W. has Sal, I have my potatoes. What's the difference?, W. says. Can I tell him the difference? He lives with a living, breathing woman who loves him, and I with a pile of Marks and Spencer potatoes – very good potatoes, he admits, he's tried them. I boiled up some for breakfast, which we ate with good olive oil, but they're potatoes nonetheless.
Potatoes! My potato friends!, W. says and laughs. Most people wouldn't eat their friends, but I would, and that's why they're my friends, aren't they? Maris piper: they're my favourite kind, W. says. They're the kind I sit and eat in the darkness, until I finish the whole bag, boiling its contents on the stove.
For his part, potatoes always send him to sleep, W. says. He can't stay awake after potatoes. But they seem to energise me, he says. They seem to drive me on. After potatoes, wine, and after wine – the internet. It's internet time, every night, when I write drunken rubbish on my blog, my belly full of of potatoes and wine.
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