Yesterday, we had chicken noodle soup, spaghetti, salad, some queer little pasties, and corned beef fritters (in Libya? I’m not kidding!). Oh yeah, and roast chicken legs, and nectarines and bananas… A sumptuous feast, only besmirched by the fact we’re obliged to wash it down with Pepsi and 7-fucking-Up.
You see, one doesn’t miss booze per se. But at meal times, that cheerful wee glug sound as it issues from the bottle, the chink of glasses, the aid to the digestion and to the conversation… I miss that. A lot.
Apparently, I’m told, that, if one were so inclined (which I’m not), this particular delicious and beneficial commodity (which, for example, keeps the French free from heart attacks, even though they eat several ounces of butter with every meal), can be made quite easily.
[perks up some more]
They say. From products freely available almost anywhere: grape juice, fresh water, yeast and sugar. What I’m told is, if you mix all this up in the correct proportions, put it in the correct sort of container, wait a few weeks, then, according to my sources, bingo, Chateau Sahara!
But I don’t believe it. Sounds far too fanciful. And foolhardy. It's not for me. No way.
Today we had little pizzas, beef stroganoff, rice, salad and melon.
There’d been no hot water for three days, but this afternoon eschewing the customary siesta, Amar, our local Mr Fixit, fixed it. God bless him and his bald little head.