First an apology
As I come out of the pain and fatigue filled torture chamber of a weekend I feel immediately that I owe you an apology, gentle reader, for some IMMODERATE LANGUAGE in the last blog entry. Specifically when I may have appeared to threaten to give my doctor a slap for prescribing the vaccinations that plunged me into the gulf of hopelessness. It wasn't meant as a threat; merely an observation of the temptations to which I was prey.
Anyway after a weekend in the crypt of despair I at last feel that I am emerging into the sunny plains once more. Yesterday Mrs Davey and I even attempted a visit to a promising pizzeria not far from our house - alas too far for even the lure of a proper italian pizza to coax me onwards - we ditched and bought a French one from the nearest supermarket instead.
French food is excellent. Even the bad stuff is good. It really is. But like, I suspect, every nation under the saun, the French pizzaïolo has adapted the sublime staple of Neapolitan peasants to make it a sumptuous treat for the bourgeois Bordelais.
So the thin and crispy economical crust? Thick, with big bubbles and moelleux - moist.
Toppings? Juicy and luscious, gooey with emmental and rich with duck breast, potatoes, apple and truffles.
Pizza is always good, but that one time I tasted a genuine italian pizza has made my whole pizza experience like searching for the holy grail and finding a cup of builder's tea in a chipped mug in a cafe on the Old Kent Road. Wonderful, ecstatic even, but not quite the same.
Where was I?
Anyway, I'm feeling better. But on Thursday I have an appointent to arrange another of my doctor's bright ideas - an internal examination by camera to seek and destroy any budding cancers that might conceivably be lurking in my innards.