4 March 2024
Monday. I am informed that U. has written in his diary, yesterday, during some sort of wardrobe tidy, that I keep borrowing it to write recipes in the margins.
I do. His margins are wider than mine. He leaves them blank out of some notion of elegance, and a blank margin is a waste of good paper, like a plate with nothing on it.
In the margin beside his entry about coffins I wrote a pastry, because a coffin is only a pie with ambition. Beside his entry about his laugh I wrote a gravy. Beside his long complaint about reviews I wrote a soup, which I felt was a kindness.
He says the recipes spoil the tone. I say his tone could do with seasoning.
We share a wardrobe and a writing desk and, regrettably, rather a lot else. I keep my apron on the hook by the door, he keeps his hat on the top shelf, and we do not discuss who is the original. I am. Obviously.
— B., your host
