It's really Friday again, already.

Mary* poured ten litres of veal stock down the drain while I was out. I nursed it through most of yesterday and last night, for hours and hours, skimming, checking its temperature, inhaling the subtle, warm fragrance. It was a clear, intense broth, halfway to being a splendid demi-glace, which, as EVERYBODY knows, is the delicate secret of most food that causes your eyes roll back in your head with pleasure. It’s alchemy. It’s magic. Making stock is profound interaction with what goes in your mouth and becomes part of who you are.

I ranted and raved for about five minutes, I threw my shoe bag against the wall. I muttered and paced and then had to leave. I could not look at her.

She could not possibly have known. Unless you are a person who cooks stock, you may well find a pot of dark liquid standing in an ice bath suspicious and worthy of immediate disposal. But understanding this does not help the devastation I feel. I am irrational with grief, to the extent that even now I am slightly surprised at how distressed I am over a pot of soup.

I am sitting in Doppio Zero, drinking a beer which I shouldn’t, but sometimes on a hot afternoon a cold Stella is a deeply soothing thing and I think we have established that I am very upset. In about ten minutes I am going to have another one.

The day started off very well. What are we going to wear? Max wanted to know. I’m in my jeans, with a t-shirt, and I am taking my running shoes, I said. No, I am not actually wearing them, they are in a bag. She was in her bush shorts. We are definitely going to have to get gear. Although our attire was preferable and more socially acceptable to us, it was not going to get us in the clubhouse. We had a look at stuff in the shop window and at the women on the green. It was reason for trepidation. I can’t wear that, Max said. But those are your colours, I pointed out.

It seems that a combination of bright purple and orange might now well be acceptable on the Wanderer’s golf course. Max’s colours -ish. But the cut... the style... the only vaguely sexy items in a woman’s golf wardrobe is the leather glove and the shoes. I so love shoe shopping, I signed up for a full beginner’s course – ten lessons because apparently you need five to cover the swing alone. It's so rare, those moments in which one really NEEDS new shoes. On leaving, I did a hypothetical justification for Max... oh darling, I bought these shoes but I really NEEDED them. She laughed.

Our golf pro was an hour late. Something about a truck overturning on the highway and taxis congregating at the Corlett drive off-ramp. I knew it was true as there was a story on the radio about it. I moved my job interview half an hour and we waited. When he arrived he was such a cutie that we were not sorry at all. I managed quite well, I must say. Sometimes I hit the ball straight down the centre of the driving range, about 130 metres with an 8 iron. Francois* agreed that this would be good if I could manage it 8/10 times, instead of 8/50. Still, I think it’s the feeling of getting it right once that will keep one coming back.

I am not sure what Francois thought of us. Whose idea was this, he wanted to know. Max pointed to me. Oh no it wasn’t, I reminded her. It was yours and Chris’s. By the time I got there, you were drunk already. He thought this was funny. I think it is a good thing that our pro is quite young, not a day over 28 I would say, so that we can have a bit of fun with him.

So that was good. I have a blister on my thumb, but next time I am going to wear my glove and a plaster. I have a glove, from when I worked close to a driving range in 2004 and had a golf nut in the office with me.

Then I went for a job interview, and it was also pretty good. She will probably give me the job if I said I wanted it. I would have to give up golf lessons and ballroom with Mike (you have no idea the shit I am getting into now that I am officially unemployed) and work 12 hours a day, five days a week. She also said that (checking on my Level of Commitment), she would really need someone to Focus on this Job: “Run With It”, so if I was thinking about “writing and things....” Hmm. I wonder. Before the interview I waited in the reception area, and watched people come and go. I nearly ran away screaming at the sight of the inflated self-importance of people in TV. Fucking Hell. I am one of them, I thought. Maybe that is why I was so upset about the stock when I found out about it later.

So, now, here I am, Friday afternoon at Doppio. There is Sheryl Crow on the speakers, Leaving Las Vegas, and a chubby, cheery guy with unbelievably fat toes to the left of me. The traffic hums. Clouds gather. I think about cooking, and golf, and about what the fuck I am going to write about next. I have finished my 2nd Stella. I may drink another one before I go back to the Oaklands Butchery for more bones. I will be nursing another pot of stock through the afternoon and evening, while I make a frangipane tart and stuff two chickens with chestnuts, orange zest, breadcrumbs and livers. On Monday I will call and say I don’t really want to give up the golf, but thanks. Maybe I will say it is because there is life beyond spilt broth, but I doubt that she will understand.