There is a little known branch of science called glottochronology, that researches how, and how quickly, words change their usage over time.
Whilst originally coined to describe researches into why Madagascar, an island no more than 250 miles off the East African coast, came to be culturally and genetically beholden to the Austronesian islands 4,000 miles away, it still resonates today. What word, for example, encompasses the deep longing that we all have for seemingly innocent people like Nicola Sturgeon, Emmanuel Macron and Virat Kohli to fall flat on their faces? It all dived deep into my life last night in the most surprising way.
Linguistics, it turned out, to have no word available for the nature of the organizational cock-up that I had just arranged.
I have views about food wastage. Even after the annoyances of a sixties upbringing, which often included the statement ‘A Biafran would be grateful for what you have left on your plate’ (to which the logical answer was: ‘lead me to them, and I will give them that and more’), we try hard not to chuck away food that we have bought.
As a change to the normal routine of lockdown, I ordered a Rick Stein meal for the three of us last night. Scoff away at my extravagance if you must, but our entertainment budget hasn’t exactly been blown away in the last year. Its exorbitant price (£177, including selected wine) didn’t phase me particularly, as I guessed that this would be roughly the size of the bill if I went to his eatery in Padstow, and waded my way through the sea of red cords and blazers to eat it at a table.
After much texted titillation by UPS over the previous 24 hours (‘Raul will be with you between 11.33 and 12.33 on Friday’), we were super-excited to find the very man on our doorstep at exactly 11.33 with three enormous boxes for our delight.
‘Blimey!’ said Alex, as we unpacked its contents into the fridge. ‘How the hell much does he think we are going to eat?’. And he was right. Mr Stein’s portion control appeared to have gone ballistic, and we were up to our necks in the delights of his moules marinieres, his Indonesian fish curry, and his Eton Mess. We nearly had to call Carla next door to find temporary accommodation in her fridge, but that would have meant alerting a neighbor to our extravagance.
It wasn’t till I watched the youtube video on how to put it all together, that I saw the reason for the sheer tonnage of food. Once again, in failing to read the (not very) small print, each meal was for two, and I had managed to order enough for six of us. It should have cost £88.50.
Because it had to be eaten on Friday night, and wouldn’t freeze, we were suddenly in the market of urgently disposing of a celebrity chef meal for three into the Sussex night. Priding ourselves on how to deal with a crisis, we made a list of friends who fitted the following criteria:
Had only two or three people in the house
Were disorganized enough, maybe, not to have started on their evening meal by 6.30pm
Liked fish
Wouldn’t be insulted by our offer of free food.
Manning a bank of three phones, we then called around the numbers, mainly into a wall of silence. We didn’t dare to leave messages in case the recipient said ‘yes please’ after we’d got rid of the stuff elsewhere. Up the road, they thanked us but said they didn’t eat fish. Out in Fernhurst, they were making risotto already. In Easebourne, they just said ‘no, thank you’. On and on it went, this new game of urgently trying to unload a delicious meal worth £55 into the ether.
This wasn’t even a first world crisis; it was a Belgravia one.
Eventually, Duncan said ‘yes’. Of course he did. Duncan would say ‘yes’ if you offered him a ferret sandwich.
‘The kids can have beans on toast,’ he said, ‘and we’ll save the casserole for tomorrow.’
A few minutes later, Monty arrived on the doorstep to take it, with the air of a boy who has just been mugged, and then told to apologise to his attacker.
But we all ate our Indonesian fish curry, and I am still looking for the right word to describe what just happened to me.
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