Take a box of baby tomatoes, give them to Barny and let him chef at them for a few hours in a low oven. The resulting slow roasted garlic tomatoes are a thing of such exquisite beauty that for a brief eating spree you forget that you don’t even like tomatoes, twisted non-fruit as they are, and succumb to enjoyment. Feeding frenzy over I must confess that the Jabberwocky is still stationary. It languishes on our drive, its glow plugs frayed and apt to make the cab smell of burning plastic if you use them. Mechanics flee before it, claiming prior engagements or electronic ignorance, and all the while our insurance ticks away, rust digs deeper into its ageing frame and the rat race drags us forward.
The Jabberwocky will, one day, free us from the man. Being self-employed may leave you at the tax man’s mercy, but gloriously free from the corporate snares of having a boss. In its current state, however, we must drink deeply of the sobering smart-price wine of reason and accept that the restaurant will not happen tomorrow.
Accepted. It’s a necessary reality check I think, and means we can realign our priorities. So far the Van has been a means of acquiring a restaurant, but when we remove the restaurant from the picture there is suddenly a much clearer canvas. The looming restaurant was obscuring what we actually had there, which was a business. With this new focus in mind Barny sprang a new idea on me last night. Home ownership. Originally our finances, such as they were, would be tied up in the restaurant, but if we are directing our energy at the Jabberwocky Van, as opposed to channelling the spirit of the restaurant through the van, our hypothetical cash flow might just be allowed to pool somewhere.
Now excuse me while I go and scrub the middle-class middle-aged feeling off me, or I will start waxing lyrical about mortgages.
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