curl up and dye

Sometimes curling up into a ball and trying valiantly to stop breathing and thinking is the only way to combat memories of a drunken night out and of certain pasts. I actually just want to curl up and die. Or stop remembering, whichever is easier.

But it shouldn't have been that hard really. It was a good day though, started with lunch at St Paul's Cathedral (an old workplace of mine), then meandered to a visit to the British Museum with a friend to see the Michaelangelo etchings and the Elgin Marbles and then pancakes and then early drinks at 5pm on Charlotte Street at the Fig Tree and then dinner at Hakkasan, feasting on tea-smoked duck and fresh halibut and mint tea, and then severe drinking at the O bar in Soho, with mojito and tanquerays one after the other. Today, the National Gallery and the National Portrait Gallery (the former to see the Da Vinci that someone promised he would buy for me) and the latter to see the finalists in the British competition.

Made dinner for Rads and Mags on Monday because I had dreamt about cooking: made prosciutto and ripe melon drizzled over with single-source acacia honey, grilled, marinated red peppers, on the vine tomatoes and fresh buffalo mozzarella, white, glistening and still dripping, drizzled over with lemony olive oil, and then rice with basil,lemon, wine, chicken, honey, pepper , and then fresh strawberries and blueberries with cream that I whipped myself (!) altogether with a lovely Australian zinfandel, with hints of strawberry and melon. It was fantastic.

World Cup fever is still upon us. We sincerely hope that the French will not win.