The night before Wylde’s packing day, I’d been up doing what any self-respecting food freedom fighter should be doing – fighting for Real Food and waging the noble war on the cynical you-know-whats who conspire to sell us the exact opposite. You know the drill, darlings: sneak in past a fluorescent-jacketed security guard here, wreak merry havoc on UPFs there, et cetera. Nothing too grand, nothing too highbrow, what, just a simple question of fighting fire with fire.
But it really can rather take it out of a fox. I didn’t get a wink of sleep, darlings: une véritable nuit blanche, as we used to say when I lived in Paris. So hardly surprising, I think you’ll agree, that upon arriving back at Wylde HQ and having engaged in a little friendly banter with the team yours truly thought that it might be time for a quick kip.
And so, darlings, I snuggled down into one of those lovely, insulated cardboard boxes….
Next thing I know, it’s 5am and I’m in a warehouse somewhere in central England: and not in a good way (it’s not 1999, darlings). I don’t know who’s more terrified, me or Wayne, the red t-shirted courier company worker who’s just seen me fight way out of a taped up cardboard box. Tooth and claw, darlings, literally. Tooth. And. Claw.
Fortunately Wayne turns out to be the most capital fellow and we quickly become friends, bonding over our shared love of the poetry of Pablo Neruda (Wayne calls it ‘a lush, intoxicating garden of language where the words bloom like orchids and the verses throb with Latin sensuality’. Quite.). Being a good-hearted sort, and quickly grapsing my predicament, darlings, my new mucker offers for me to ride shotgun with him as he begins the process of delivering his batch of Wylde boxes.
And, oh, what a privilege! I met so many of you, starting with lovely 4 year old Edith, who drew this fabulous picture of us together with her mum and sister.
So it went on, darlings. As Wayne and I made our rounds, you welcomed me with open arms. And, ahem, open bottles. Which is when the trouble started. One of the vicissitudes of being a silver fox is that nearly everyone wants to offer you a drink. And given that manners maketh man and fox alike, what’s a chap to do? Thus it was, darlings, that I found myself drinking Wylde-ly in….
Leicester.
And in Bradford....
And in Reading, and Yately, Huntingdon, London, Nottingham and more....
By the time Wayne had kindly driven me all the way back to Twickers, it’s no lie to say that your favourite fox was shot. I was bilious, darlings. Positively bilious.
Finally back at HQ, I descended from the cab and mumbled an inebriated ‘Thank you’ as I shut the door behind me. Wayne rolled down the window, rested a heavily tattooed arm on the door of his white van and smiling his beatific smile, gently shook his head, looked to the sky and murmured wistfully:
“Vino, estrellado hijo de la tierra….”
I vomited, straightened myself up and did my best to stride purposefully into the office, in the vain hope of bottoming things out with Ella.
It’s not been the perfect end to the week, I shan’t lie to you darlings. Nor the perfect start to the weekend, if truth be told. It’s also why this morning’s recipe is rather, shall we say, ‘targeted’:
Take Julian’s focaccia.
Slice it horizontally.
Grill it lightly.
Add oodles of butter, Keir’s fermented ketchup and rasher upon rasher of Andrew’s delicious bacon.
This 'recipe' (if you can call it that) has, darlings, helped me finally shed my hangover.
Let's hope it can help me keep my job, too.
Yours liverishly,
R.
x