It was a heartbreakingly beautiful day. Londoners haven’t seen a summer like this since ’76. Heat rippled the city. I had four 99s and a Strawberry Split on the way to the station. Ice cream. Oh, man: your mouth’s a volcanic orifice; in goes Mister Softee—and lo! thou art filled with bliss. Or I am, at any rate. . . . I’ve been troughing for England since I got here (lamb jalfrezi; anchovies by the pound; green olives slathered in oil and flecked with raw garlic; glacé cherries; chargrilled salmon steaks; Toblerone; iced radishes dipped in sea salt and fresh ground pepper; pickled herrings; After Eights . . .) but I’ve yet to come across anything to match the delights of Mister Softee’s aerated ice-cream, spiralled into a 99 cornet, garlanded—nay, bejeweled with the glutinous sauce of the noble raspberry and accented with an ingenuine and vastly overpriced Flake. I tell you solemnly: ice-cream’s so delicious and bad for you I can’t believe I had nothing to do with its invention.
Working in a bookstore was great, you know? I mean, the pay was shit and the customers were a pain. But the reading copies! With more remunerative employment came fewer books to hand. Now I’ve started reading some of my old books again. First two Donald Haringtons, which I might blog about presently, and then I, Lucifer, by Glen Duncan. This is truly a great novel.