Gormless

My cultural retardation was revealed during a first visit to Kettle's Yard, a house and gallery space, in Cambridge. Recently reopened after a renovation, this place is a staple for culture and art lovers. In such circles I usually nod along blindly, but enjoyed the Antony Gormley exhibition, even with the booklet over-theorising about the artwork. It left me feeling neither more 'self-assured' or 'destabilised'. I was mostly 'wanting an ice cream'.

In my defence of the above picture, those more refined were also larking about with the sculpture, which is in the same style as the 100 cast iron figures off the coast of Formby in Merseyside. And those before us had left dirty footprints on the wall whilst also up to no good. We were clocked acting the goat by the sensible curators.

Helen and I were being visited in Cambridge by Henri, a good friend from Phnom Penh, who I lived with at the end of my time there in the amazing villa she rented. Helen's husband Berry was attending a stag do in Cardiff, and being stuck on a hot train whilst hideously hungover was an inferior way of spending the weekend compared to our lounging in meadows, dipping into the river, and drinking coffee al fresco.

Henri now lives in London and works on environmental and plastics issues, which is quite a departure from her former role focused on malaria prevention for an international health NGO, in which she could often be found scratching around plantations in remotest Cambodia, trying to measure the infection prevalence of rubber tappers. Henri's partner Gerhardt splits his time between London and Vienna with work trips back to Myanmar where he lived for several years and worked on health issues for organisations like Médecins Sans Frontières.

All of this underlines the interesting nature of folk and life somewhere like Cambodia. We spent much of the weekend reminiscing about the quirks of both people and place. Truly an irreplaceable period of our lives and special moments together remembering the fun, frustrations and plain bizarreness.

We attempted a BBQ in the evening but the temperature management failed and everything was extremely chargrilled. Nothing dampened our spirits though, and in reference to spirits, gin with fresh raspberries from Helen and Berry's allotment was a good softener whilst picking off layers of blackened pepper skin.