ℬⅉặữℾặ⅃ ƨ◍ữɲđƨ, λξs BI▲Uᴙ▲⎳ s●Uɴↁs!!!
mistersloane
heavy heavy monster sound
Mr. Tea
Let's Talk About Ceps
Sounds pretty cool. Never had synaesthesia myself, just Mayan deities and existential dread...yawn...
Mr. Tea
Let's Talk About Ceps
Stories from another London: collected strange tales from One Eye Grey, vol 2 - out today - and I'm in it! Just £3.03 for kindle. Wicked gear.
mistersloane
heavy heavy monster sound
Proper job m8, congrats!
you
Well-known member
it's for a voice actor to record and have played into a dark space - verdict?
So, I walked into this space.
You know when you feel a little lighter, and you have that tingly feeling?
It was dark, touch cold –and kinda quiet.
I felt something drawing me in, I was just getting pulled.
Reminded me of a summer I spent on the coast in Conil
As I walked out to the surf I got that moment when you notice that the water rushing around your, knees, calves and feet is just soooo much colder than the warm surf from back where it’s shallower.
Had that heavy, weighty feeling right in my chest at the time, - the sense of the sea’s massive black expanse dawning on me.
…my beach towel, my cap with my watch and wallet hidden beneath it just felt like a million miles away.
I had an urge to return – but I wanted to swim out to the bouy, I was already on my way.
The waves were just so strong, sucking me out.
I was a bad swimmer, not a real swimmer, but what I lacked in technique I made up for in effort. I’d thrash the waves, pound them, wringing my neck this way and that. My wet flapping hair was MY speedometer.
I reached the buoy, totally exhausted by this point, I hadn’t really thought I’d have to get back and had just trashed myself getting out to the boy – fighting the waves swimming away from the omnipresent cold of the sea, whatever.
So once there I held onto this red bouy for a couple minutes.
It was actually pretty tough, the thing was moving up and down, to and fro, it was slimy, and holding on the a two foot wide ball at chest height whilst treading water was hard anyway.
I felt torn, I couldn’t swim back, just the thought of swimming back made me dizzy, all that thrashing about will have to wait.
But I also knew that waiting with the buoy was tiring me out too.
After a couple minutes it occurred to me that I could let go of the buoy AND not swim, just float, lie back and chill.
I just leaned back and totally gave myself up to the big black sea, arched my back, spread my arms and crucified myself on her.
Lying, or rather floating there, awaiting my composure’s return I closed my eyes.
Navy, Purple, Ochre, Crimson and Carmine jostled for position.
Darkly textured nebulae formed, looming, threatening to engulf me like the lurking beasts at the end of my bed.
The shapes were torturous, I just an overwhelming sense of unease, these threatening, sinister crawling surfaces.
Floating there, weightless, I became so aware of my body, of my limbs.
My feet stretching out miles in front of me
My cold fingers tickled the horizon.
I started to wriggle my toes and spread my fingers wide, sending motor impulses and blood over to these far flung satellites of my brain.
I’d lay waiting for the warmth of movement, the satisfaction of flexing, to return - sometimes it took an eternity.
I’m not sure if I fell asleep or if I just began to day dream a lot – but when I opened my eyes I felt really refreshed, that smug feeling, satisfied feeling you get after a nap on Sunday afternoon, but my feet were so cold.
In fact, they were very cold, numb.
I opened my eyes, and noticed the sun was now on my right.
I may have been floating for some time.
I started sank back off my back and started treading water again.
Now the sun wasn’t so strong I could barely make out my feet.
Squinting down into the sea, peering through the glinting surface, I could barely make out the pale pearlescent clumps dancing beneath me.
Seemed odd, like they were out of synch with my treading, the refracting water giving the impression that time runs slower down there.
I turned to see the bouy, it must’ve been a good twenty odd meters away.
I pottered over too it, well swam, breast stroke – the scene was to serene to spoil with my, manic thrash of a front crawl.
The bouy was, darker then before, and I sorta crossed my mind that it had less slime on it.
I couldn’t know for sure if I’d drifted to the next bouy along or if it just looked darker and less slimy because the light was fading.
I suddenly noticed how much I needed to get back to the beach and eat, debating with myself about the whereabouts of the original bouy was pointless, so I just started swimming.
sea sounds
I had no idea how long I’d swam for
Maybe half an hour, maybe longer, I hadn’t passed any other bouys, and I could see light’s over on the shore – so I was on course. No doubt.
Good job I’d gone to the beach myself today, if my dad was waiting he’d be going mental and my mum would be worrying, but that’s a small problem really, the big problem, the one thing I’m feeling pretty smug about avoiding, would be hearing them go on and on and on and on about it for the rest of the holiday- and I’m stuck in Conil for 2 weeks before going back to my uncles in Seville. Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents, sure, and I’m not impatient or stroppy generally, but having to put up with hearing the same anecdote over and over again is torture.
It’s psychological torture actually, torture is used to break people so they give in and blab, repetition, endless repetition, embarrassment over and over again, you lose track of time and how it started and just slip closer to the breaking point, which for me would just be lobbing a glass of coke and running off rather than divulging some big CIA secret – check me.
I decided I needed a break from swimming, it was dark now, well, kinda dark, like a really dark turquoise over the orange fuzz of the beach.
