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I’ve never professed to know anything about what makes food “good”. I mean, sweet chilli sauce is one of my favourite condiments for gods sake and I know that saying blogging that out loud has already condemned me to the bland and empty depths of foodie hell, to spend eternity in a damp pit of “nasty” condiments like sweet chilli, mayonnaise and BBQ sauce. Oh my, what a lovely hell. 
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Those of you who follow me on twitter knew eons in advance that Panu’s mum was coming to visit. Why? Because I tweeted relentlessly about the packets of timtams she was bringing with her and how I just could. not. wait. to get my dirty little paws on them. Well bring she did. But wrapped she also did. The timtams are my Christmas present and y’know, I can’t be upsetting Santa what with opening presents before Christmas day, right? Wrong. I opened it anyway. Just to make sure it was all there ~ and yes it was ~ and it’s now re-wrapped and only T-minus two days until the great (official) unveiling! Let’s see if they last that long
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Monday July 6, 2009. The single most painful and least productive morning of my life. Don’t tell my boss. And get comfortable, this is a fat post (and I don’t mean phat). 10.00am. I pick up the phone and dial 01628-580-333. I’m trying to get a booking at The Fat Duck, the second best restaurant in the world. Engaged. End call. Re-dial. Engaged. End call. Re-dial. It’s ok, I’m gonna keep trying for a good 30 minutes. All good. 10.30am. Engaged. I need to do some work. I gotta stop, I mean who ever gets through anyway? But. What if I’m next, what if I hang up now and I miss my chance? I’ll do this for another 15 minutes. End call. Re-dial. Engaged. End call. Re-dial. 10.45am. Engaged. My neck hurts from cradling this awkwardly shaped Cisco IP Phone *ahem* in the nook between my shoulder and right ear. I’m getting RSI in my left wrist from repetitively pressing End Call and Re-dial. Ok 11am, I’ll go til 11am. End call. Re-dial. Engaged. End call. Re-dial. 11.00am. Engaged. The engaged tone is giving me a headache. But I can’t stop now. Surely, I’m close? Surely? Please? Can anyone hear me? End call. Re-dial. Engaged. End call. Re-dial. Ok so you get the idea. If there is something I am, it’s s.t.u.b.b.o.r.n. I was born with it, and I have refined my stubbornness to within an inch of its life and by god, it is not something you want to mess with. I want to go to The Fat Duck. I want to go for my 30th birthday (ok so we went a day earlier). And I don’t want any-thing else. You see the shite my poor bf has to put up with? Thank goodness I’m endearing 11.45am. It’s wearing me down. My head hurts, my neck hurts, my wrist hurts, even my heart is starting to hurt a little. I’m giving up, I spill my resignation onto twitterverse “how stupid of me to think I could actually get through to The Fat Duck” and holy mother of Murphy’s Law! Literally the instant I am about to hang up for good, the phone rings! It rings! And then I am on hold. But God I Love On Hold Music After Hearing The Engaged Tone For One Hour And 45 Minutes. I’m on hold, listening to a rendition of Alice in Wonderland for another 15 minutes and finally finally, someone picks up the phone. I want to curse and spit and dance with joy all at the same time. But I do nothing and give them my name. My date. My time. and hope to f**king god that after all my effort, they are not booked out. And they are not. Friday September 4, 2009. 12.30pm. We are going to The Fat Duck!
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One of the things that still completely amazes me about living in London is its ridiculously close proximity to all things European. And considering the fact that I think everything is in Europe, I propel myself at every opportunity to travel (because travel is why I’m living 500 gazillion miles away from my friends and family). You need only say “hey Cat, do you want to g—-” “Yes! YES I’ll go!”, it’s that easy. Because of this, I’m so in the red that I am red (oh wait, that’s from peeling beetroots the other night), but I also get to go to Stockholm, Helsinki, Amsterdam, Alicante, Vegas, San Fran and LA, all in the next ten weeks! Oh, and I was just in Lille last weekend.
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It’s officially been three full weeks since the passing of arguably the greatest legend of our time. Michael Jackson bid this earth adieu to continue his jammin’ existence with The Hound Dawg, The Princess, and his thugz Tupac and Biggie… and now that all his songs have been blasted in every permutation possible in the realm of MTV and mathematics, I’ve finally found some peace away from the crotch grabbing and moon walking to sort through my thoughts on the matter. (Oh and don’t worry, this post is about cheesecake)
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