I’ve been in bed for the past couple of days with a nasty little dose of food poisoning. On reflection, it was probably the Stilton, bacon, and red onion baguette that did for me. It tasted wonderful at the time. Because of my illness I’ve been listening to lots of radio.
On Friday, as the nausea started, I tuned in to “Whispering” Bob Harris on BBC Radio 2. His personal Website is currently dominated by Harris’s tribute to his mentor, John Peel. Peel gave Harris his break, but Harris matured into a greater DJ. As I hunched over the sink on Friday night he played Fountains of Wayne’s nifty new wave-style skit “Stacey’s Mom” from earlier this year, and I muttered to myself, “It could be The Cars”. Then I thought, “and even back then they were making a synthed-up pastiche of 50s rock’n’roll”. Sure enough, His Bobness followed it up with The Cars’ “Best Friend’s Girlfriend”. That song is 25 years old now. I feel like a gouty old duffer in a Bath chair. The two tracks were the first I heard in an evening of musically varied and technically solid programming.
On Saturday BBC Radio 4 broadcast the last part a superb adaptation of Émile Zola’s L’Assommoir. The acting and the recording could not have been bettered, and that includes the probably inauthentic, but shrewd, use of regional accents. The music was slightly annoying, but the real problem for me, though, was the ending. Was it meant to be so perfunctory? Had the producers simply set the narrator to summarise the events of other volumes in Les Rougon-Macquart? If there’s a Zola scholar out there who heard it and knows I’d be grateful for some explanation.
Glad you’re better, D!
Thanks for the good wishes, but I’m certainly not one hundred percent yet. I ate some solid food at around 18:30, though, and I have yet to see it again, so that’s progress.
I know exactly what you’ve been going through and I empathize. I wasn’t a blogger when it happened to me 2 years ago, but if I had been, blogging for those first 2 or 3 days would have been at the very bottom of my list of priorities (topping the list, once the ‘Bleargh’ portion was over, were the all-important moaning, smacking of gluey lips, sweating, swearing in whispers, groaning of improvised atheistic prayers…) I’m impressed that you are able to put up a brave face (and that you are able to write the names of the offending sandwhich ingredients!)
I hope you recover soon!
Thanks, Jeremy. The camaradie of the ‘Blogging pyjama army turns out to be even more cheering when you’re forced to live in your pyjamas.
Stilton is Bleu cheese, or maybe Vert… apologies to any Francophones, do anything for a cheap pun, me. The bloody Stilton promotions board can back off too – your fermented cow juice is the bees knees, or crows toes or whatever you prefer.