One of the great joys of watching the snooker is the commentary. We’ve all heard it and if you haven’t raised a wry smile at ‘touching brown’ or ‘kissing the pink’ then I have no time for your soulless seriousness.
But it’s not solely the double entendres that keep me glued to that green cloth narrative. There are incredible little nuggets that pop up, pop out and snap in your ear out of nowhere. And this latest from the Masters resonated at very much the right time.
The air’s beginning to jangle out there
The anticipation. The excitement. You might call it a frisson. Greats starting to stretch and show their best one moment. Nerves shredding and a shocking miss the next. A sudden comeback and now we’re in the presence of something truly special.
So it was for the Masters final. And so it feels for me and my words.
Many a roadblock has caused me to look in every direction but this blog for years now. Sure, this blog isn’t all that. But it is something. It’s my voice. The one I use when the purpose is all my own. And I haven’t let myself hear it in a long time.
Early on I argued that making writing my profession sucked the joy from the recreation. But when I walked away from words in the day job, their old buzz didn’t return. No surprise really since it was a lot more than a job creating a distance between me and my page.
A long period of dead air
It doesn’t do well to dwell and introspect on the things you’ve dwelt and introspected on already. It can all get a bit ‘wheel within wheel’. No point walking you to the places I had to go, telling you the stories I had to figure out. The connection I had to rebuild wasn’t with readers. It was with myself.
I didn’t know which effort would work. Unlike with literal ones, with metaphorical journeys you have no idea when you’re about to turn a corner. Or even often that you’re in the middle of turning one. You only notice when you’re already round the bend. (Ridiculous double meaning deployed consciously there.)
Turns out though, that the ‘jangle’ I can hear is the sound of screeching tyres as they start to straighten and pick up traction post-turn. In truth I think I started to hear it in November, when Nigel entered my life.
Those all-important chronicles
Really, Nigel had entered my life almost a year earlier. A dear friend bought me ‘The Christmas Chronicles’ for said celebration. But given you open presents right towards the end of that festive period, I didn’t pay much heed. I placed them carefully on the shelf let them gather dust a while.
Then a glint of sunshine pierced my kitchen on November 4th and everything changed.
I started Nigel Slater’s Christmas Chronicles that day and I have been living in it, indulging in it, flourishing in it ever since. Nigel’s wondrous way of talking about food and seasons struck a chord and relit a love of cooking I hadn’t felt in ages.
There is an unadulterated joy in cooking. It’s physical and has a glorious output at the end. You learn, build and begin to invent as you go. And you can put so much love into what you do without it depleting you at all. Nigel gave me a big hug, reminded me of all of this and then gently ushered me back into the kitchen.
‘Poncey’ and proud
Nigel unleashed a confidence. It stumbled at first, taking the hits of ‘is that another Nigel’ and ‘you’ve become such a ponce’ as hard, brushing punches. But slowly, having uttered the words “I’ve never really engaged with chard” and realising I meant it, I started to lean into my ‘cooking self’.
Sure, it’s occasionally ridiculous. And sometimes you can’t source a pheasant at your local butchers because, honestly, other than Nigel, who can?? My kitchen identity is sometimes mockable, and I embrace that. Because it’s also me. And that means, crucially, it isn’t wrong.
Jangle in the kitchen, jangle on the keys
And so it is with my voice, its intention and its worthiness. That jangle is sounding for all parts of me. And with a bit of care and practice I think maybe I can sink into this part too.
I’m not so far along with the compulsion and willingness to write yet. And while Nigel helps and Robert Caro is chipping in, I perhaps haven’t found the warm hand to hold as I come back to the keyboard. But with their gently nudges I’ve made this scrappy early foray.
This is my first attempt at a recipe where I don’t how the chemistry of the ingredients will work. I just have to do it and see. Like making a lumpy, but edible, polenta, if you will. (My second attempt at Nigel’s actual polenta recipe was even more disastrous than the first, but we won’t go into that now.)
There are moments when I’m enjoying my voice. There are ideas and phrases that I trust in. I suspect it will take a few bruising rounds with my harshest critic, as it did with my blossoming love of Nigel, before I feel at ease. But I’m hopeful. And I’m relishing this jangle in the air.