I turned around and the sky was a deep deep navy with stars everywhere, well not even stars, just massive wisps of white, like spilling flour on a dark blue serving plate.
You could make out some stars, or planets, or satellites, but the amount of white and different degrees of blue, green and purple behind all the main flickering ones looked really beautiful, you don’t see that in London, ever.
Turned around to start swimming again, not sure if the orange fuzz over the bars near the beach had diminished or if the dark sky over had had got darker, but it kinda looked smaller, like it was further away – I guess as the last little bit of light faded the perspective changes slightly, I don’t know.
I swam for a good half an hour, must’ve been.
I was super hungry, starving.
Slowly I noticed I was getting closer and closer to the beach.
Sort of made the effort worth it, I was cold now and just needed to get back there and get dry.
Keep swimming.
Sea sounds
I could only see orange lights now, couldn’t see my hands or feet or anything except the water reflecting these dazzling orange lights.
I was like a dumb moth just killing itself to reach the light, I even felt like I was behaving like a moth, breast stroke is like flying, flapping in a way.
I just had to keep swimming on and on and on.
I really hadn’t a clue about time by that point, maybe an hour since I rested, I dunno.
All I knew is that I was starving, cold and determined to get to those lights on that sure even if it killed me.
I wanted to count, to keep pace and focus, but then I got some water in my mouth, I’m not sure if I was mouthing the numbers of if I was just saying it in my head, any how, the sea water made me mad, I put all my frustration into those taunting orange lights, swim swim swim.
Then something hit my knee, I had to swim fast now, I am not faffing around with some shark or stingray or whatever.
Odd, you never actually freak out about those things until you start thinking of them – now I was thinking of them.
Thinking is putting it lightly, I was pretty much petrified.
Another knock to the same knee.
I started thinking about the aggressive tactics I saw sharks use with divers on some documentary once, they swim up, just nose you then dart away in a flash.
My index finger grazed something.
Then it dug into sand, bugger, how long had I been swimming about in knee high water?
I stood up, and jogged over the beach, it felt different in the dark, not quite as holiday-y.
I couldn’t see my towel or my cap that had my watch and wallet underneath it. I was never going to find it in the dark.
Best bet for food would just be head back over to the house.
Trudging over the sand I see that the light’s are actually some way up a big bank, I thought about walking round to the stairs, where I came down from, but just wanted to get onto that road asap.
I got to the bottom of this bank and there, right in front of me is a door.
Luck.
I pulled but it was super heavy, or jammed, gave it a yank and it just didn’t budge, so carefully I looked down checked my left foot is clear of it’s path, popped my other foot against the concrete next to the handle and heaved with all my might.
It resisted for a second before just jumping open, flinging my arms away, I twisted backwards as it crashed against the wall on the other side. Warm air rushed out.
Now, it’s always a little unnerving stepping into dark enclosed spaces, I’m not claustrophobic, but just a little voice in your head tells you it could be a really bad idea.
But the other side of my brain was telling me that doors are for access, and this one was leading away from the beach, I needed to get off the beach so this is my door.
I had a look inside but couldn’t see anything.
It was pretty dark.
I wanted to see the floor most of all because I was barefoot still but couldn’t see that.
Sod it.
So, I walked into this space.
You know when you feel a little lighter, and you have that tingly feeling?
It was dark, touch cold –and kinda quiet.
I felt something drawing me in, I was just getting pulled.
Reminded me of a summer I spent on the coast in Conil
As I walked out to the surf I got that moment when you notice that the water rushing around your, knees, calves and feet is just soooo much colder than the warm surf from back where it’s shallower.
Had that heavy, weighty feeling right in my chest at the time, - the sense of the sea’s massive black expanse dawning on me.
…my beach towel, my cap with my watch and wallet hidden beneath it just felt like a million miles away.
I had an urge to return – but I wanted to swim out to the bouy, I was already on my way.
The waves were just so strong, sucking me out.
I was a bad swimmer, not a real swimmer, but what I lacked in technique I made up for in effort. I’d thrash the waves, pound them, wringing my neck this way and that. My wet flapping hair was MY speedometer.
I reached the buoy, totally exhausted by this point, I hadn’t really thought I’d have to get back and had just trashed myself getting out to the boy – fighting the waves swimming away from the omnipresent cold of the sea, whatever.
So once there I held onto this red bouy for a couple minutes.
It was actually pretty tough, the thing was moving up and down, to and fro, it was slimy, and holding on the a two foot wide ball at chest height whilst treading water was hard anyway.
I felt torn, I couldn’t swim back, just the thought of swimming back made me dizzy, all that thrashing about will have to wait.
But I also knew that waiting with the buoy was tiring me out too.
After a couple minutes it occurred to me that I could let go of the buoy AND not swim, just float, lie back and chill.
I just leaned back and totally gave myself up to the big black sea, arched my back, spread my arms and crucified myself on her.
Lying, or rather floating there, awaiting my composure’s return I closed my eyes.
Navy, Purple, Ochre, Crimson and Carmine jostled for position.
Darkly textured nebulae formed, looming, threatening to engulf me like the lurking beasts at the end of my bed.
