tygerland.net

Novosibirsk, Siberia | 13:08 (07:08 GMT), August 2, 2006

I suppose I should be commenting on the ongoing fighting in the Middle East, but I guess others are doing so, and as they are ‘in touch’ with the 24-hour media juggernaut that is the internet and satellite television, they should probably be much better informed and worthy than me. So I shall not dwell on those troubles and simply enjoy my afternoon drinking tea, alone – but for a snoozing little boy - in the apartment, pondering to myself, and now of course, to you.

I am reading Alistair Cooke’s Letter from America (I have misplaced my copy of Graham Green’s A Quiet American, it is hiding from me somewhere in the apartment, it will reveal itself soon enough I’m sure). I bought Cooke’s book, which is a collection of his best radio broadcasts, sometime ago in a bookshop in Newark. I have been meaning to get stuck into it, but as it’s in essay form, one can read one or two and put it down again. This leisurely approach to literary digestion suits my usually busy schedule, but here on holiday, when time is in such plenty, I hanker for the escape of a good novel.

The choice of English-Language books here in Siberia is very poor. You can get classics, some of which are fairly contemporary (such as Greene), but you cannot purchase recent tomes you may have read about in a newspaper or heard discussed on the radio. I would very much like to read one of Margaret Attwood’s novels, as I hear they are among the best of the current cannon. I regret not picking up one of her novels at the airport.

If I am honest with you, I actually adore spy thrillers by Robert Ludlum. The Jason Bourne books are of course my favourite; I have all the books and DVD’s of the films. His other books are always enjoyable, but I have a soft spot for Bourne, and I love the way the films follow a different narrative to the books. Such trashy literature is a vice I know, akin to gorging on hamburgers and fries, but we all have our own transgressions, don’t we?

I must return to my book soon, I have no idea how much longer little tyger jnr. will sleep. He will demand, and of course deserve, my full attention. Such idle time wasting will no longer be tolerated, and I will no doubt be playing hidey-boo and wrestling unsuitable objects from his vice-like grip soon enough.

Tonight Mrs. tyger and myself plan to go to a restaurant together, just the two of us. It may be very nice Russian one we went to last week, but as ever I am holding out for Korean (I saw a restaurant in the city as we drove by, I have a sharp eye for culinary establishments, to which my friends will attest). Korean food is, in my opinion, simply the best in the world. It’s a spicier menu than Chinese, more substantial than Thai (Mrs. tyger’s favourite), and more varied than Japanese.

I suppose I must be sure I do not consume dog, although I have never actually seen it on a menu, but maybe here, so deep into Asia, it may appear. It’s not a myth is it? I have eaten lots of weird and wonderful things, but I couldn’t eat dog, certainly not a pooch, almost like eating a friend. Could you? I suppose if I were starving, it would be infinitely preferable to death or feasting on ones own arm; poor Rover would certainly then be seasoned, thrust in a pot and stewed, but not if I have the choice. Pork I think.

Anyway back to the wonderful Alistair Cooke. Good-bye.