Blimey – it must be the Spring factor – suddenly the last 3 turgid months of ploughing through the arse end of winter have been replaced by a plethora of nice stuff, and its all coming through suddenly at a rate of knots. Imagine a boxing ring with a giant daffodil on acid taking on a snowdrop on speed…. WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOFFF, spring has deffo sprung!
So, we've just had a top weekend en France, drove almost 1000 miles (yes a blooming thousand – see the floral metaphor there?) down to the Loire so Monsieur Le Hawk could fill his boots with Chablis, Touraine and various other wines that all magically blended into one heady topnote of social gooseberry, as I sat patiently (yes I know, how hard is that?) in various wineries, waiting for him to swallow, not spit. Accompanied by Madame la Hawkins, equally happy with glass in hand, with the other chauffeur Ross snoring happily in various French armchairs and benches, awaiting instructions to the next vineyard of interest.
But we did have some fab nosh – my annual gorging on bulots (whelks – a terribly ugly word and they do look like giant rubbery snot bungs, but somehow taste very good) and bounteous prawns and crabs. Still can't get over the fact a crab is a torteau, which sounds worryingly like a turtle… so what's the french for one of those then, a 'crabine?' All a bit verbally topsy-turvy, but once smothered in garlic mayonnaise and washed down with some very naughty pre-wedding frites – a dream.
So our hallway is now festooned with boxes of vin, vin and more vin which we were too knackered to put away last night (H was still lovingly caressing each new bottle) – not so handy when John Lewis tipped up at 8am this morning to deliver a chair out of the blue and we couldn't get it through the door past the Euro Wine Mountain….
And am now entering the somewhat pooey bottom stakes as my – gulp – Hen weekend is approaching all rather quickly this coming weekend. Obviously, all my female firiends are kind, gentle, sweet, unassuming, lovely etc etc and not a single foul thing is about to befall me / leap out of a cake at me / tie me to a lamppost / shag me via an unwelcome orifice or throw me in a lake. Oh no sirree, at least I know the weekend will be a soft and gentle flow of tea, fairy cakes, embroidery and sonorous hand clapping at the likely string quartet who are no doubt providing some light entertainment for us all, alongside the knitting needle game and using the pastry cutters to provide gifts for our partners as all women should. Yes, that sounds just the plan…. though sadly not the one the others coming may have in mind. Revenge is a dish best served cold and I'm packing extra jumpers just in case.
Happy days – well, till this Fri and Saturday anyway. S x