The shapes were torturous, I just an overwhelming sense of unease, these threatening, sinister crawling surfaces.
Floating there, weightless, I became so aware of my body, of my limbs.
My feet stretching out miles in front of me
My cold fingers tickled the horizon.
I started to wriggle my toes and spread my fingers wide, sending motor impulses and blood over to these far flung satellites of my brain.
I’d lay waiting for the warmth of movement, the satisfaction of flexing, to return - sometimes it took an eternity.
I’m not sure if I fell asleep or if I just began to day dream a lot – but when I opened my eyes I felt really refreshed, that smug feeling, satisfied feeling you get after a nap on Sunday afternoon, but my feet were so cold.
In fact, they were very cold, numb.
I opened my eyes, and noticed the sun was now on my right.
I may have been floating for some time.
I started sank back off my back and started treading water again.
Now the sun wasn’t so strong I could barely make out my feet.
Squinting down into the sea, peering through the glinting surface, I could barely make out the pale pearlescent clumps dancing beneath me.
Seemed odd, like they were out of synch with my treading, the refracting water giving the impression that time runs slower down there.
I turned to see the bouy, it must’ve been a good twenty odd meters away.
I pottered over too it, well swam, breast stroke – the scene was to serene to spoil with my, manic thrash of a front crawl.
The bouy was, darker then before, and I sorta crossed my mind that it had less slime on it.
I couldn’t know for sure if I’d drifted to the next bouy along or if it just looked darker and less slimy because the light was fading.
I suddenly noticed how much I needed to get back to the beach and eat, debating with myself about the whereabouts of the original bouy was pointless, so I just started swimming.
sea sounds
I had no idea how long I’d swam for
Maybe half an hour, maybe longer, I hadn’t passed any other bouys, and I could see light’s over on the shore – so I was on course. No doubt.
Good job I’d gone to the beach myself today, if my dad was waiting he’d be going mental and my mum would be worrying, but that’s a small problem really, the big problem, the one thing I’m feeling pretty smug about avoiding, would be hearing them go on and on and on and on about it for the rest of the holiday- and I’m stuck in Conil for 2 weeks before going back to my uncles in Seville. Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents, sure, and I’m not impatient or stroppy generally, but having to put up with hearing the same anecdote over and over again is torture.
It’s psychological torture actually, torture is used to break people so they give in and blab, repetition, endless repetition, embarrassment over and over again, you lose track of time and how it started and just slip closer to the breaking point, which for me would just be lobbing a glass of coke and running off rather than divulging some big CIA secret – check me.
I decided I needed a break from swimming, it was dark now, well, kinda dark, like a really dark turquoise over the orange fuzz of the beach.
I turned around and the sky was a deep deep navy with stars everywhere, well not even stars, just massive wisps of white, like spilling flour on a dark blue serving plate.
You could make out some stars, or planets, or satellites, but the amount of white and different degrees of blue, green and purple behind all the main flickering ones looked really beautiful, you don’t see that in London, ever.
Turned around to start swimming again, not sure if the orange fuzz over the bars near the beach had diminished or if the dark sky over had had got darker, but it kinda looked smaller, like it was further away – I guess as the last little bit of light faded the perspective changes slightly, I don’t know.
I swam for a good half an hour, must’ve been.
I was super hungry, starving.
Slowly I noticed I was getting closer and closer to the beach.
Sort of made the effort worth it, I was cold now and just needed to get back there and get dry.
Keep swimming.
Sea sounds
I could only see orange lights now, couldn’t see my hands or feet or anything except the water reflecting these dazzling orange lights.
I was like a dumb moth just killing itself to reach the light, I even felt like I was behaving like a moth, breast stroke is like flying, flapping in a way.
I just had to keep swimming on and on and on.
I really hadn’t a clue about time by that point, maybe an hour since I rested, I dunno.
All I knew is that I was starving, cold and determined to get to those lights on that sure even if it killed me.
I wanted to count, to keep pace and focus, but then I got some water in my mouth, I’m not sure if I was mouthing the numbers of if I was just saying it in my head, any how, the sea water made me mad, I put all my frustration into those taunting orange lights, swim swim swim.
Then something hit my knee, I had to swim fast now, I am not faffing around with some shark or stingray or whatever.
Odd, you never actually freak out about those things until you start thinking of them – now I was thinking of them.
Thinking is putting it lightly, I was pretty much petrified.
Another knock to the same knee.
I started thinking about the aggressive tactics I saw sharks use with divers on some documentary once, they swim up, just nose you then dart away in a flash.
My index finger grazed something.
Then it dug into sand, bugger, how long had I been swimming about in knee high water?
I stood up, and jogged over the beach, it felt different in the dark, not quite as holiday-y.
I couldn’t see my towel or my cap that had my watch and wallet underneath it. I was never going to find it in the dark.
Best bet for food would just be head back over to the house.
Trudging over the sand I see that the light’s are actually some way up a big bank, I thought about walking round to the stairs, where I came down from, but just wanted to get onto that road asap.
I got to the bottom of this bank and there, right in front of me is a door.
Luck.
I pulled but it was super heavy, or jammed, gave it a yank and it just didn’t budge, so carefully I looked down checked my left foot is clear of it’s path, popped my other foot against the concrete next to the handle and heaved with all my might.
