We each have triggers for involuntary memory.
I’ve just recovered some lost time.
It was a prompt from a prompt about Tesco and the Great #Brexit Threat of a Marmite Famine.
So I had to rush out and buy a pot.
Ah, but it brought back the Old Times.
For, you see, there was a time in my chequered career when “lunch” was a couple of Ryvita, with a smear of Marmite, washed down with two mugs of tea-bag tea (as likely as not, both made from the same tea-bag) — milk optional. Then back to the chalk-face.
When retirement intervened, I lost the taste, in large part because the Lady-in-my-Life remains sternly anti-Marmite.
Now the pot is almost empty, and I may be suffering withdrawal symptoms.
Stratford and Hook Norton
Recently I was down to Stratford-upon-Avon for a double header: Aphra Benn’s The Rover for the p.m. matinee (which I would gladly see again), and back for the evening session for Two Noble Kinsmen from Bill Shagsper and John Fletcher (though the new Arden edition puts those two names in alphabetic order).
I have to say, it came close to reversing the old Himalaya pun: “Loved her; none too keen on them”.
Which isn’t the point; because the pub on the corner of Bridge Street (where Lady-in-my-Life and daughter expect to find me when I go AWOL) is The Encore. And the beer on the bar was Old Hooky. At 4.6%, the odd decimal point or two above a sessional quaffing beer; but just what a drouthy man needs during and after a culture-fest.
Also, another memory trigger, rewinding the counter many years to a well-spent day being driven around the Cotswolds with a long, leisurely, late and liquid lunch at the Pear Tree, within sniffing range of that excellent brewery itself.