Spoons and Meat

And so, on Sunday past, I became acquainted with another of Balliol's quaint customs - the banging of the spoons. When the big man (the master of the college) comes a'dinin' at the Hall, everyone grabs his spoon and bangs it against the table... just for kicks I guessed. Apparently it a vestige of the days of Jowett, when he had recuperated from illness and came back the lads (for they were all lads in those days) banged the nearest table implement (it would appear that they were eating soup at the time) and went crazy.

The master didn't quite dine in Hall, his retinue was too large to fit on the High Table, and thus, the elite would have to mix with hoi polloi, which would never do. So they dined in the Senior Common Room, but the choir has spoons thrust into their arms with a stirring speech to go and make banging noises as they (the retinue) walked from one room to the other. We were handed spoons, we lucky few, we band of brothers...

Which made for fun times. Not really a sentence there, but never mind.

The other day I had a run in with some mince. It was an even numbered day, which meant I was eating spaghetti, but I had forgot to put my mince in the freezer. Thus it had been slowly stewing in its own juices in the fridge for a little while too long (the actual timescale will not be recalled.) When I got it out for frying times, I smelled that it was a little different to your av-er-age bear - but I thought some cunning spices (paprika and lashings of zesty Italian herbs) would do the trick. Rather - the mince gave me some spice... and it wasn't anything nice. Thus an era came to an end... even numbered evenings are no longer the sacred stalking ground of the spaghetthi. And thus, another chapter closes...