Sunday, March 10, 2013
Just see how he gazes with delight at the lady’s fat legs, their bulging flesh quivering like blancmange! also Gogol, apparently.
Friday, April 27, 2012

Blancmanging out whatever it is that is doing the damage

There was to be dancing
In the cretonned lounge;
Three kinds of blancmange,
And a cake with icing;

The barrel by the radiogram
Held seven gallons
As a balance
To the seven-pound ham [ … ]

They ate till eight;
Course after course
Trifle and tinned asparagus
Piled on his plate

Larkin, from “Leave,” in the Burnett ed. (And in A Girl in Winter: “[she] unwrapped a paper of sausages and pricked them before putting them in a frying pan. There was half an onion that had lain in a saucer for several weeks, and she added a few translucent rings …”)

Tuesday, April 24, 2012 Sunday, April 1, 2012
Like the flowers on a grave bearing the mother of a sentimental hoodlum, Keith’s bouquet leaned and loitered in its bowl on the round table. Nicola always beheld these flowers with disbelief. The colours spoke to her of custard, of blancmange — a leaden meat tea served on pastel plates, the desiccation of a proletarian wake for some tyrant grandad, or some pub parrot of a granny, mad these thirty years. M. Amis, London Fields (elsewhere, Keith smells as if he’d eaten a “mustard-coated camel”)
Friday, January 27, 2012