Prelude

In case you were at all concerned, I managed to find, in the end, a Chinese restaurant for my daughter's birthday. (Not to keep, you understand: just to have a meal in. To receive as a present a whole restaurant of your own would doubtless get quite tiresome after a while; even if you were particularly fond of Chinese food. Though possibly you could ask the chef if he – or she – could cook anything else. You never know: he – or she – may be quite adept at wide-ranging cuisines. In which case it would probably be bearable, and even quite convenient on days when you weren't much in the mood for cooking.) As it turned out, the meal was pretty good. Which is about as far as my talent as a restaurant critic will stretch.

Though perhaps I have eaten too much; which is always a risk when you feel obliged, out of politeness to the chef, and acutely aware of the cost of the multitude of dishes you have rashly requested, to finish what's laid out in front of you, knowing your children will be of little practical help, having gorged themselves on the prawn crackers. On which subject, it is interesting to pause a moment and reflect on the pitifully weak similarity between prawn crackers and actual prawns. Not to mention crackers.

This post is meandering somewhat. Not helped by feeling listless and sleepy, nor by listening to the delicate surrealism of Debussy's Préludes. Perhaps I should try listening to something more vigorous and conducive to hard work. The weather, meanwhile, seems to be changing towards autumn; with a distinct chill in the air; and occasional torrential showers; and glimpses of the sun sitting low in the sky.

Where are the songs of spring? Answers, please.