It resisted for a second before just jumping open, flinging my arms away, I twisted backwards as it crashed against the wall on the other side. Warm air rushed out.
Now, it’s always a little unnerving stepping into dark enclosed spaces, I’m not claustrophobic, but just a little voice in your head tells you it could be a really bad idea.
But the other side of my brain was telling me that doors are for access, and this one was leading away from the beach, I needed to get off the beach so this is my door.
I had a look inside but couldn’t see anything.
It was pretty dark.
I wanted to see the floor most of all because I was barefoot still but couldn’t see that.
Sod it.
Bangpuss
Well-known member
Mr Tea, you know how a few years ago we started to hear the phrase "YouTube Sensation" as a signifier of a person whose music/comedy etc. became unexpectedly popular after they put it on YouTube (usually, you imagine, with little hope of becoming a huge celebrity)? I'm thinking of Bo Burnham and that fat bloke who does movie parodies who then went to star alongside William H. Macy in a movie (talk about postmodern audience-slash-critic-becomes-star shit, right?).
Well I think you could be one of the first Kindle Sensations. Admittedly, that sounds like the name of a chocolate egg, but we are already beginning to see these people, Kindle Sensations, appear. Like this girl, Amanda Hocking, who at 27 is being compared in this article (for some reason, I don't really get it) to John Locke: http://nabeelahj.wordpress.com/2012...ng-the-27-year-old-self-publishing-sensation/
(This probably deserves another thread, but fuck it it's Saturday morning and I'm on a roll.) I'm all for people making their own art and independently treading the pavements promoting it. Although when I lived in Wimbledon I encountered a woman trying to sell her novel door-to-door, which is a very odd way to go about it. So you'd think I'd be in favour of the Kindle and all that, since it 'democratises' publishing and allows writers to get their stuff out there in long-form like bloggers have been doing for years now. But Amazon? Really? It's so fahcking annoying that even going it alone and self-publishing, if successful, will end up lining the pockets of a multinational corporation. And that's the primary reason I won't be doing it. Not that I judge anyone who does. Good luck Ollie, I think we're in for a Kindle Surprise
! (Oh Jesus, that's a terrible joke.)
Well I think you could be one of the first Kindle Sensations. Admittedly, that sounds like the name of a chocolate egg, but we are already beginning to see these people, Kindle Sensations, appear. Like this girl, Amanda Hocking, who at 27 is being compared in this article (for some reason, I don't really get it) to John Locke: http://nabeelahj.wordpress.com/2012...ng-the-27-year-old-self-publishing-sensation/
(This probably deserves another thread, but fuck it it's Saturday morning and I'm on a roll.) I'm all for people making their own art and independently treading the pavements promoting it. Although when I lived in Wimbledon I encountered a woman trying to sell her novel door-to-door, which is a very odd way to go about it. So you'd think I'd be in favour of the Kindle and all that, since it 'democratises' publishing and allows writers to get their stuff out there in long-form like bloggers have been doing for years now. But Amazon? Really? It's so fahcking annoying that even going it alone and self-publishing, if successful, will end up lining the pockets of a multinational corporation. And that's the primary reason I won't be doing it. Not that I judge anyone who does. Good luck Ollie, I think we're in for a Kindle Surprise
! (Oh Jesus, that's a terrible joke.)
Bangpuss
Well-known member
Mr. Tea
Let's Talk About Ceps
Hey Lewis, only just seen your post about 'Kindle Sensations' - well, I like the idea, but I'll kind of need to write something a bit longer and more novel-like than the short novella I put up there for a few pence. I'm trying to find out how to set the price to zero, just to get a few more people to DL it and have a read, but it seems the minimum price is set to 99c even though I'm sure there's an option to publish stuff for free when you actually set it up...
Anyway, new story time!
Anyway, new story time!
Bangpuss
Well-known member
If you're giving it away for free, surely you can just post it online. Then you don't have to go through Amazon. But maybe you think using Amazon as a shop window helps, or gives it more validity. Haven't tried either, so I'm not sure. Have you tried sending your stories to any literary mags/journals? I have the contact details for a couple if you like.
Haven't read the whole story, but it seems very House of Leaves.
Haven't read the whole story, but it seems very House of Leaves.
Mr. Tea
Let's Talk About Ceps
Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterdinnerpartei
"Do we have to go? Can't we just get a takeaway, or nip round to that nice Italian on Charlotte Street?"
Jessica's intonation is wheedling, pleading, though she's doing her best to sound casual and reasonable. It nearly works.
"Darling, we've been through this already. He's doing that...duck thing, with the cherry glaze. And Tom says he might be making Earl Grey sorbet again. He hasn't made that since last April and people are still talking about it. Come on, get your jacket. We're going." Jess looks at me, her face a blank mask of resignation. The argument is a sham and we both know it. We both know we're going, we've know it all evening. It's the first Saturday of the month, and that means one thing. Dinner at Patrick's.
