Waste of thyme

There’s been a pall of restlessness hanging over my day today. I imagine this is because of the visit to my flat yesterday and the accumulation of various random possessions, none of which are particularly useful in my current situation. Gugs and I had a laugh over this spice rack emerging from a plastic bag, having gone full circle. I bought it in 2013 shortly before moving to Cambodia. Gugs was around at the time and we’ve long puzzled why someone who barely cooks would purchase a 16-spice rack in the run-up to emigrating. We smelt-tested each jar (note to self: don’t sniff too strongly at the cayenne pepper or you’ll have a sneezing fit) and decided what could be retained and what was stale or off. The marjoram had never been opened, so it was kept.

In other news, the van I hired received a penalty notice because drivers have to have a PhD in ‘being a jobsworth’ to correctly fill in a parking permit so as to be within the rules. My increasing irreverence is tested in such moments.

Evening walks around Cambridge are now less enjoyable as crowds and clamour have returned and drunken clients queue up to get into Wetherspoons on a Tuesday evening. There were fewer places where I could sit in quiet contemplation without a group of gobby characters mouthing off in the background. During lockdown it does seem that those denizens of Cambridge who have bounced back into city centre life have acquired more of a brash, edgy vibe. However, it is still Cambridge, so whilst gobbier than pre-lockdown, these denizens won’t be too many rotations of a bike pedal away from a vegan burger on a gluten free bap.

What does one do with a jar of marjoram?