A new tradition

No one so much as “liked” – let alone commented on – poor old Richard Harris? That is so sad.

Well, it’s official. Phone call yesterday with the artistic directors and The First Read of A Divine Comedy will be part of the April online one-act play festival. (Not sure about that title. Think I need a rethink.)

There wasn’t a great deal of doubt. We needed a minimum of two one-act plays to put a show on and that’s how many scripts were submitted.

The other one is a charming first-time-play-writing effort by an awarding-winning author of Young Adult fiction who lives on the island.

Thought I should make myself a nice dinner to celebrate. I also decided (completely unconnected with play news) to start a new “thing”.

As I’m sure you will recall, last Sunday I took and posted a photo of the Valentine’s Day dinner I was sharing with Val McDermid. When last night’s dinner was ready to be served up, I decided to take another photo to acknowledge that it would be shared with Jo Nesbo.

This, I think, is something I should do every Sunday. If I was on Instagram I would no doubt quickly acquire a huge number of followers, all waiting breathlessly to find out who my dinner guest is each Sunday. And what’s for dinner. (Yes, I do indeed like asparagus. And the pistachio-crusted salmon was absolutely delicious.) Given how inane I gather most things on Instagram are, how could this not attract a massive following?

There is another reason this would be A Good Thing.

Sunday dinner should (for the sake of tradition and no religious reason whatsoever) be special. When I was a kid, we always had a proper Sunday dinner. My mother (like most Brits of her age) had no idea it was possible to do roast beef any way other than well done, but her chickens were pretty damn good. (Bit of a shock to me in my twenties to discover there was such a thing as a rare steak. Or, once the shock had worn off, how delicious it was.)

Living on my own, it was always the one day of the week I made a substantial effort. Living with friends in London, it was the day we actually ate together, taking turns to make the effort. Living with Mike in Vancouver, we ate most meals at the kitchen table, but on Sundays we’d shift to the diningroom and get my mother’s good dishes out of the sideboard. When I came back to join him here on the island, he’d become quite slapdash about meals, most of which were eaten off laps in front of the television. Once a week (yes, on Sundays) I forced him out of his recliner and into the diningroom for a meal served on the good china.

In the past few years I’ve become a bit slapdash myself with just as many (quite possibly more) Sunday dinners eaten on my lap in front of the telly as have been eaten on good plates at the table. (Honestly, is it my fault that both PBS and HBO run all their best shows on Sunday evening?)

So, a new tradition.

Who will be my dinner guest next Sunday? You’ll just have to wait with bated breath to find out.  

Oh, and PS: In case anyone’s wondering whether announcing on Twitter that you’re having dinner with @nesbo_jo gets you as many likes as having dinner with @valmcdermid, the answer is no.