Patrick Maurice throws dinner parties. That's the first thing you should know about him. If you know what's good for you, it's the last thing you should know about him, too. Jess and I heard about him through friends, who'd heard about him through friends of their own...no-one can remember how this extended group of acquaintances that has coalesced around him originally formed. He's pleasant enough when you first meet him, of course. Chances are it'll be in the Fitzroy Tavern, or the bar at the Phoenix theatre. A few are introduced to him at his house; a stylish three-story late-Georgian residence, part of a terrace facing onto a small, attractive square on the western edge of Bloomsbury. What they don't know is that they have the chance to flee, to save themselves. They can make some excuse during the introductions and pre-dinner G&Ts, feign a sudden attack of some illness, whatever it takes...but they don't know. We didn't know. And soon we were ushered into his dining room, and the first course was served. And that was it - hooked.
So far, this might not seem so bad. The food...well, I'll get to that. Soon you'll understand the bind we're in. Everything would be fantastic, were it not for one fundamental problem. The fly in the ointment that makes the first Saturday evening of the month a living hell. The problem is none other than Patrick himself. Patrick, to put it bluntly, is a cunt.
"Well, here we all are again!", he exclaims over-brightly as he bustles into the dining room bearing a tray of vol-au-vents. Nervous smiles from the assembled diners: Tom and Maria, old friends of ours from college days and the ones who originally introduced us to Patrick; Maria's cousin Alice and her new boyfriend Darius; Paul and Gareth, who are recent additions to the circle; Jess and me.
It will begin innocuously enough. It always does. Polite small-talk, bland remarks and semi-jokes that evoke unnecessarily loud laughter. It could be the start of any dinner party in any upper-middle class neighbourhood of this or any other city in the country. But behind the smiles and titters, each of us will sense a background of apprehension in the others; not just apprehension but misery, terror...and ultimately resignation. We all know there is no way out. Not now.
Patrick busies himself serving the hors d’oeuvre and I feel a knot form in my stomach. Without looking round I know each of the others is undergoing the same sensation. Jess reaches for my hand under the table and gives it an urgent squeeze; I glance sidelong at her and squeeze back, hoping my smile looks more reassuring than it feels. Meaningless pleasantries wash over us, glasses of New Zealand sauvingnon blanc are refreshed and Patrick chirps "Right then, shall we tuck in?"
Oh Christ, here we go...I extend my hand to the stylish square plate in front of me and pick up one of the three tiny circular pastries. As I raise it to my mouth the delicate scent of it reaches my nose: flaky, buttery pastry and something sharper, salty - anchovy? I pop the little morsel into my mouth whole, and then it hits me. Tapenade of anchovy and black olive, possibly with a hint of some kind of sherry vinegar. It is beyond perfect. Jess has her left hand on my thigh to steady herself and I can tell when the taste hits her because her nails suddenly dig into my flesh the way they used to when we first started fucking. There is an almost simultaneous chorus of barely audible groans from around the table and I open my eyes, unaware I'd even shut them. Paul and Gareth are looking at each other with unalloyed pleasure - but then, this is only their second time here, they might think last month was some kind of aberration. But the other four are exchanging glances with each other and with Jess and me, now we've each swallowed that introductory mouthful. We know the food is only going to get better but - the rest of it? That hasn't even begun.
Patrick is glancing around the table with a pleased look on his face as we each reach for a second vol-au-vent. This time it's goat's cheese, the most amazing goat's cheese I've ever tasted - where in God's name does he get this stuff? - with, oh what is it now...smoked paprika? No, sumac perhaps...it's spicy, smoky, pungent and yet not so strong as to overpower the cheese, which is simultaneously musky and sweet. The pastry, predictably, is so light as to virtually disintegrate on the tongue. I'm about to devour the third one, which by the look and smell of it promises raspberries with some kind of balsamic glaze, when Patrick's question cuts through the air like a knife.
"So, Maria: how's the new job going?", he beams pleasantly.
Maria has 'worked in fashion' for as long as any of us have known her. For years this meant working the vintage clothes stalls in Notting Hill market although recently she joined a small design house in a junior administrative role. We've all known she was in the running for joint creative director after the founder took a shine to some designs Maria had posted on her blog - we've also known her hopes were dashed last week after the founder decided to appoint her own sister instead. Patrick surely knew this too. He knows everything about all of us, seemingly.
Maria chokes demurely on her last vol-au-vent and manages, after a few agonized seconds, to put a brave face on. "Oh that - um, that's not happening now, actually. But, you know, onwards and upwards!" she finishes lamely.
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that!" replies Patrick, making an almost convincing expression of surprise and sympathy. With the possible exception of the new boys, none of us is fooled, and Patrick knows it. That doesn't matter though. This is how it works, how it always works. Fucking cunt.
The rest of us seem to have been spared from our host's genial enquiries into our lives for the first course at least, and as the last vol-au-vent melts sublimely in my mouth (raspberries with soy sauce, not balsamic - how the hell does he come up with this shit? the man's an alchemist) there is an almost palpable sigh of relief. I steal a glance at Maria and she looks like she can't decide whether to feel relieved that her persecution has been got over and done with early on, or apprehensive that she's to be this evening's designated punch-bag. Tom has surreptitiously slid his arm around her and I see him give her waist a reassuring little squeeze. Fat lot of good that'll do if Patrick really decides to go for her, I think to myself. Naturally I'm hoping the special object of his venom this evening will be not me, and that each of my fellow-diners - the more experienced ones, anyway - is feeling the same. With an awful pang of guilt I realize I'd almost rather he picked on Jess, though this tempered by the thought that she's probably thinking the same thing about me.
