I drove across South London with my son Silas last night. I did not distinguish myself on the journey. Before we had got through Brixton it had become apparent to me that everyone else out driving that evening was an idiot; was thoughtless; was incompetent; was to be derided. I’m a terrible judge and cars …
I’ve been thinking about remembering. I flatter myself to think that I have a good memory, for the useless as well as the useful. Sometimes they’re the same thing. For instance, I once won £20 from a quiz machine at Heston services on the M4 for knowing which sport is associated with the Drysdale Cup. …
So, last night, I’m at home, cooking macaroni cheese. Now, my macaroni cheese is good. It is rich and golden, it is unctuous and gorgeous. It is an artery-hardening, full-fat delight. There is much cheese, of many varieties. And that’s the problem. There are three boys in my house, Sam, Silas and Linus, and they …