sashinka | observation orientated, with a twist of lime | a blog

Major Curry Realisation
I've often wondered, when I'm in my local curry house, why the maitre d', or whatever the North Indian equivalent is, is often running in and out in his anorak with what look like the hot versions of freezer boxes. I'd previously come to the conclusion that they were flaunting health and safety regulations, and that his wife made the food at home and he brought it in in a burgundy box. Or that the six or seven curry houses on Crickewood Broadway are a sinister cartel with some kind of shared kitchen. I mean, it would make sense.

So wrong.

On the way back from the tube, I saw a strangely familiar man - short, Asian, be-anoraked, inexplicably wearing a Russian hat - getting out of a car with a large freezer box. Burgundy, it looked from afar. At first, I thought he was Samad from White Teeth, but then I realised that he's a fictional character. But then, so am I. You know when you see people out of context? It was only when he was getting back into his battered Astra Mk 1, with a certain body-inflection that I recognised, that I realised it was the Cricklewood Tandoori bloke delivering take-out. Duh. I am so dense. Or perhaps, because I don't do take-aways on a strictly-vegetarian-kitchen basis, it never crossed my mind.

Aside: you may think that all this talk of curry is a subtle codex for deconstructing the Edwina scenario. It isn't: I have less desire to think about Currie and Major in the sack than I do to consider whether Theresa May's shoes make her a dominatrix. Someone, please, make all these people get back in their box.