Curry

I did no work, nothing constructive, nothing at all, and I was just gearing down for a classic evening of TV when Lee rang: I’d promised to meet him and Andy Wiechec at half-five to go for a curry. It was wet and cold and dark outside and I really hated to move, but I went with Mum and Dad when they drove Nanna P. home

I got to Andy’s feeling much the same, although his loud cheerfulness soon lifted me out of it. He, Lee and I set out in pouring rain for the Nawaab up on Easterby Road which was quite plush inside, with neat wooden tables, serviettes and subdued lighting. It was much plusher than the average Pakistani joint. I ordered a chicken curry: we felt uneasy and really rather stupid until the food arrived and mine was a brown greasy conglomeration with big slabs of chicken floating about in it. Twenty minutes later I’d left a quarter of it and felt hot, blown up and queasy and almost ready to throw up.

Back at Andy’s we played cards until his mother, father and brother Jonas arrived back at ten. I got home at eleven or so.