Christmas, Commitment and Cooking

The Boy and I moved another step closer to Serious Commitment with this weekend’s purchase of our very own Christmas tree. Given that my beloved flat, while awesomely located, is only about 2ft square, installing a whopping great tree may seem rash - but it’s an essential part of the festive season. What would I do with all that tinsel otherwise?

He looked rather alarmed when I told him that as far as I was concerned this was a much bigger relationship hurdle than moving in together. It’s the first time I’ve ever committed to joint tree ownership with a boy, whereas moving in together is something I’ve done with just about anyone in the past (with inevitably erratic results). Luckily he shook it off in time for Saturday night, when a bevvy of lovely ladies descended on us for an evening of wine, wine and a rather tasty three course meal whipped up, believe it or not, by the Boy himself.

For a man who doesn’t cook I have to say he did rather well – foie gras parfait followed by roast duck stuffed with wild boar, and tarte au citron for dessert. God bless Borough Market, says I; we’ll have do this entertaining lark more come the New Year.

Although given that I set the frying pan on fire last night trying to make pasta, I might leave the actual cooking part to him.

Mostly Harmless

For about the last 12 months, in every photo of me taken after midnight, I seem to have my lips planted firmly on the cheeks of the nearest unfortunate soul - usually with a massive grin on my face and a half-empty glass sloshing around in my hand. In one or two forums this persistent trend has gained me a reputation that I suspect may be quite hard to shake, not to mention my own growing concern that I might be turning into some kind of crazy cougar wannabe.

This weekend, nursing yet another festive hangover and reviewing the latest batch of photos on Facebook, I realised the happy truth: it’s not that I’ve turned into some kind of minor sex pest, it’s actually all about the cheekbones.

No, really! Puckering up to the person next to me is the only absolutely guaranteed way of faking the bone structure that genetics failed to grant – and as an added bonus, it hides the second chin that certain relatives (who shall remain nameless) tell me is the curse of our family once we hit our late 20s. (Well, that and the raging alcoholism.)

I have to say, as strategies go, it’s really not that bad.

A moral tale (on slippery foundations)

Well, O Best Beloved, I have had full-on horrible man flu for five days, during which time I missed the entire start of the festive season, including the annual reunion of my University posse - on what would, this year, have been the ten year anniversary of our first meeting. I am utterly gutted and therefore rather annoyed that this morning life added injury to insult by tripping me up on a piece of invisible ice outside Caffe Nero.

It did however teach me a valuable lesson: at the time I was thinking how irritating and noisy school children are and focusing my silent hatred on a particular group standing just in front of me. All of a sudden out went my feet and over I slid, cracking my elbows and throwing my ginormous coffee half way up the street. And who is it that rushes over to help me up and send me back to Caffe Nero for a free replacement? Yep, you guessed it. Those very same irritating and noisy school children, who actually turned out to be rather sweet. We slid up the street together to my office where I waved them goodbye and skated in with my tasty new coffee and a series of rather fine bruises up my elbow.

What do you mean, there's a moral to this story?