Went over the road last night to watch the football. I am very glad we let Lehmann go, and also grateful to Torres for netting me £60. In fact it wasn't my foresight that led me to put a bet on Spain, but an acquaintance asked me at the beginning of the tournament, to place a tenner on the only red team outside of the north west to feature so many Liverpool players. As he hadn't stumped up his ante by the end of the match, I figured the winnings, were mine - all mine.
Back in the harness today, enlivened by my decision to wear my tiara as an Alice band all day. My resolution to be more groomed is going well. I was delighted to hear from my hairdresser on Thursday that I shouldn't brush my hair. Bingo! Are you listening - mother? Many congratulations from all at work. I even signed my first reports in my new name. Since the decision to have a new name was made quite late on in the game, I hadn't had a chance to practice my serve, so to speak. I improvised, and came up with something that was more double fault than double-barrelled.
Home again, to be faced with thirty-six MRI scans to report, which took me almost as long as it took Andy Murray to beat Richard Gasquet. Xanthe cooked supper, using the Nintendo cooking guide. For a ten year old, she swears almost as much as Gordon Ramsay in the kitchen, but she came through with a passable beef and green pea tajine. At least I can trust her around sharp knives and hot fat.
Got an email this evening to say that I have passed my Master of Arts in Creative Writing. (Cue sarky comments from blog readers...) The external examiner's report was really flattering, and if anyone wants to read my thesis, I can give you the link. It's an anthology of food writing, called 'From Fable to Table.' I don't yet know what my grade is. But I get to change my full title twice in one day.
Oh, and the first installment of our wedding photos has arrived. So I have a new Facebook photo. Peter has taken some really flattering photos of everyone. So we may all have new FB photos now.
Lester apologised for speechgate. He went to the bar, and came back apologising - for speechgate again. And again, and yet again. Then he offered to cook us chips, in his deep fat fryer. How can anyone be so scouse, and so camp all at the same time? Apart from Derek Hatton, maybe... but that's another story. Put it this way, he's morphing into Dale Winton.
Lester has promised to buy us the most expensive gift on the list. To apologise. Hmmm, we'll see. Some of the guests have gone off piste with the gifts. Not sure what I can get with £20 at Debenham's. I'm thinking tea towels, you can never have too many tea towels.
Just been chucked out the pub, as Nick is desperate to get to Heaven. I haven't been there in twenty-six years. Apparently, the last time Troy was there, with his blonde mate Leigh, Michael Barrymore spent the evening buying them gin and tonics, and chatting them up. I guess they were lucky to get out of there alive. I said I didn't blame him, Leigh bears an uncanny resemblance to Owen Wilson. So Troy gets cast as Ben Stiller, but taller. He's not happy, not happy at all.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Paris
We travelled to Paris on the Eurostar, Leisure Select, lots of champagne, but the chicken thighs left something to be desired. A different meal, in fact. We arrived at geek chic Kube Hotel, and got upgraded to a Junior Suite, which at my age is faintly ridiculous, Menopausal Suite is more like it. One blog, two glasses of wine, one cocktail, and a bath later we were heading out for supper. We stopped for another glass of wine at the retro Montalembert, for a taste of Rive Gauche style.
Supper was at Gaya, Pierre Gagnaire's fish restaurant. The waiter helpfully offered to translate the menu, but fell at the first fence by insisting that 'persil' was coriander. Joking aside, they were charming. Troy started with a 'Cremeux d'araignee,' spider crab with spider crab mousse, which was phenomenal. I opted for the 'Coeur d'artichaut Cesar,' which was a trifle weird, or indeed a weird trifle. Artichoke sorbet, layered with anchovy mousse, topped with an anchovy and parmesan sable, on a bed of rocket and chopped ham. An ingredient too far, I felt, but was uncertain which ingredient was redundant. The portions were satisfyingly large, allowing for much fork swapping.
Troy's main course was skate wings, topped with a citrussy, capery sauce that didn't call itself gremolata. I opted for 'Rouget de Roche,' perfectly cooked squares of red mullet in a curried bouillabaisee gelee. Yeah, yeah, I know it sounds strange, but it worked. Far too full for pudding, we chatted to the brace of Aussie doctors sitting next to us, while we finished our bottle of 2005 Languedoc Clapas.
Back to the hotel, for a final complimentary 'coupe de champagne.' I think I will now always claim to be honeymooning.
Great journey back. Troy got complimented on his Globetrotter, 'C'est vraiment chic,' and the Eurostar Dollies clearly didn't think for a second that we were English. Which is a bit sad, I'd like to be proud of being English, but am far happier when people assume I am not. I am always being asked if our neighbours in Montauroux hate us because we are English. Actually they love us, because we are not Parisian.
Supper was at Gaya, Pierre Gagnaire's fish restaurant. The waiter helpfully offered to translate the menu, but fell at the first fence by insisting that 'persil' was coriander. Joking aside, they were charming. Troy started with a 'Cremeux d'araignee,' spider crab with spider crab mousse, which was phenomenal. I opted for the 'Coeur d'artichaut Cesar,' which was a trifle weird, or indeed a weird trifle. Artichoke sorbet, layered with anchovy mousse, topped with an anchovy and parmesan sable, on a bed of rocket and chopped ham. An ingredient too far, I felt, but was uncertain which ingredient was redundant. The portions were satisfyingly large, allowing for much fork swapping.
