On the Stansted Express, a steward comes past pushing an unwieldy refreshments trolley. He has a heavy foreign accent.<\/p>\n
‘Tea? Coffee? Morphine?’<\/p>\n
With its dated orange hand rails and slightly faded upholstery, the Stansted service might not be a patch on its faster and more up-to-date Heathrow counterpart, but offering passengers morphine does seem a bit extreme. So I ask.<\/p>\n
‘Yes, morphine. Blueberry morphine.’ And he produces a tray of muffins.<\/p>\n
After which, I spend the rest of the journey musing on fruit-flavoured narcotics, and narcotic-flavoured sweets. Strawberry Heroin. Cherry Cocaine. GHB flavoured Maltesers. I think one of the reasons I’ve never become a junkie – apart from the cost and the whole going-to-jail-forever bit – is that drugs simply don’t taste as nice as, say, Galaxy Caramel bars.<\/p>\n
It was the same when I first tried alcohol as a teen. ‘Is this what all the fuss is about? But where’s the sweetness?’<\/p>\n
Accordingly, my first drink of choice was cider. Even now, though I’ve grown into supping the occasional lager (in the shape of bottled beer), the appeal of real ale – ‘proper’ beer – still baffles me.<\/p>\n
The train steward’s trolley bears a Fair Trade sticker. Like recycling, fair trade products have taken that same journey towards acceptance: via initial associations with radicalism, stopping by left-wing co-operative cafes, church groups and arts centres, before entering the mainstream consensus of being Obviously A Good Thing. My new job’s free tea and coffee facilities are Fair Trade only too. I wonder if there’ll soon be divisions and hair-splitting among what’s labelled ‘fair trade’, the way nutritional information makes even unhealthy foods sound good for you: ‘Our Fair Trade is more Fair than yours.’<\/p>\n
When choosing an ice cream-based dessert at Marine Ices in Chalk Farm the other day, I go for banana split. Somehow, I’m convincing myself that I’m meeting one of my Five A Day portions of fruit, and that this allows the clear bad-for-you indulgence of ice cream. It’s akin to smokers who see Marlboro Lights as a dietary aid. Loopholes in contracts with oneself.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
In the days after Barack Obama makes it as President, a few newspapers remark upon how it’s now officially okay to be nice to Americans.<\/p>\n
Young Mr H is from Queens, NYC. We’ve been Companions for the past two weeks now. I know that’s not very long, but those weeks have made very happy indeed. I’m generally in favour of happiness. I don’t know about you.<\/p>\n
So yes, I’ve had no trouble at all in contributing to the whole Being Nice To Americans effort. I like to think I’m doing my bit. God Bless America…<\/p>\n
Regular employment AND a love life? As Mr Obama is so fond of saying, Yes I Can. Even me. The next step is to update the diary more regularly. Seeing as both Mr H and my employers are avid readers, it’s the least I can do.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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