Sturdy, stinky, somehow sexy

Hello, it’s been a while for absolutely no reason.

Let me tell you now that I hate the fake-news-fest that is April Fool’s day. I actually believed Schiaparelli were gonna do H&M-pricepoint diffusion brooches. Fuck—and I don’t say this lightly—my life.

Urgh, we spent three days—and several are you sure you haven’t seen it? messages to the nanny—looking for my daughter’s Patagonia puffa suit, only to discover it slumped on the pavement opposite our house looking like a Gin Alley illustration. Part of me was glad nobody had stolen it, the other part of me had to pick up this 16-ton waterlogged anvil, at which point I realised even the most daring opportunist doesn’t want to pilfer soaking street trash and put it on their kid’s body.

A hip flask measure of Maker’s Mark in Seoul.

I’ve been re-watching ER and alongside the foreboding feeling that Carter is just about to get spinal-tap-revenge stabbed in the lower spine, I’ve been appreciating Dr Romano’s Christmas ties. I feel like I’m a tie guy too, but one who doesn’t currently wear ties. Maybe it’s a novelty tie summer for me? Dr Romano maturing from the Ronald-McDonald-haired gay high-schooler from Fame into a balding surgical psychopath is the kind of far-reaching character arc only the nineties could accommodate.

Alongside some very un-woke depictions of mental illness, teenage pregnancy, and gang-banging, it’s nice to fall in love with George Clooney as Dr Ross all over again, and add rule-breaking paediatrician to my wish list. He lights up the screen but there’s really never a point where you think: this man should play Batman. Mark Green doesn’t have a brain tumour yet, which is good, while Alex Kingston is saying “hello sweetie” with her face if not her mouth in every scene.

I’m not sure this is a recommendation to revisit the most stressful show on tv. Someone is about to die in every scene—getting intubated, getting chest-cracked, getting time-of-deathed. Watching ER is like drinking three espressos an hour, every hour, until a new episode of The Apprentice drops on iPlayer.

Dream clogs at Rita’s Dining. In-flight compression socks adding to the general allure. Being a chef is much like these clogs—sturdy, stinky, somehow sexy. I think I’ve written about my chef peccadillo before so I’ll spare you the repeat.