Kitchens can be very lonely places. That is what I thought sitting at the table staring at a single pan of lentils steaming away on the heat. Outside it was dark, and inside it was bare and empty. Now and again water would foam up over the pan and roll down the side sizzling into the flames. God, has any man in history ever been quite as lonely as this? I poured myself a coffee cup of wine, popped another tranquillizer in my mouth and waited for something to emerge from time.

Verity should have been here 27 minutes ago. 9.00pm she said and now it was 3 minutes before half past. I picked up a fork and ran it under my nose. It smelled of dog's breath. I swapped it for the one opposite and peered down into an anaemic plate. It was the first time in weeks I had set the table and it kinda reminded me of something I had forgot. Like my memory had been jogged by a police reconstruction of the crime. No matter, the doorbell would ring soon and Verity would be here spilling out the good news. I tried to let that thought excite me, but what could she possibly have to say that'd make things better? Instead I found myself wishing that John would wander down the hall in his favourite white tennis socks and hard-on. Outside of that happening, I'm not quite sure how good any other news could be.

As the time ticked on I sat listening to bubbling water and going over The Flaming Chef's words in my head:

“pick through the dry lentils... cover by a few inches with vegetable stock... Simmer for twenty minutes with a little minced onion, a spoonful of canned, diced tomato and a splash of dry white wine. Don't add the salt until the end - salt at the beginning will make the lentils tough!”

Well, I had done all that, but what does The Flaming Chef say about what to do when your guest is three hours late, the lentils have boiled dry and you're sitting there in a diazepam stupor hoping that Elvis Costello will wander naked down the hallway? What's his advice then? Because when I next came properly to that's the position I was in.

“Fuck this shit” I screamed, knocking the clock off the wall. With 'just gone midnight' shattered on the floor, I closed the gas and dumped the saucepan in the bin. The cheap ass Morrison's Jam sponge, that was to be our secret dessert, I scraped out the window for the cats. Tonight would be no different from the rest... hours of terrible insomnia buried beneath a mountain of filthy blankets. I killed the lights and in absolute darkness stumbled down the hall. That's when the phone rang...


  1. Boiling, baking, frying, grilling and poaching are all inherently dangerous activities.


  2. The moral battle between vegan and chef is a delicate dance and serving scant, ugly lentils is the perfect opening gambit.

    But her refusal to show up is checkmate, before the game begins.

    Vegan: 1
    Chef: 0

    Diazepamargaritas, perhaps?

    --The Flaming Chef

  3. Yes I saw that comment about Mr. Warhol but I did not believe it. I had been reliably informed he was a nice church going Polish Catholic boy who never abandoned his mother (like some I could name), but had her staying in his basement until the end of her days.

    All this is true. It is also true that he was a degenerate pervert in just about every artistic medium. And thus I have changed my little picture.

    This one is by Mr. Dali, who I believe was a convert to Catholicism. Any further information is not required.

  4. @ Micky: can you see the future? I think you so. X

    @ Jason: I hope you enjoyed the post. Maybe the fagstravagant Flying Chef is soon gonna have more than just a small cameo role. How d'you fancy 5am phone calls from a neurotic Tristram, being his kinda unique answer to The Samaritans? ecause I can see it coming. ;) (Yes Mrs Winthrope, the Samaritons do help homosexuals!). X

    @ Abigail Winthrope (Mrs): Yes, you're quite right, Mr Dali was a fine upstanding heterosexual... However, there are a few doubts concerning his brother Salvador:

    "He (Federico Garcia Lorca) was homosexual, as everyone knows, and madly in love with me,' he said, according to Alain Bosquet's 1969 Conversations with Dali. 'He tried to screw me twice... I was extremely annoyed, because I wasn't homosexual, and I wasn't interested in giving in. Besides, it hurts. So nothing came of it. But I felt awfully flattered vis-à-vis the prestige. Deep down I felt that he was a great poet and that I owe him a tiny bit of the Divine Dali's asshole." X

  5. My pulse was simply racing...

    Do leftover lentils and the Divine Dali's asshole go with jellied eels?

    Of course they do.

    The milk of human kindness flows even at 5AM.



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