Troy's main course was skate wings, topped with a citrussy, capery sauce that didn't call itself gremolata. I opted for 'Rouget de Roche,' perfectly cooked squares of red mullet in a curried bouillabaisee gelee. Yeah, yeah, I know it sounds strange, but it worked. Far too full for pudding, we chatted to the brace of Aussie doctors sitting next to us, while we finished our bottle of 2005 Languedoc Clapas.
Back to the hotel, for a final complimentary 'coupe de champagne.' I think I will now always claim to be honeymooning.
Great journey back. Troy got complimented on his Globetrotter, 'C'est vraiment chic,' and the Eurostar Dollies clearly didn't think for a second that we were English. Which is a bit sad, I'd like to be proud of being English, but am far happier when people assume I am not. I am always being asked if our neighbours in Montauroux hate us because we are English. Actually they love us, because we are not Parisian.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
The Wedding
Well, I've been married just over 48 hours and already we've clocked up flowergate, a random on the bus, a rugby tackle, a locked suitcase and a broken arm, or surgical neck of humerus, to be precise. Not bad going for my first two days as Mrs Moore. The day started with a mercy dash to buy Hannah magic pants, and collect the flowers that Troy and I had ordered three weeks ago. Nothing complicated, just white and red roses. When we ordered them we were suspicious that the Japanese girl didn't understand a word of it. In fact if I'd checked the receipt, I'd have noticed that it said 11 butonholl/ 4 Aspidista. The flowers weren't ready. Blokey then got the wrong end of the stick, and set about making the buttonholes. Aaargh! And all the while I have my hairdresser waiting to tong me to perfection. Fast forward to 2.30 at Chelsea Old Town Hall. During the pre-wedding interview, the registrar asks Troy if he has ever been known by any other name. 'Yes,' he says 'The Cat.' I don't think the registrar wanted his goalkeeping monicker.
During the service I completely lost it. Having to say 'lawful,' I was convinced I would come out with 'awful wedded husband.' I had to wait until my giggles settled before we could continue. Troy had some trouble getting my wedding ring on my finger as it was so hot. The registrar, (whose surname was pronounced gay-gan, who'd have thought?) was completely unfazed when I asked if they had any butter. 'Funnily enough, no' was the response. But he did lurve my dress, apparently.
It felt very rock and roll standing on the Town Hall steps for photos, until a small Hill House child started to point and frown, shouting 'Hey, that's Xanthe's mummy!' We all piled onto a old routemaster to head to the city. We were joined for 200 yards of this journey by some nutjob, claiming that he used to travel on this bus every day, and had to get on for old times sake. Weird. On the bus I tell my divorce lawyer that her services are no longer needed. But her husband is a human rights lawyer, so he has offered to help Troy.
We piled out at Shed, a great bar, and a bit of a secret, so I'm not going to say where it is. The Sloane posse kicked of their shoes, and Xanthe was quick to grab the highest platforms in her size to practice her Battersea's next top model walk, even roping in Perry's best friend Jack. Perry spent the Shed hour entertaining the American contingent.
Troy and I headed down to Skinner's Hall, with Damien and Max - the ushers. I was hugely relieved to find that my medieval shoe stretchers had done the job, and I could spend the night in 12cm Louboutins - without any tights, hurrah! We had champagne and canapes in the courtyard.
6pm and the second ceremony started. Beth and Alison did sterling jobs as Toast Person and Celebrator reespectively. My Dad got all emotional during his speech, and Troy said some really lovely things, getting a huge laugh for his dyslexia joke. Paul, the best man made a very funny speech, full of football analogies. There was a slight hiccup in the proceedings when Lester decided to storm the podium for a few impromptu words. The first time, Peter the photographer successfully rugby tackled him. But the second time, like Paul Sackey going for the touch line, he slipped through Peter's fingers and had his say. I say a few thank yous, and hand out specially blended tea to those who have helped with our day. Since my bouquet is ridiculously non-aerodynamic, I offer to annoint the singles.
Everyone looked fabulous, a special mention must be for Rachael, who looked magnificent in scarlet. She prompted the comment - 'Hmm, saris and tattoos, you don't often see those on the same girl.' Can't for the life of me remember who said it though. Supper was a rooftop barbeque, followed by Troy and I dancing to 'Baby I Love You,' by The Ramones.
I've been to loads of weddings, including, now, three of my own, and I think I can safely say this was the most chilled I have ever been to. Troy and I left slightly early to go back to the Soho Hotel, while everyone else clambered back on the bus. Judith had the bright idea of having a whip round so that the Routemaster did a personalised tour of London, dropping each guest home. Unfortunately Jo tripped on the bus, and is now in plaster, literally, unlike the rest of the guests, for whom it was just metaphorical.
I went to bed, while Troy stayed up for one last glass of wine, only to be woken by a strange tapping noise. Troy was breaking into our suitcase, having left the keys behind. He eventually used the curved steel soap tray to lever it open. It was lovely, but our stay worked out at £27 an hour.
