“The secret of a happy life is to know when to stop—and then go that bit further.”
—Inspector Morse, classic British television police crime solver
The very least I could do during two weeks spent in England’s lovely West Country was to ingest my gout medicine each and every morning without fail—preferably washed down with a pint of cask-conditioned Bitter from one of those pubs nearby, already dispensing it, but in a pinch, grudgingly conceding the utility of mere tap water.
Yes, I know: Fish do IT in THAT.
The solution? Eat more fish, especially with chips.
Somewhere a health fanatic reads and brays with dismay, but have no fear. It’s only despairing, defeatist clatter of the sort Winston Churchill wouldn’t have countenanced, even after his morning bottle of champagne, and these naysayers are inaudible to me, fully muffled by the cacophonous sizzle of a traditional English breakfast frying atop the stove, even that waxy tomato from Tesco’s, because it is destined for maximum exposure to hot oil just like all the rest.
Queue the Elgar, and consider this partial list of foodstuffs joyfully consumed during my holiday, including both local “English” fare and widely available...Read more