"Do we have to go? Can't we just get a takeaway, or nip round to that nice Italian on Charlotte Street?"
Jessica's intonation is wheedling, pleading, though she's doing her best to sound casual and reasonable. It nearly works.
"Darling, we've been through this already. He's doing that...duck thing, with the cherry glaze. And Tom says he might be making Earl Grey sorbet again. He hasn't made that since last April and people are still talking about it. Come on, get your jacket. We're going." Jess looks at me, her face a blank mask of resignation. The argument is a sham and we both know it. We both know we're going, we've know it all evening. It's the first Saturday of the month, and that means one thing. Dinner at Patrick's.
Patrick Maurice throws dinner parties. That's the first thing you should know about him. If you know what's good for you, it's the last thing you should know about him, too. Jess and I heard about him through friends, who'd heard about him through friends of their own...no-one can remember how this extended group of acquaintances that has coalesced around him originally formed. He's pleasant enough when you first meet him, of course. Chances are it'll be in the Fitzroy Tavern, or the bar at the Phoenix theatre. A few are introduced to him at his house; a stylish three-story late-Georgian residence, part of a terrace facing onto a small, attractive square on the western edge of Bloomsbury. What they don't know is that they have the chance to flee, to save themselves. They can make some excuse during the introductions and pre-dinner G&Ts, feign a sudden attack of some illness, whatever it takes...but they don't know. We didn't know. And soon we were ushered into his dining room, and the first course was served. And that was it - hooked.
So far, this might not seem so bad. The food...well, I'll get to that. Soon you'll understand the bind we're in. Everything would be fantastic, were it not for one fundamental problem. The fly in the ointment that makes the first Saturday evening of the month a living hell. The problem is none other than Patrick himself. Patrick, to put it bluntly, is a cunt.
"Well, here we all are again!", he exclaims over-brightly as he bustles into the dining room bearing a tray of vol-au-vents. Nervous smiles from the assembled diners: Tom and Maria, old friends of ours from college days and the ones who originally introduced us to Patrick; Maria's cousin Alice and her new boyfriend Darius; Paul and Gareth, who are recent additions to the circle; Jess and me.
It will begin innocuously enough. It always does. Polite small-talk, bland remarks and semi-jokes that evoke unnecessarily loud laughter. It could be the start of any dinner party in any upper-middle class neighbourhood of this or any other city in the country. But behind the smiles and titters, each of us will sense a background of apprehension in the others; not just apprehension but misery, terror...and ultimately resignation. We all know there is no way out. Not now.
Patrick busies himself serving the hors d’oeuvre and I feel a knot form in my stomach. Without looking round I know each of the others is undergoing the same sensation. Jess reaches for my hand under the table and gives it an urgent squeeze; I glance sidelong at her and squeeze back, hoping my smile looks more reassuring than it feels. Meaningless pleasantries wash over us, glasses of New Zealand sauvingnon blanc are refreshed and Patrick chirps "Right then, shall we tuck in?"
Oh Christ, here we go...I extend my hand to the stylish square plate in front of me and pick up one of the three tiny circular pastries. As I raise it to my mouth the delicate scent of it reaches my nose: flaky, buttery pastry and something sharper, salty - anchovy? I pop the little morsel into my mouth whole, and then it hits me. Tapenade of anchovy and black olive, possibly with a hint of some kind of sherry vinegar. It is beyond perfect. Jess has her left hand on my thigh to steady herself and I can tell when the taste hits her because her nails suddenly dig into my flesh the way they used to when we first started fucking. There is an almost simultaneous chorus of barely audible groans from around the table and I open my eyes, unaware I'd even shut them. Paul and Gareth are looking at each other with unalloyed pleasure - but then, this is only their second time here, they might think last month was some kind of aberration. But the other four are exchanging glances with each other and with Jess and me, now we've each swallowed that introductory mouthful. We know the food is only going to get better but - the rest of it? That hasn't even begun.
Patrick is glancing around the table with a pleased look on his face as we each reach for a second vol-au-vent. This time it's goat's cheese, the most amazing goat's cheese I've ever tasted - where in God's name does he get this stuff? - with, oh what is it now...smoked paprika? No, sumac perhaps...it's spicy, smoky, pungent and yet not so strong as to overpower the cheese, which is simultaneously musky and sweet. The pastry, predictably, is so light as to virtually disintegrate on the tongue. I'm about to devour the third one, which by the look and smell of it promises raspberries with some kind of balsamic glaze, when Patrick's question cuts through the air like a knife.
"So, Maria: how's the new job going?", he beams pleasantly.
Maria has 'worked in fashion' for as long as any of us have known her. For years this meant working the vintage clothes stalls in Notting Hill market although recently she joined a small design house in a junior administrative role. We've all known she was in the running for joint creative director after the founder took a shine to some designs Maria had posted on her blog - we've also known her hopes were dashed last week after the founder decided to appoint her own sister instead. Patrick surely knew this too. He knows everything about all of us, seemingly.
Maria chokes demurely on her last vol-au-vent and manages, after a few agonized seconds, to put a brave face on. "Oh that - um, that's not happening now, actually. But, you know, onwards and upwards!" she finishes lamely.
