the recipe for disaster asks for a can of worms

I may as well declare this blog open.

Now I've got to think up some stuff to put in.

'Sculpting' alludes to a desire to be creative/expressive though I'm not sure how, hence 'With Soup'.

I’m not even sure I actually like soup…

My Soup

Some people say that chicken soup is the panacea of all ills and the eternal comforter. If you’d have asked young ian russell he’ll have told you it was cream of tomato. Soup to me was cream of tomato; if my mum offered me ''soup'', it wouldn’t be anything else. I’d have it with little bits of broken bread – not croutons, mind. Oh no, we’d never heard of them – just small square pieces torn from a larger square slice from a rectangular white loaf.

After I’d eaten the soup, I’d be left with a tell-tale orange tide mark circling my lips, looking like a prototype for Ronald MacDonald. I think at that point my mum would grab me and scrub my chops with a damp flannel before sending me out to play in the street.

Now, if I think of soup at all, I’d say my clear favourite is my wife’s gazpacho. On a warm day, al fresco, it is to die for!

Now, mulligatawny is anglicized Tamil for pepper water, and minestrone is a soup of ''multitudinous miscellanea'' – there are few rules to this soup, anything goes. It’s the kind of soup that if it was a flag, I’d salute it, if it was a lover, I'd wrap my coat around it and if it was a dog I’d throw it a stick…for a very, very long time.

So, that just about covers all the bases (everybody knew about animal crackers, eh?)