The Spy snuck sneakily into Magdalene College, where he made friends with a wisteria and a clematis.
The Cambridge Spy is experiencing a profound crisis of the soul, otherwise known as an almighty work-avalanche of biblical proportions. This will continue for the next few months, during which time his brain will shrivel, his vital organs will wither and his personality will be slowly eroded by the crushing burden of his labours. Posts will be brief, if not non-existent. The Spy anticipates that almost all of them will be in note-form, punctuated by bouts of authorial madness (you may find yourself reading treaties on subjects such as 'The Spy: Man or Malt Loaf?' or 'The Spy is a Bald Greenlandic Walrus named Gerald. Discuss').
In the mean time, a brief account of the Spy's recent stint in Oxford. In close-to-note form.
Contentious though this confession may be, the Spy would be happy to spend the rest of his days swinging from the dreaming spires of Oxford like a little monkey in a stone rainforest. However, the first thing to be established would be where to find scones to rival those of The Orchard in Grantchester. Preliminary results reveal this may not be as straightforward as he hoped: those at The Rose Cafe were warmed and fairly nice, but a little too small and buttery for the Spy's taste. Excellent tea, however.
Rose. Scone. Butter. Jam. 'Nuff sed.
Those at the magnificent Grand Cafe got top marks for presentation (on a tiered silver stand with sliced strawberries perched on the cream), but alas, bottom marks for taste (think soft, slightly sweet bread). However, the full English breakfast came with a choice of rye or granary toast (yum!) and a particularly excellent Oxfordshire sausage, while the elderflower cordial was quite simply the nicest drink the Spy had ever encountered (think a non-alcoholic Mojito, with crushed mint and a mix of sharp lemon and sweet elderflower that set his tastebuds singing). And the door-closing-weight is a brass kettle on a string. What more could you want?
All that glitters is not gold...
Fry-up with rye bread. Classy.
Elixir of the gods cosying up to beautiful milk jug. Kettle out of shot.
A strong contender to match the excellent Nanna Mexico here in Cambridge, top-notch burritos came courtesy of The Mission, with enough red onions to put an end to the Spy's attempts to woo the luscious ladies of this fair city. They swooned before him, eyes watering...
Joining the crowds for one of the delis on the High Street, the Spy bought many olives. Many, many olives. He then took them to the Botanic Gardens, where he ate them whilst watching a sparrow savaging a heron. Nature is a cruel mistress...
The queue was stretching out the door. The Spy joined it enthusiastically: that's the British way!
The Covered Market provided the Spy with soft, squidgily warm Ben's Cookies straight out of the oven. A toss-up between the spiced oatmeal and the white chocolate chip.
In the heat of the day, ice cream proved a necessity. It was practically medicinal; the Spy would have died of heatstroke without it. Reminiscent of JP Licks in Boston (which still retains the edge, however), G&D's Ice Cream Parlour hit the spot, with the smallest blobbette (i.e. the size of his fist) of Daim nestled next to an even more modest (i.e. bloody huge) helping of cherry-and-white-chocolate. On top of a warm waffle. Open from 8am until midnight for all your ice cream cravings.
The medicine cabinet...
In short, the Spy hearts Oxford. Muchly. And there was a Northlight Homestore shop that the Spy went mad in (the good kind of mad, i.e. 'bought a lot', not the bad kind of mad, i.e. 'put his underpants on his head and started singing a song about sexually adventurous elves') to counteract his Scandinavia-sickness from the time his work takes him out there. Next time, he's got his eyes on the restaurant specialising in bangers and mash. He will be back!
The Spy is secure enough in his own manhood that he can indulge his Nordic candle fetish without censure. Let there be light!
