Often, I have found myself asking this question; usually when I ‘lift my head’ and find myself surprised at my circumstances or the place I find myself in . I’m referring to a position or moment in life rather than a navigational error – although this happens too of course! Although you do hear people say ‘I took a wrong turn’ perhaps realizing they took the wrong job or the wrong partner etc.
Fate is a term I’ve heard used to avoid personal responsibility, ‘It wasn’t my fault, it was fate.’ But to what extent do we allow fate to dictate what direction our lives take or how much control should we exert? All to avoid the pitfalls of life. These issues are explored in my new novel, The Shoreditch Exhibition; and this blog picks up on the same idea but looking at various moments in my own life, large and small where I have asked the question, ‘How did I get here?’ All this with a large ladle of humour.
Today it’s Valentine’s Day and I’m preparing dinner for my wife, the gorgeous Gwendolyne. We gave up going out to a restaurant on Valentine’s years ago. Everywhere is packed, prices are high and the atmosphere is more like the waiting room of a divorce court. Couples who apparently have nothing to say to each other thrust together for a meal. Furtive glances around the room reveal people desperate to think of something to say to each other. One wonders do they have every meal in silence? Years of familiarity have reduced conversation to a few hand gestures, such as lifting the salt with the raising of an eyebrow instead of saying, ‘would you like some salt?’
For me, life’s too short to mix with those who can’t make conversation with a loved one; instead we stay at home and have a special meal cooked by myself. Today it’s stuffed roast partridge with homemade pickled pears. The pears take six weeks, you know! Showing the Gorgeous Gwendolyne that great foresight and care have been employed in the making of this meal: and despite being a Monday night a bottle of prosecco is chilling in the fridge. Maybe it should be champagne? Could I have slipped up there? We’ll see.
Work has often taken me away and prevented me attending birthdays, weddings, funerals so it’s always a real treat to be at home to celebrate this event and cook a special meal. We don’t do cards or presents, the lovingly prepared meal and some fizz is all we need. We did once share a Valentine’s homemade meal with another couple. They too avoid restaurants on this day for the same reasons – although they do eat out almost all the rest of the time because neither can cook. The whole episode became a mission. Brian and I are cooking the meal. Brian can barely identify a cooker let alone use one so this means I’m doing the cooking while Brian entertains me with another glass of wine. But first we venture to the local fish market to buy some lobster. This is the special treat bit. Neither had done this before so we are surprised to discover the lobster are still alive. Driving home the little darlings escape from their box and attempt to eat those that hope to eat them later. Brian is grabbing the tails of the crustaceans as they crawl around the pedals beneath me. I’m bitten for my trouble. I wonder, how did I get here?
On another occasion I arrive home on the day itself after working in Spain and I have no time to go shopping, disaster. How am I going to get out of this? There hasn’t been time to organize anything. What to do? I take the dog for a walk and bump into the local landlord who just happens to have a brace of pheasant hanging in his cellar. Perfect. I arrange to collect a pheasant and find on collection that its complete, feathers and everything. I find myself wrestling with it outside in the back garden, staring through the window at the computer on my desk which is playing YouTube videos on how to pluck a pheasant. Messy, very messy. If you find yourself in this position, pluck the pheasant while it’s still warm; it takes a few minutes then, whereas after the bird has been hanging and is cold it will take 45mins of pure frustration. But hey, we had food for the special day and a pheasant at that.
Today I’m reminded of these past events as I gently stuff two partridge, which are tiny and already plucked and I cover them in streaky bacon and pop them into the oven. I ask the Gorgeous Gwen what she would like to do after supper, perhaps a movie to match the occasion? No Gwen would like to watch the Everton Football Club highlights of their 3-0 victory over Leeds at the weekend, AGAIN.
Ok, no problems this year then, all fully prepped and we have everything we need. No calamitous racing around, all nice and easy. I turn on that music streaming service and choose ‘Evening jazz’. The new kittens are romping around the kitchen testing their own boundaries, joyfully they scatter stuff all over the place. I think I hear something clatter to the floor but I overlook this as I take the beautifully cooked partridge from the oven and with some roast potatoes and buttered carrots I triumphantly stride towards the table. There’s an awful scrunch underfoot as I’ve just trodden on my own glasses. One arm is bent back and a lens skims across the floor. I take it gracefully in a ‘Oh never mind aren’t those kittens cute’ kind of way and after dinner I stare at a blurred screen, thinking, how did I get here?