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that!" replies Patrick, making an almost convincing expression of surprise and sympathy. With the possible exception of the new boys, none of us is fooled, and Patrick knows it. That doesn't matter though. This is how it works, how it always works. Fucking cunt.
The rest of us seem to have been spared from our host's genial enquiries into our lives for the first course at least, and as the last vol-au-vent melts sublimely in my mouth (raspberries with soy sauce, not balsamic - how the hell does he come up with this shit? the man's an alchemist) there is an almost palpable sigh of relief. I steal a glance at Maria and she looks like she can't decide whether to feel relieved that her persecution has been got over and done with early on, or apprehensive that she's to be this evening's designated punch-bag. Tom has surreptitiously slid his arm around her and I see him give her waist a reassuring little squeeze. Fat lot of good that'll do if Patrick really decides to go for her, I think to myself. Naturally I'm hoping the special object of his venom this evening will be not me, and that each of my fellow-diners - the more experienced ones, anyway - is feeling the same. With an awful pang of guilt I realize I'd almost rather he picked on Jess, though this tempered by the thought that she's probably thinking the same thing about me.
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Mr. Tea
Let's Talk About Ceps
Dunno where I'm going with it really - just an idea I've been kicking around for a while, decided to do something about it after all that chat about dinner parties.
Not read any DBCP, to be honest. Also, raspberries with soy sauce would probably ming, but it anyone wants to try and prove me wrong, I'd love to hear about it in the flavour combos thread!
Not read any DBCP, to be honest. Also, raspberries with soy sauce would probably ming, but it anyone wants to try and prove me wrong, I'd love to hear about it in the flavour combos thread!
Mr. Tea
Let's Talk About Ceps
There's a scene in The Wild Highway by Mark Manning and Bill Drummond in which an adolescent girl is drugged with curare or puffer fish venom or something, which renders her immobile while completely conscious...and is then slowly dissected and eaten alive by some Japanese businessmen. And that's not even the grossest bit...
mistersloane
heavy heavy monster sound
I trust it'll get much, much worse , look forward to the next installment. I'll save my dinner party anecdotes til you're done. Good thread actually. "Dinner Parties". Jesus even the words make me shudder.
, look forward to the next installment. I'll save my dinner party anecdotes til you're done. Good thread actually. "Dinner Parties". Jesus even the words make me shudder.
Mr. Tea
Let's Talk About Ceps
Our host clears away the plates and a moment's calm descends as he busies himself in the kitchen. Paul looks around at the rest of us and, in a stage whisper, begins to ask "Didn't he know about Mari-" but is cut off by several urgent shushes. "Patrick is a bit...unusual", Maria explains quietly. "Just try not to be too offended if he says anything too...well, anything...", she trails off, leaving Paul to look from her to Gareth, who shrugs his shoulders. They'd witnessed Patrick's verbal evisceration of Darius the previous month but what they don't know is that Patrick was, by his standards, going easy on him. Darius is staring intently at the space on the table recently occupied by his plate, and is staying so resolutely quiet he's practically shouting it from the rooftops.
Then the smell of the main course starts to drift into the dining room. Looking around, I see each of my fellow diners in turn notice it and instantly react. The effect on each of us in the same, and I feel myself react in the same way; we instinctively sit up, our eyes narrow or close completely, all conversation ceases, all trepidation as to the evening's impending social horrors are momentarily forgotten. That smell...it's duck, Jim, but not as we know it. There's a sweet, unctuous richness which should be so overpowering as to be unsavoury, but somehow isn't. The sweetness comes from the cherries which have been - muddled? fermented? God knows - into a sort of elementary essence of cherriness. Patrick finally appears with two whole ducks - he is generous, as well as a genius, insofar as the food goes at least - placed on a huge wooden carving board. We scrabble to clear glasses out of the way to make room for them. Each bird is the colour of seasoned mahogany, glistening brownish-red under the glaze which now smells faintly spirituous. "Duck glazed in cherry brandy, fresh morello cherries and acacia honey", Patrick announces, as if in response to my thoughts.
He disappears back into the kitchen for a moment to get the other dishes, and the spell is momentarily broken. We all look around at each other, glowing with anticipation and acutely aware of how hungry we all still are (one doesn't eat after midday on one of these Saturdays, and it's nearly 9.30 now). Then Patrick is back at the table, bearing steaming dishes: "Potatoes dauphinoise with gruyere and emmenthaler, braised kale with crab apples, melange of New Forest mushrooms with sweet chestnuts and garlic", he informs us. He starts serving up and everything seems to be going well until he comes to serve Alice. He has already piled one spoonful of divine-looking potatoes on her place and is about to deposit another, when he diverts it onto Darius's and says:
"That was close - don't think Mr. Parsani would thank me for overloading Ms. Chapman's plate - quite the full-figured young lady already..." he adds, with a lewd wink towards Darius. Alice gasps and Darius visibly bristles, about to say something but then I fix him with a look, warning him off. We've all been served now and, as if the last few second simply hadn't occurred, Patrick takes his place and declares "Well friends, dig in!".
