And everybody saying that music like ours couldn’t die
Sickboy is on the mend. He’s moved from mainly horizontal to mainly vertical, along with mainly silent to Really Quite Grumpy. He was recovered enough to make his cheese deprived wife a tartiflette last night. The sort, if it was a ready meal, would be billed as “Feeds 6-8” but in reality fed one normal person and one exceptionally greedy woman.
Nonetheless, in spite of this fromage induced revelry, I’ve suggested he doesn’t indulge in the exhortations of his favourite t shirt just yet.
Speaking of food, which I so often am, our local pub back home in the motherland got Jay Rayner’d in the Guardian today. It’s a corker of a review and wholly deserved – they go from strength to strength and we’ve never had even a mediocre meal there. My 50th birthday party was held in their fab champagne and oyster bar last year and despite it involving a number of my cousins, they still allow us back and even seem pleased to see us.
We’re two weeks into our five. This is, psychologically if not numerically, the tipping point where the rest of the time will fly by and I’ll be back at my desk in Cardiff before I know it. I’ve got all manner of exciting things brewing up for when I get back – the intersection of both parts of my life are one of the many joys about living this way. I love being in both places and the privilege of being able to do so is never taken for granted.
