Sport 9: Spring 1992
I am walking by the sea eating fish and chips from a newspaper. The newspaper is as warm as a muff or a hot brick. I insert my fingers, greasy and salted as the sea is, and pull out a plump golden chip and then break offfor the fish is unbearably hot, as the shrimps were before they died (I don't believe, and never will, that what dies instantly feels nothing)just a corner of fish. The fish is blue cod for which there is a small extra charge. As my hand goes deeper into the bag it feels like fire and at the same time is oddly comforting, a bandage under which healing and all that entails is taking place. I think of the absurd Recipes for the Busy Bride and when the bag is empty I go and dip my fingers in the sea.