adore amy

i don’t want a lot for christmas…

And after a rip-roaring week in That London, there surely isn’t enough fun left in the world for me have any more without using up some of somebody else’s allocation, which would be not only appallingly rude, but terribly selfish.

I have luxuriated snugly in my beautiful hotel room complete with the Best View Ever (until next time, at least), strolled around soaking up the bright winter sunshine and enjoyed fabulous food every day, from mojitos and dim sum with the very gorgeous Jemma Fox to fish soup and mashed-potato-heaven fish pie at Borough Market with my favourite lady Kinky La Rue, who not only suggested the lunch venue, but actually provided ongoing sustenance by presenting me with proper homemade jerk chicken with rice and peas to take back (which when nursing a slightly giddy Talisker headache the following day was possibly the gastronomic equivalent of discovering Christ). Said headache was earned over some of the finest pub food ever (and undoubtedly some of the most charming company) on a rainy night out in Bermondsey with further entertainment provided by a warring couple panelling the crap out of each other in the street outside a neighbouring drinking hole. She was definitely winning when the rozzers turned up.

As most loyal readers know, it is nigh on unheard of for me to return from the capital with anything even remotely unfavourable to say but a six night trip was a challenge even for me, and were it not for a last minute let down on Saturday afternoon (which allowed me to spend most of the day enjoying the fresh air with another favourite member of the regular London Posse, who turned up with more rubber ducks to join the bathtime party and has now bought me post-noon breakfast twice in a row at the local greasy spoon, sharing my appreciation of a proper fried slice and collecting Christmas tree pictures – see special collage below*) I would certainly have returned home in a far more shambolic state than was eventually the case. I still owe one loyal visitor an apology for being practically asleep in my chair over my (very nice) seafood spaghetti on Monday night, but hopefully being my date to come and watch Frankie Boyle call everybody registering so much as a blip in the recent history of popular culture (or just anyone in the immediate vicinity) a cunt for ninety minutes or so next November will make up for it. Hahahahaha.

Needless to say, my last-night excursion to see It’s A Wonderful Life at the BFI Southbank was another highlight, and the chance to see one of my favourite films on the big screen doesn’t come up nearly often enough – I can only assume most reading have seen it, but if not, go immediately to Play.com; run, don’t walk. The only major loss due to lack of time in the end was finding a carol service, but they have them in Scarborough too, after all – it has been a truly memorable week and was all rounded off with the solemn and noble challenge presented by the all-you-can-eat buffet restaurant on Sunday lunchtime with regular partner-in-plate Catherine Stephens for a catch-up. Phew.

Having been home now for two days, preparations for the festivities are going on in earnest and my availability is going to be extremely limited for the remainder of the week when taking into account the current status of the refrigerator and food cupboards (bwahahahaha) and the increasingly appealing choice of films to be watched on television during the day (the two week period specified by the double-issue Radio Times being the only time of the year where it is permissible to switch the set on before 6pm without shame). That is not to say that visitors won’t be welcome, but notice please – expecting me to be able to drop everything and be ready to entertain in an hour’s time is unrealistic no matter what the time of year, but this week and next you’ve got more chance of getting a meeting with Santa himself. And he’s busy too.

Present wrapping, rowan-twig arranging (don’t ask) and Family Guy beckons for tonight. More later in the week – promise.

*Christmas Trees Of Scarborough (needless to say) is hot on the heels, proving beyond doubt that nobody with even remotely obsessive compulsive tendencies should be allowed to embark on any repetitive task involving the collecting of similarly themed things. Hmm.

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