What I cooked last night.

The lemon tree had had a good summer. It had surreptitiously reached six feet across the fence - I hadn’t realised - and into the neighbour’s yard. To support the weight - it was now fully laden - its almost horizontal leaders, like giant elbows, were resting on the palings. The fence nails were unnailing, vertically distended gaps were showing light; and gratingly clichéd aphorisms about good fences were repeating themselves. Scene one: the church.   Three o’clock. I had walked the half-mile or so towards the slate-encased red brick spire, still strainingly visible above the rising skyline of new apartments. It was a warm afternoon. The silvery sky tinged with red had suggested either a medieval painting of Calvary, or a 1950s Hollywood biblical epic.  I sat in the south transept as the truncated passion play was read to an half-empty church. Everything is open on Good Friday now; the congregation has diminished with the zeitgeist, if that term can be applied to rushing aroun...