Hit the road, Jack...

I've just sat down with a cup of tea for what feels like the first time in a week.  We haven't been anywhere to speak of (except for a short jaunt into the East End, more of this later) but there has been a lot to do at home with the pending Yuletide festivities which are just a month away.

I've been cooking you see.  Now that in itself is nothing short of a miracle if you ask the husband, but he has been particularly peeved during this period of frenzied kitchen activity because every time he has come home over the last week, there has been something cooling on the worktop.  The conversations this week have nearly all gone the same way...

'Is that sausage plait you've made there?'
'Yes, but it's for Christmas'.
'But there's two there.  Surely we only need one for Christmas?'
'Cast your mind back to last year my love.  I made two which were both demolished before I managed to stuff the turkey.  So yes, we do need two and no, you can't have any'.
'Not even the end bits? No one likes the end bits.  Too much pastry'.
'Then you'd only be disappointed wouldn't you.  Let someone else have the end bits on Boxing Day',

And then, his piece de resistance..

'I could have one now, and then you could make another one for Christmas'.

It was at this point that he got what is commonly known in our family as The Look and he lowered his eyes, and sheepishly left the kitchen, probably weeping a little.

So he will have to wait, but at least he had the treat of a weekend in London with me and some lovely food.  The husband had bought two tickets for the Jack the Ripper walking tour, and it was two slightly cold but sozzled people (we were an hour early, so hit the nearest pub for wine) who joined the rank and file at Victoria Station for a three hour bus and walking tour of the murder sites.  Our tour guide, Adam, was fantastic; he had so much knowledge, and he managed to bring the five women back to life for us.  After this, we hit the Christmas market in Trafalgar Square (mulled wine) and then ended up in some Turkish restaurant (more wine) to finish off the night.

For the first time ever, I had allowed the husband to book the hotel.  It was lovely, but the room was tiny, and we soon worked out that we couldn't both be standing up at the same time as there wasn't room to get past each other.  The bathroom was interesting in that it was separated from the bedroom with a sheet of glass.  The porter had come up with us to show us 'how to work our room' (sorry, but history tells me that finding the minibar and the kettle really doesn't need help) and he explained how at the press of a button the dividing glass became opaque offering complete dignity to the pool soul having a shower.  There were also buttons for the lights and several for pulling the curtains.  There was a risky moment when the husband decided to try these just as I walked into the bedroom sporting a small towel. Standing there in all my dripping glory, he grappled with the buttons to try and close the curtains again.  'What are you doing?'  I shouted at him.  'Everybody can see me!'

'Just stand still', he suggested.  'People might think you're a statue'.

Ah yes, of course.  Many a London hotel has a full size statue of a Rubenesque women draped in a towel carrying a bundle of dirty clothes.

Silly boy...

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