chi noodle laska and chicken satay

Alone. You know that feeling? When it’s just you in a vacuum that engulfs space and time? Ok, maybe just space, the clock is still illuminated on the bottom right hand corner of my screen, staring at me (didn’t these things used to blink?) for what seems like definitely longer than a minute, and then it ticks over, so we know time is still there. Wait, so there’s a screen. Ok so it’s just me and my laptop, alone.

The laptop sporadically hums, I’d like to think that it’s thinking, but I don’t know for sure, cos I haven’t asked it to do anything, I’m just looking at it, deep in my own writer’s block. But at least the hum tells me I’m not alone, and comforts me in the knowledge that out here, in my office in Central London, if something should happen, at least someone thing will hear me scream squeal profanities.

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penne arabiata with spicy chorizo & sundried tomato

I was recently reading a forum about the everyday things that happen in movies that just do. not. happen in real life. Like having untouched eye make-up after an all night session of bosom-heaving crockery-flinging sex, for example. And having kept your bra on that whole time.  Movies are movies and believe me when I say eye make-up smudges if you so much as flutter your lashes at the man of your dreams and as for the bra, well shit you gotta get that off because you don’t want him to see you wearing a bra from Target, do you?

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coffee at The Breakfast Club; breakfast burrito at The Breakfast Club; latte at Flat White

I’m a firm believer that there are few things in life finer than waking up to my own bodyclock (and not the worker ant up-at-7am-without-an-alarm bodyclock ~ I really need to do something about that! ~ but the one that lets me sleep til at least 11am) and then falling back asleep again because guess what? There is nothing I need to get up for today! If you’ve never tried the Second Sleep, I strongly recommend it. It leaves you well rested and revitalised, ready to take on the world – that is, until nap time three hours later.

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sizzling wagyu beef on hot rocks with champagne teriyake from Cocoon; chocolate walnut tart; pimms

I think there is a chance (a chance?) that I have an imbalance of something in my brain, because nothing else would explain my ridiculous childlike excitement as the sun peeked out from behind the clouds this morning and I woke up realising that today is Christmas Day is my birthday I win lotto we go to Vegas I get a puppy we go to the Taste of London Festival. Are you as excited as I am? You’re not? It’s ok, I know a puppy would have totally rawked, but food is a worthy consolation.

The day actually had the potential to go pear-shaped, what with the spanktastic top I bought last week turning out to not be as spanktastic as I had originally thought, and the fact that I (who has never once been tardy – retarded yes, tardy no) thought we were running late so I made my boyfriend run to the event with me (closed my eyes, followed the fragrance of yummy). But we arrived (early, as usual, thanks to the pre-eating jog) and so the Eating began.

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summer berry & elderflower jelly; supergreens salad

LondonEater threw out a last minute invite for lunch at Sketch today, and I was so tempted to throw on a crazy sexy cool outfit (with my crazier sexier cooler shoes)  to chow down at this craziest sexiest coolest pad (or so LondonEater describes) but as I started to mentally undress and dress myself in various outfits, something nagged at the back of my mind.  Was I doing something before this? I’m sure I was doing something, and dare I even say something importantOH, right, I was w.o.r.k.i.n.g.  Work – the activity that seems to monopolise two-thirds of my waking hours – has just managed to once again monopolise my Friday lunch hour. So I bid my Sketch lunch adieu and instead popped downstairs to EAT, to grab my lunch, takeout please. I is a working girl, afterall. Not that kind of working girl. 

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potted duck rillettes; piggy treats; duck confit & garbure bearnaise

I have a penchant for all most things French. French food, French wine (although I’m a particularly cheap date on vino), the French language and I’m pretty sure even the humble macaroon hails from the romantic shores of France.  The jury is still out on French men, because as perfectly coiffed as their little moustaches may be, I’m still yet to meet one who is as shamelessly romantic as they are made out to be, or if that order is a little tall, then maybe just one who speaks English in an accent that I can actually understand.

Or maybe I could learn to speak French!

Don’t worry I’m all over that one. My boyfriend and I have come up with a Grand Master Plan (why is it that every time I say that, I feel like (a) adding the word Stan onto the end and (b) I am the fourth Beastie Boy).  So the plan (and plans are extra fabulous because I’m only committed to the plan, not the execution thereof) is that I’m going to learn French. Oui! And he’s going to learn Spanish. Absolutamente! And with my toddler-level Mandarin (which comes with it an understanding of Cantonese, Teow Chew and Hokkien) and his fluent Finnish (which is useful in um… Finland), we are going to take over the world! Pinky and the Brain style, of course. 

Je ne peux que rêver…

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