Masterchef '13

I've been drawn deeper and deeper into Masterchef '13. Anyone of the three finalists could have won- and I was hoping the judges would declare a tie. By this stage it was a lottery. My man Adam had a very slight wobble in the final stages- which seemed to be what happens to him when the pressure piles up- and it cost him. He's a nervy beast.  I've little doubt, though, that, give him a year or two and he'll own his own place and be collecting Michelin stars. I reflected afterwards that I'm about as likely to eat at one of the restaurants that serves this kind of high end food as I am to own a Damien Hirst.

"So complicated" said my mother. Well, yes. Do I admire the artistry or deplore the decadence?  That's a tricky question when you're both a socialist and an aesthete. Oscar Wilde would have known the answer.

Elevensies

Everything stops at eleven. We sit at the kitchen table.

My mother likes one brand of instant coffee, Ailz likes another and I only drink tea. Sometimes I get confused.

My mother eats a nut and sometimes a sweet biscuit, Ailz eats nothing, and I eat oatcakes with jam or honey.