After work yeserday, Roberto, from here one out known as 'the Italian' and José, the Spaniard, reminded me that I had agreed to go to their house after work and cook a lavish meal. I did't really want to, what I really wanted was to be left alone, I've got things to think about. We had postponed our dinner so many times, that I thought, out of social duty, to go along. Besides, I thought, it could actually be nice, London was fine, hot and sunny, but let's BBQ. The Italian is more fanatical about food than I am, so all of our conversations are about food. Not bad really.

The Italian has been telling me about an Italian wholesaler in Maidenhead. He suggested that we go there and buy the necessary provisions - we all agreed.

He has been parking his car in the covered parking lot outside work for months, using a 'lost' corporate card. The card didn't work, and we were left at the boom for an hour while the Italian went to sort it out after the drive-through box voice told him to report to the office. The Italian arrived later, sans card, and fined for using an illegal card, which I paid. That's £30 in fines for one day. I must be doing something wrong.

We set off to Maidenhead in the heat of Saturday afternoon. The shop was great and I filled up on the free Prosciutto and Pecorino. The shop is run by an Italian family, as fresh and Italian as the day they arrived, some 30 years ago. Their English as bad and it was all very charming, it left me wanting to live 5 lives simultaneously. I left with a very good looking bounty of Italian delicacies.

After the Italian shop we drove to Cookham, there is a very nice French speciality shop where we bought more food and wine. I bought a very nice Beaujolais which could be chilled and a Chardonnay. We set off back to Ealing with the boot of the car piled high. The heat was intense and I slipped off into a dream with the sun beating down on the back of my neck. It was not unlike a general anaesthetic and I was determined to make the most of it, when you feel yourself slipping away, don't resist, don't hold on to consciousness, let slip, go headlong into the place where only the fantastical can happen.

Going through Southall, which is the little India of London. The streets are alive and buzzing with markets, people and food. It is actually worth a visit as there are some Indian desserts I am after. It would be a good place to buy my Asian spices and ingredients. Because Southall was so busy, the stopping and starting of the car caused it to overheat, so we had to stop, fill the radiator with water, soak up the Southall atmosphere. Once again, I want to live 5 lives simultaneously.

When we finally got back to Ealing, it was late afternoon and we settled in with the Beaujolais. I couldn't bring myself to cook, I just wanted to sit in the cooling afternoon, drink a glass of wine and shoot the breeze. I had anticipated not wanting to cook, so I bought 'picky things' from the Italian shop, marinaded melanzane, superp olives, cheese and José prepared a spread of cured Spanish meat, Lomo and Chorizo. After this had been demolished, the Italian decided it was time to fire up the BBQ, I was not going to argue. When the Italian gets it into his head that he wants more food, come hell or high water, he is going to cook it. I watched from the comfort of the chair, in the shade of the umbrella and the glass of wine my hand.

The Italian lit the fire and proceeded to throw everything on at the same time, before the coals had time to settle. A mad frenzy of juggling sausages, pepper, chicken and bread, all of which had been administered to the grill at the same time, ensued. I laughed, first inside, until I could contain it no longer at which point I just had to let loose and howl, from deep within my midriff. The Italian poked and prodded, and in much the same way a cat would play with a dying mouse, the Italian flung food about. Nothing was spared a lancing by the fork, absolutely everything had to be examined, tossed about, speared and charred, all in a raging open flame. Even the bread was in there, being burned alive at the stake.

If there is one thing I learned about cooking food it's this:

Don't play with it! It's all about consistency, get the heat right and leave the food. Let the heat and the food become acquainted, let them flirt and sizzle, them them work it out and you'll be fine. Don't fuck with the food. When I see people playing around with it, I no longer want to hurt and maim them, or even kill them like I might have done in the past, now all I want to do is say something. Since I was actually supposed to be doing the cooking, I let it go and decided to enjoy the Italian chargrill pandemonium that was being played out like a Roman battle in front of me.

To his credit, and don't ask me how, the Italian managed not to turn it all into a cremation. We eat and drank until dark, eat and drank some more, a fine bottle of Primitivo made it's way to the table. We sat and talked till late, about life, love, food and travel. A couple of joints made by the hands of the Spaniard were passed round to end a perfect day and once again I wanted to live countless simulateous lives.

It was time to leave, and given my somewhat wobbly state I thought twice about catching the last train home. I considered staying, but waking up in my own bed on a Sunday morning is worth the potential tribulations that lie ahead when in a state. José did make an attempt to get me to stay over, but I thought the ride home could be potentially interesting. I thought that I could only end up somewhere interesting with interesting people if carrying a great big box of delicious things about and if it did go horribly wrong, I would only end up lying in the gutter feeding myself white anchovies washing it down with a bottle of Chardonnay.

La Vita e Bella!