Loolabells Outdoor Kitchen

Effingham, Surrey

The whale’s spout was short, slow, and laborious, followed by strange subterranean commotions in him, which seemed to have egress at his other buried extremity, causing the waters behind him to upbubble.

“Who’s got some paregoric?” said Stubb, “he has the stomach-ache, I’m afraid. Lord, think of having half an acre of stomach-ache! Adverse winds are holding mad Christmas in him, boys. It’s the first foul wind I ever knew to blow from astern.

–Moby-Dick, Chapter 81: The Pequod Meets the Virgin

It has begun already. Festive peristaltic peril of leviathanic proportions. Tables, uncles, and waistbands groan. A simple dinner. A simple lunch. Bread and cheese, and cheese and bread. And wine goes well, and beer. And some ham. Pop to the pub? Cup of tea? Tried this pâté? Cheeky chocolate? Glass of wine before bed? Got any crisps? I am undone. Like buttons. And my daily run.

On the morning of the eve, then, I go out for a low-rolling, head-lolling stroll in search of ease. Along childhood streets, I seem to creak. Down unsnowed sledge slopes, past muddy Scout hut to the ramshackle oasis of Loolabells Outdoor Kitchen. The coffee machine beantocups without human interference and I survey the homely clutter of the trailer. A gaggle of syrup pumps honk and peck on the counter. Bagged up baps slump sleepily on the shoulders of ketchup bottles. Chips sschrackle in oil at the back. I churn in grubby abstinence.

Over the plastic lid of my coffee, rugby pitches stretch to the near horizon, flattened in honour of King George V and since trampled under generations of boots - including, very rarely, my own. I am shaken out of encroaching reverie by a high-pitched rasp. Two scramble bikes burst out of the woods and roar across the park, dopplering and screaming as they go. They let rip, tearing up turf and silence.