mehrunnisa, at home in london, writing solo
a great many ‘re-entries’ have happened since i last wrote. i went to the office for the first time since mid-march last year. i ate dinner inside a restaurant. i met several friends and had the most perfect sunday that was planned and spontaneous as it involved lunch and a walk up parliament hill. the happenings of the week felt a bit like rupert brooke’s poem ‘the great lover’ particularly the lines that follow:
“These I have loved;
White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,
Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;
Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust
Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;
Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;
And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;
And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,
Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;
Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss
Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is
Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen
Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;
The benison of hot water; furs to touch;
The good smell of old clothes; and other such—
The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,
Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers
About dead leaves and last year's ferns. . . .”
in that vein, this is what i have loved in the past few days, (noted with far less eloquence but with as much feeling as brooke).
shy and retiring tight fisted peonies bursting into frilly blooms. they remind me of making many layered paper flowers. or fashioning roses from lengths of silk.
delicious plates of food at brawn which omair took me to celebrate my birthday. it was the first dinner inside a restaurant since the lockdown ended. brawn has seen several birthday celebrations and it felt wonderful to be back. and to find that it was much like its old self. my favourites from the evening were the grilled spears of asparagus sitting on top of a pool of ajo blanco, preserved lemons, hazelnuts and plenty of herbs, omair’s smoked eel on toast, mustard & watercress which he shared generously and a soft and wobbly buttermilk panna cotta.
we also returned to quality chop house for dinner with one of omair’s clients, a soft spoken gentleman with much wisdom to share and an enviable knowledge of art, wine and travel. a soft summer breeze worked its way through the space through open doors and windows. there was deceptively light smoked cod's roe for starters that we had on thick slices of bread before moving onto a platter of bone-in ribeye, thick fingers of confit potatoes and a mixed leaf salad with a sharp dressing. we were less successful at sharing a single helping of madagascan chocolate ice cream, vanilla custard, olive oil. omair had the lion's share.
there was the joy of being reunited with my work family. by this i mean colleagues who have gone the extra mile to offer a helping hand and to help navigate tricky and difficult times. the office itself was like a time capsule, as if it had stopped in time last year and was lying in wait for life within it to be resumed.
conversation of a staccato pace with m and t at lunch at cafe deco where the outdoor dining takes place on supremely uncomfortable stools. the plates of food were delicious. sharp and peppery radishes that led us to ask our server about their provenance since neither m nor i have ever been able to find them. apparently they were from essex. fried friggitelli peppers with long anchovies draped over and some grated egg. it was an unlikely combination that worked perfectly.
a gift of new books - menus that made history by vincent franklin and alex johnson and memorial drive by natasha trethewey.
things to remember: all the birthday love, the pleasure of rediscovering familiar old places, the patience and bravery of all of us separated from people we love and how we take it in our stride
things to forget: how little we learn from history, the cruelty of humankind, the daily experience of being a woman in a world that is intentionally designed to be hostile
Jenny, at home, late, going solo
This summer I went swimming. In the same way as I remember the feel of the headphones that attached to my parents’ stereo when I put on the fancy ones I have now — the metal grilles of the speakers used to heat up and leave their imprints on my ears — I remember the old leisure centres I learned to swim in when I go to the Olympic-sized pool.
It’s open again, with masks in the foyer and a one-way system in the changing rooms. I have to pick a lane and book it, which gives me a flying start on the mild dread of having to navigate the (mostly male) aggression that sets my pace. But that bit is pre-COVID normal.
It’s normal too for memories to swim to the surface; I’ve got so many more of them now than I did in the days when I toured the pools of the provincial towns. Living through the pandemic has done something to the way I remember, though, and these mornings when I swim, I try to work out what.
Until I get distracted, that is. 50 metres is a long way and a big test of my limited spatial awareness and unending social awkwardness. I’m sort of strong sometimes, and not always insubstantial, but I quail in the wake of the club swimmers as I get buffeted against the lane markers. I’m always on the ropes.
Or nearly always. Every so often the lane clears as it never did when I was a club swimmer, and I push off into sunshine rather than surf. I don’t have to hurry up or wait, ostentatiously kick on or surreptitiously tread water. I remember the old 25- and 33-and-a-third-metre pools, with their gritty floors and formative dramas, back in the days of scratching my parents’ LPs, and I think about how far I’ve swum.
Things to remember: my mask to take to the swimming pool, the first lunch out since lockdown, Christmas presents in June
Things to forget: a place being so exhausted by events that its whole population needs a day off, neither the place nor its people getting the day off, the ramifications