Friday morning, and back to Battersea. Late lunch at Manny's, and we took the 'Book of Condolence,' for those who had not signed it the night before. We had our first look at some of the three thousand photos that Peter had taken, and they were stunning. I was slightly surprised to see Perry there, but apparently he was too hungover to go to sports day. Alison regaled us with the tale of her magnetic tea, which stuck to her all night, and made it home with her, despite the debauchery and multiple venues.
Today we are in Paris, for one night only. We've been upgraded to a junior suite, and offered a complimentary bottle of champagne, which is lovely. Particularly as Troy has just paid six quid for half a pint of 1664. We are staying at Kube, and I just hope there isn't a re-run of last June fingerprint debacle, when I was bursting for a pee. Tonight we are going for supper at Gaya Rive Gauche, a table secured for us by Jay Rayner, who was unfortunately unable to be with us at the wedding, so we will be raising a glass to him and Pat later.
I'll tell you what the meal was like tomorrow.
During the service I completely lost it. Having to say 'lawful,' I was convinced I would come out with 'awful wedded husband.' I had to wait until my giggles settled before we could continue. Troy had some trouble getting my wedding ring on my finger as it was so hot. The registrar, (whose surname was pronounced gay-gan, who'd have thought?) was completely unfazed when I asked if they had any butter. 'Funnily enough, no' was the response. But he did lurve my dress, apparently.
It felt very rock and roll standing on the Town Hall steps for photos, until a small Hill House child started to point and frown, shouting 'Hey, that's Xanthe's mummy!' We all piled onto a old routemaster to head to the city. We were joined for 200 yards of this journey by some nutjob, claiming that he used to travel on this bus every day, and had to get on for old times sake. Weird. On the bus I tell my divorce lawyer that her services are no longer needed. But her husband is a human rights lawyer, so he has offered to help Troy.
We piled out at Shed, a great bar, and a bit of a secret, so I'm not going to say where it is. The Sloane posse kicked of their shoes, and Xanthe was quick to grab the highest platforms in her size to practice her Battersea's next top model walk, even roping in Perry's best friend Jack. Perry spent the Shed hour entertaining the American contingent.
Troy and I headed down to Skinner's Hall, with Damien and Max - the ushers. I was hugely relieved to find that my medieval shoe stretchers had done the job, and I could spend the night in 12cm Louboutins - without any tights, hurrah! We had champagne and canapes in the courtyard.
6pm and the second ceremony started. Beth and Alison did sterling jobs as Toast Person and Celebrator reespectively. My Dad got all emotional during his speech, and Troy said some really lovely things, getting a huge laugh for his dyslexia joke. Paul, the best man made a very funny speech, full of football analogies. There was a slight hiccup in the proceedings when Lester decided to storm the podium for a few impromptu words. The first time, Peter the photographer successfully rugby tackled him. But the second time, like Paul Sackey going for the touch line, he slipped through Peter's fingers and had his say. I say a few thank yous, and hand out specially blended tea to those who have helped with our day. Since my bouquet is ridiculously non-aerodynamic, I offer to annoint the singles.
Everyone looked fabulous, a special mention must be for Rachael, who looked magnificent in scarlet. She prompted the comment - 'Hmm, saris and tattoos, you don't often see those on the same girl.' Can't for the life of me remember who said it though. Supper was a rooftop barbeque, followed by Troy and I dancing to 'Baby I Love You,' by The Ramones.
I've been to loads of weddings, including, now, three of my own, and I think I can safely say this was the most chilled I have ever been to. Troy and I left slightly early to go back to the Soho Hotel, while everyone else clambered back on the bus. Judith had the bright idea of having a whip round so that the Routemaster did a personalised tour of London, dropping each guest home. Unfortunately Jo tripped on the bus, and is now in plaster, literally, unlike the rest of the guests, for whom it was just metaphorical.
I went to bed, while Troy stayed up for one last glass of wine, only to be woken by a strange tapping noise. Troy was breaking into our suitcase, having left the keys behind. He eventually used the curved steel soap tray to lever it open. It was lovely, but our stay worked out at £27 an hour.
Friday morning, and back to Battersea. Late lunch at Manny's, and we took the 'Book of Condolence,' for those who had not signed it the night before. We had our first look at some of the three thousand photos that Peter had taken, and they were stunning. I was slightly surprised to see Perry there, but apparently he was too hungover to go to sports day. Alison regaled us with the tale of her magnetic tea, which stuck to her all night, and made it home with her, despite the debauchery and multiple venues.
Today we are in Paris, for one night only. We've been upgraded to a junior suite, and offered a complimentary bottle of champagne, which is lovely. Particularly as Troy has just paid six quid for half a pint of 1664. We are staying at Kube, and I just hope there isn't a re-run of last June fingerprint debacle, when I was bursting for a pee. Tonight we are going for supper at Gaya Rive Gauche, a table secured for us by Jay Rayner, who was unfortunately unable to be with us at the wedding, so we will be raising a glass to him and Pat later.
I'll tell you what the meal was like tomorrow.
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