A very cheerful evening.
A disappointing and overpriced meal at Caribbean Scene in St Ratford. A dull and somewhat dessicated salad. A lonely roti on its own on a big white plate (it was pretty nice). Matt paid a full six pounds for a flat beanburger which came with too much sauce and nothing else at all.
Then we went to the Picture House. These days I seem not to be watching films unless they’re comedies, and Matt, Mitch and I saw Joel and Ethan Coen’s Burn After Reading. I was glad I hadn’t eaten much because I laughed throughout and managed to whip off my glasses in time for the violent bits (which were also funny – I know this because I could see Mitch groaning, wincing and laughing). I particularly like the hurried ending (whether they ran out of money or interest who knows) when as I interpret it, via their cipher the spook chief, the Coen brothers ask themselves what they have learnt from the film, conclude “Not to do it again”, but are left wondering what they did wrong.
Then to round it all off I nearly peed myself on the train at the beginning of this letter in Matt’s Prospect:
“Dear Sirs – I wish to attack myself for something I wrote in the October issue. Towards the end of my short essay on David Foster Wallace, I took a wild swipe out of nowhere at James Wood, one of the finest literary critics of the age.”
It goes on quite poignantly. Bless him. Bless. him.