Coriander

Today in the gathering spring afternoon I bought fresh coriander, yellow mustard seeds, coconut milk, ground cardamom and turmeric. The chickpeas are on the boil and I'm a little lost in these familiar smells.

Damn Winterson for writing:
"It's never easy, this life, this love. But only the impossible is worth the effort."
And damn me for believing in it voraciously.

Last night we went to Szimpla Kert, a cavernous-monstrous old building converted into a rather funky pub/bar type place with horrendous music but a good feel. After a couple of beers with B, the night was lovely and shiny only to end in the none too pleasant realisation at 2.30am that the code for the gate had been removed and our one remaining key was upstairs. I did a little damage to the gate, while B rang a series of bells we didn't know, bells that no one answered. Eventually, a sleepy English voice buzzed us up, but by that time for me the night (and as it turns out, the day) was well and truly ruined.

My sozzled brain took the being locked out of home beyond the realm of apartments and transposed it to continents, and then homesickness struck with familiar and unwelcome force.
It's times like these one needs the no-bullshit words of Andrew to make me stop feeling sorry for myself. Self pity must be one of the most unattractive traits ever.

Yet it comes like a wave that either I can't be bothered swimming against, or that I'm simply too small to swim against. And no matter how many times I repeat the Rilke quote about loving the questions, as if it were my mantra to hang on to, it seems to have lost its magic power. I do want to know the answers now. I'm over loving the questions because there are just so many they've run off the page.

Yet for now, as the chickpea concoction bubbles away on the stove and we're nearing dinner time I take comfort in the thought that Timea is in Freo, possibly even on Monument Hill with a bottle or two of Little Creatures, watching the cranes wink drunkenly in the night.