I am presently eating perfectly ripe Crottin de Chavignol goat's cheese with thick, dark Greek honey. I am managing to stuff this into my mouth without getting honey on the keyboard or cheese in the cat. All is indeed well.
Other half term delights included eating wholesome and delicious sushi with stickette which just wasn't enough to console her for her ordeal at the hands of the Parliamentary Select Committee, so we took up davywavy's recommendation of the ice cream sundaes at Cafe Ciao in Charing Cross Road. The ensuing multiple mouthgasms were such that we shall be re-playing them in our fantasies forever ( I think Stick may have stolen the menu for food porn purposes).
In fact (Dr Atkins must be spinning in his grave), I went back there the following day with ladycat for carbohydrates, coffee and conversation. This involved a frantic dash across Leicester Square in the pouring rain, because I was, inevitably, late. I was held up no less than three times by dimwits in sportswear thrusting flyers for RnB nights at me. I'd lost patience by the time the fourth one accosted me and I simply barked at him 'just because I've got dark skin doesn't mean I like shit fucking music'.
On Fri I cooked a rather groovy meal:
Nibbles: Calamata olives marinaded in red wine and garlic, queen green olives with lemon and basil, Kir royale (champagne spiked with bramble (not blackcurrant) liqueur.
Starter: Rich wild mushroom and herb pate served with fresh redpepper and apricot chutney and black olive ciabatta (all homemade), served with Macon-Charnay
Main: Fished salmon fillets with tiger prawns, crayfish tails and shrimp in a roasted tomato, chilli and basil sauce spiked with vodka, fancy elongated potatoes steamed and served with unpasteurised creme fraiche, coriander and garlic, plus steamed baby carrots and mange-tout, seved with pinot grigio.
Pudding: Pavlova alla Rosamicula - hazelnut praline meringue filled with unpasteurised cointreau-spiked whipped cream, mango, passionfuit and starfruit.
Coffee and Armagnac
I love cooking and having sex. I hate working for a living and having insufficent money for my expensive tastes. A plan begins to form...
Things not to do on a number 12 bus No 1: Drop a very expensive bottle of 10 year old Baron de Ligognac Armagnac. Thankfully it landed in a pushchair. The precious contents were undamaged, though the little brown squealy thing appeared to be slightly bruised.
Things not to do on a number 12 bus No 2: Drop a big chunk of venison pie down your cleavage. Not till I found it in my bra when I went to bed did I realise my bosom had been emitting the heady fragrance of Lalique Tendre Kiss mixed with baked bambi.