This morning I went into town to attend to a hair emergency. A patch of red has faded to a bizarre yellowy-orange colour and is looking mighty strange. Thankfully Sylvia is able to save the day with a quick overlay. Obviously I usually denounce all hair dyes, but needs must…
I get waylaid into my favourite boutique and two pairs of troseurs, a top and a guilty conscience later I head home.
George appears on cue and after a swift glass of wine we head to That Café.
The menu is as always stunning. It changes weekly so there isn’t such a thing as a daily special, however for once they are offering a further choice of starters, mains and desserts our waitress informs us. The additional main, she tells us, involves “a rare breed of beef…I mean not like endangered or anything…just quite rare…”.
Always good to be reassured that one wouldn’t be consuming part of the ‘last breeding pair’…
I don’t think I’ve ever had even a mediocre meal at That Cafe and today is no exception. Of course it might be the vodka and the bottle of Vouvray taking, but I think it was probably one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten.
After a taxi home, we start on the Baileys. I have a just opened litre bottle, but as ever with George’s measuring technique it disappears rather fast. Having drunk the last drop I’m somewhat surprised to find a fresh glass full magically appear after I leave the room briefly.
Sure enough young Georgina has cracked open a second bottle. Which confirms what we all knew:
SHE.IS.NOT.TO.BE.TRUSTED!
Accompanied by the opening bares of the dawn chorus we finally admit defeat around 4.15am. As I climb the stairs, I can’t help but be relieved that I reconfigured the futon in the spare room before George arrived…
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