If I said I was expecting to get back to Bad City after my
first session of extraordinary adventures with a master plan of some kind, I
would be lying; and just as unsurprisingly my head is now sailing its way
through a pretty lake of a million very volatile non-master plans, and the heel
angle of this boat it is on doesn’t look safe one bit, and I wouldn’t stop
shivering with terror if I tried; and in this sort of trans-boundary waters of
being, here goes me splashing around a little (what else can you do), and
fishing out this memory of colourful bowls of bulgur and spices, for me and my
daddy under the fair African sky, then mixing it with picnics on top of a sunny
hill in a land of shiny rivers or streams or creeks or heaven knows, then
folding in some sweetness, with sticky dates from Middle Eastern stores right in
the heart of South London, and Mexican vanilla, via Canada, and delicious
Belgian biscuits and a sprinkle of toasted almonds from, now I know, a
Beautiful Country. And as with most crazy things, the boat heels and heels and
it will either tip over or get you to the shore safe and sound before dark; and
with this one, I think I’ve passed my nautical test a hundred percent: ahoy
sweet biscuity tabbouleh.
