Worthwhile?
Worth @ 11pm.
If I thought living in a dismal half hearted, cold, excuse for comfort, which equals £50pw on top of working 50+ hours a week for an adhd ad-hoc chef who has a simple mind and rattles on about the ways and means of getting Cajun chicken ready like pick and pick and pick (just do and be done to a reasonable standard! Please!!) and being a hieronymous Jew in flesh made real.
Where there is a Matt who is a dull repeat of my man from Portsmouth 2008 without the dreads: oh I dread the repeat and lies and lies unless he is the actual urban guy who actually swallowed the poisonous tropical fish and spent 6 months strumming a 6 string guitar.
Then there are the managers who are nice, but hooked in Cornwall hospitality and are not in this charmless slopping roofed old and smokey joint: people are so happy with my apparent nothing.
I expected respect but I got The Rising Sun! Then again the feeling from the Harbour Inn was nonchalant.
A commis called Smithy who 'sick' spouts catholic religious headed mumbo jumbo while bike riding 100cc.
Here I could just about cope with the exaggerating Sous. But he's actually a nice guy. And he can carp and clap and do everything french: Freddy!
Was worth anything to me I'd linger.
Worth @ 9am.
And I drank 2 dank coffees, ate 2 wonderful saffron buns then returned on the 9am ferry to find worth: telling the head chef no - no way.
To ask in organic bakers and wholefood outlet in Fal while consuming raw cacao, beetroot juice to prevent exhaustion while my goodly clothes need washing; lest they stink in my yawn.
And hiked up the ladder to Jake's to write an argument for frankly bare food to 2 in Truro posthaste and not to feel terror at chefs with control over much control.
I can't connect with the modern world or the modern person or the modern girl. I misplaced a bank card late last night and thought I'd be stuck in St Mawes until I could walk the Carrick Roads self propelled, however I was wrong and it is in hand - the hand of one about to traipse to Tenerife to escape the bliss.
Worth @ 5pm.
Book in hand I call finally in Jam to read and reclaim my mind from inspiration-less lustlacking 2 days pent in St Mawes. 'tis a pity the artist speaks not of Brighton but is within ink quick Quink ink. Hear Wye Oak twice while digesting fruitful and enjoyable falafel and green tea.
Back of my heads screams failure, failure, failure: you won't amount the gap and may end up penniless impotent and a pedant and mentally clouded over. What can I tell you about this fine line I have met other than I can collapse not to arise pennantly the striding stairs.
If I thought living in a dismal half hearted, cold, excuse for comfort, which equals £50pw on top of working 50+ hours a week for an adhd ad-hoc chef who has a simple mind and rattles on about the ways and means of getting Cajun chicken ready like pick and pick and pick (just do and be done to a reasonable standard! Please!!) and being a hieronymous Jew in flesh made real.
Where there is a Matt who is a dull repeat of my man from Portsmouth 2008 without the dreads: oh I dread the repeat and lies and lies unless he is the actual urban guy who actually swallowed the poisonous tropical fish and spent 6 months strumming a 6 string guitar.
Then there are the managers who are nice, but hooked in Cornwall hospitality and are not in this charmless slopping roofed old and smokey joint: people are so happy with my apparent nothing.
I expected respect but I got The Rising Sun! Then again the feeling from the Harbour Inn was nonchalant.
A commis called Smithy who 'sick' spouts catholic religious headed mumbo jumbo while bike riding 100cc.
Here I could just about cope with the exaggerating Sous. But he's actually a nice guy. And he can carp and clap and do everything french: Freddy!
Was worth anything to me I'd linger.
Worth @ 9am.
And I drank 2 dank coffees, ate 2 wonderful saffron buns then returned on the 9am ferry to find worth: telling the head chef no - no way.
To ask in organic bakers and wholefood outlet in Fal while consuming raw cacao, beetroot juice to prevent exhaustion while my goodly clothes need washing; lest they stink in my yawn.
And hiked up the ladder to Jake's to write an argument for frankly bare food to 2 in Truro posthaste and not to feel terror at chefs with control over much control.
I can't connect with the modern world or the modern person or the modern girl. I misplaced a bank card late last night and thought I'd be stuck in St Mawes until I could walk the Carrick Roads self propelled, however I was wrong and it is in hand - the hand of one about to traipse to Tenerife to escape the bliss.
Worth @ 5pm.
Book in hand I call finally in Jam to read and reclaim my mind from inspiration-less lustlacking 2 days pent in St Mawes. 'tis a pity the artist speaks not of Brighton but is within ink quick Quink ink. Hear Wye Oak twice while digesting fruitful and enjoyable falafel and green tea.
Back of my heads screams failure, failure, failure: you won't amount the gap and may end up penniless impotent and a pedant and mentally clouded over. What can I tell you about this fine line I have met other than I can collapse not to arise pennantly the striding stairs.
Comments