Never mind Jacko, the one i'll miss is Farah Fawcett-like Mother Teresa, she was cursed by dying the day before a STAR. Back in the 70's when i was living in the miniature Stalinist world created by my father in the peatbogs of North Kerry, Charlies Angels was my conduit to kick ass sun and glamour. We weren't allowed to watch much of anything that came out of America for fear it would rot our nascent revolutionary brains but for some reason known only to the Great Revolutionary (AKA GR, aka my Dad) , Tom and Jerry, MASH and Charlies Angels were allowed. The FF hair flick was a sight to behold, and despite yearning in my 14 year old soul occasionally to look like Debbie Harry (i had long dark brown hair, freckles, thick glasses, goofy teeth and a general heftiness that went well with the cowstall i milked our cows in by hand every morning before school), i really did feel that, provided i was spirited away from my Appalachian origins, i should, could and would look like Farah.
Well i left home eventually and ended up personally thwarting the revolution no end by going to work for Andrew Lloyd Weber for years. GR took this in good heart, mainly by having no clue or interest as to what i was up to for decades and indeed, providing i am still alive, compos mentis, interesting and visit him regularly in his country redoubt, doesn't much care now. Strangely, this suits me very well. It's incredibly relaxing to visit someone whom, when you say I am well, takes it as read. No prying, no worrying, no expectations. Just walking the dog, cooking dinner and handing him a wrench when required.
Speaking of dinner, like most men of my dad's generation, he doesn't do fancy (you can do it for him but don't expect any kudos). So tonite i'm simply grilling a lamb chop with some finally chopped fresh rosemary and garlic. I bought fresh garlic at the saturday morning market on the Coal Quay on Saturday. It's remarkably succulent and can be used liberally. Or not, depending on one's incipient love life-it's OK,i don't have any-which leaves me free to scoff the stuff as only a middle aged spinister can-oh that sounded hard-must have a slug of Chardonnay to wash away the bitterness (to get just how bitter that word is you must mutter it in a Kerry accent between clenched teeth and pull your black shawl close around you..)