Igor Clark

Goose fat. That's the secret, lashings of goose fat. And when you've par-boiled the potatoes, swing 'em around in a colander so they scuff up niiice. Medium oven for an hour, regular turns, lightly steam the veg - then: stuff the whole lot in your head, quick as you can. No-one'll ever know it was there.

On Saturday I went to have yet another puncture repaired, and hopefully delay the next similar incident, by having some new tyres fitted to my bike at Lock 7 Cycle Café. On wandering along Broadway Market to pass the time while waiting for the work to be done, I chanced on the Artwords bookshop, a sister to the one on Rivington Street. It's a treasure trove. Several times I realised in the course of my visit that I was just gazing, mouth agape, at the shelf- and tablefuls of gorgeous, fascinating, beautiful books. Spent so long browsing that it would have felt really rude not to take anything with me. I love this place. I'd love to find a sort of cultural Shangri-La like this hidden in big city hills, a literary, linguistic and licentiously visual labyrinth, with room after room of tomes and quartos and lavish lithographic layouts, and spend days and weeks and months absorbing and soaking myself in the splendour, luxuriating in its lushness.