On the Stansted Express, a steward comes past pushing an unwieldy refreshments trolley. He has a heavy foreign accent.
‘Tea? Coffee? Morphine?’
With its dated orange hand rails and slightly faded upholstery, the Stansted service might not be a patch on its faster and more up-to-date Heathrow counterpart, but offering passengers morphine does seem a bit extreme. So I ask.
‘Yes, morphine. Blueberry morphine.’ And he produces a tray of muffins.
After which, I spend the rest of the journey musing on fruit-flavoured narcotics, and narcotic-flavoured sweets. Strawberry Heroin. Cherry Cocaine. GHB flavoured Maltesers. I think one of the reasons I’ve never become a junkie – apart from the cost and the whole going-to-jail-forever bit – is that drugs simply don’t taste as nice as, say, Galaxy Caramel bars.
It was the same when I first tried alcohol as a teen. ‘Is this what all the fuss is about? But where’s the sweetness?’
Accordingly, my first drink of choice was cider. Even now, though I’ve grown into supping the occasional lager (in the shape of bottled beer), the appeal of real ale – ‘proper’ beer – still baffles me.
The train steward’s trolley bears a Fair Trade sticker. Like recycling, fair trade products have taken that same journey towards acceptance: via initial associations with radicalism, stopping by left-wing co-operative cafes, church groups and arts centres, before entering the mainstream consensus of being Obviously A Good Thing. My new job’s free tea and coffee facilities are Fair Trade only too. I wonder if there’ll soon be divisions and hair-splitting among what’s labelled ‘fair trade’, the way nutritional information makes even unhealthy foods sound good for you: ‘Our Fair Trade is more Fair than yours.’
When choosing an ice cream-based dessert at Marine Ices in Chalk Farm the other day, I go for banana split. Somehow, I’m convincing myself that I’m meeting one of my Five A Day portions of fruit, and that this allows the clear bad-for-you indulgence of ice cream. It’s akin to smokers who see Marlboro Lights as a dietary aid. Loopholes in contracts with oneself.
***
In the days after Barack Obama makes it as President, a few newspapers remark upon how it’s now officially okay to be nice to Americans.
Young Mr H is from Queens, NYC. We’ve been Companions for the past two weeks now. I know that’s not very long, but those weeks have made very happy indeed. I’m generally in favour of happiness. I don’t know about you.
So yes, I’ve had no trouble at all in contributing to the whole Being Nice To Americans effort. I like to think I’m doing my bit. God Bless America…
Regular employment AND a love life? As Mr Obama is so fond of saying, Yes I Can. Even me. The next step is to update the diary more regularly. Seeing as both Mr H and my employers are avid readers, it’s the least I can do.
Tags: ale, drugs, Lovely Americans, sweets
