Last night, I sauteed a lamb chop with onions, garlic and some red wine, steamed some brussel sprouts and brocolli and had a tumbler of scotch to go with it while the cat gave me dirty looks for being home so infrequently. Not that it’s appetite has been affected.
For obvious reasons (or maybe not), I felt like I was in a Murakami novel with the only elements missing being some Rossini on the hifi and a pot of spaghetti on the side.
I hadnt thought about Murakami in ages but I have always identified with his main male characters especially the ones from A Wild Sheep Chase and Dance, Dance, Dance. Perhaps it’s time to read Norwegian Wood.