All thoughts of any developing unpleasantness are pushed from our minds as we take that first forkful. The duck promised much but it exceeds even that; the skin is of unimpeachable crispiness without at any point being tough or chewy, the layer of fat underneath is unctuous without being over-rich...but the flavour, oh the flavour. Savoury meatiness marries with the boozy sweet-sharpness of the glaze, the flesh nearer the bone is delightfully pink and delicate; I take a mouthful of the potatoes before I've finished chewing the first bite of duck and the hot, oily, cheesy surface somehow complements the fruity duck glaze where by rights it should have clashed...I don't care how much of a fucker this guy is, he must have sold his soul to the Devil to be able to cook like this, it all makes a sick kind of sense put like that, actually...mushrooms and chestnuts now, like the concentrated essence of a forest floor on a misty October morning, marrying perfectly with the grand cru Vacqueyra he's served with it...fuck me, this is better than sex, it's better than ecstasy, it's like the two put together but for the tastebuds, oh Jesus how does he do it...
Several minutes pass in which we're just too busy eating to talk, but eventually the pace slackens a little as we settle into that plateau of enjoyable, steady consumption. Small-talk gradually resumes and as I look around the table it could almost pass for a relaxed gathering of friends. Jess and I exchange cheerful glance; perhaps, for once, it isn't going too bad this time.
"So, Tom: you still fucking that French bird of yours?"
Patrick is positively beaming now. Never mind the food, he never seems to particularly enjoy anything he cooks, it's the conversation he really lives for, if you can call it that.
Tom has been momentarily petrified and is staring at Patrick dumbfoundedly. Alice has turned red and is intently studying the wall on the side of the room facing away from her husband.
Then the smell of the main course starts to drift into the dining room. Looking around, I see each of my fellow diners in turn notice it and instantly react. The effect on each of us in the same, and I feel myself react in the same way; we instinctively sit up, our eyes narrow or close completely, all conversation ceases, all trepidation as to the evening's impending social horrors are momentarily forgotten. That smell...it's duck, Jim, but not as we know it. There's a sweet, unctuous richness which should be so overpowering as to be unsavoury, but somehow isn't. The sweetness comes from the cherries which have been - muddled? fermented? God knows - into a sort of elementary essence of cherriness. Patrick finally appears with two whole ducks - he is generous, as well as a genius, insofar as the food goes at least - placed on a huge wooden carving board. We scrabble to clear glasses out of the way to make room for them. Each bird is the colour of seasoned mahogany, glistening brownish-red under the glaze which now smells faintly spirituous. "Duck glazed in cherry brandy, fresh morello cherries and acacia honey", Patrick announces, as if in response to my thoughts.
He disappears back into the kitchen for a moment to get the other dishes, and the spell is momentarily broken. We all look around at each other, glowing with anticipation and acutely aware of how hungry we all still are (one doesn't eat after midday on one of these Saturdays, and it's nearly 9.30 now). Then Patrick is back at the table, bearing steaming dishes: "Potatoes dauphinoise with gruyere and emmenthaler, braised kale with crab apples, melange of New Forest mushrooms with sweet chestnuts and garlic", he informs us. He starts serving up and everything seems to be going well until he comes to serve Alice. He has already piled one spoonful of divine-looking potatoes on her place and is about to deposit another, when he diverts it onto Darius's and says:
"That was close - don't think Mr. Parsani would thank me for overloading Ms. Chapman's plate - quite the full-figured young lady already..." he adds, with a lewd wink towards Darius. Alice gasps and Darius visibly bristles, about to say something but then I fix him with a look, warning him off. We've all been served now and, as if the last few second simply hadn't occurred, Patrick takes his place and declares "Well friends, dig in!".
All thoughts of any developing unpleasantness are pushed from our minds as we take that first forkful. The duck promised much but it exceeds even that; the skin is of unimpeachable crispiness without at any point being tough or chewy, the layer of fat underneath is unctuous without being over-rich...but the flavour, oh the flavour. Savoury meatiness marries with the boozy sweet-sharpness of the glaze, the flesh nearer the bone is delightfully pink and delicate; I take a mouthful of the potatoes before I've finished chewing the first bite of duck and the hot, oily, cheesy surface somehow complements the fruity duck glaze where by rights it should have clashed...I don't care how much of a fucker this guy is, he must have sold his soul to the Devil to be able to cook like this, it all makes a sick kind of sense put like that, actually...mushrooms and chestnuts now, like the concentrated essence of a forest floor on a misty October morning, marrying perfectly with the grand cru Vacqueyra he's served with it...fuck me, this is better than sex, it's better than ecstasy, it's like the two put together but for the tastebuds, oh Jesus how does he do it...
Several minutes pass in which we're just too busy eating to talk, but eventually the pace slackens a little as we settle into that plateau of enjoyable, steady consumption. Small-talk gradually resumes and as I look around the table it could almost pass for a relaxed gathering of friends. Jess and I exchange cheerful glance; perhaps, for once, it isn't going too bad this time.
"So, Tom: you still fucking that French bird of yours?"
Patrick is positively beaming now. Never mind the food, he never seems to particularly enjoy anything he cooks, it's the conversation he really lives for, if you can call it that.
Tom has been momentarily petrified and is staring at Patrick dumbfoundedly. Alice has turned red and is intently studying the wall on the side of the room facing away from her husband.
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