It's relentless. Every year, without fail, I get older.
To ease the pain of this year's slide into decrepitude we took my sorry carcass down to London yesterday afternoon to have a mooch about and a little something to eat for my B'day Pressie.
But we started with a waltz around the West End; two pubs and a couple of cafes. Patisserie Valerie was well below par - it seems to have been hi-jacked by hefty American & elfin Japanese tourists. It must have been published in their guide books. We shall probably give it a miss for a few years until it calms back down, which is a shame as it used to be a perfect little coffee shop.
Christmas is a good time for mulled wine, whisky, little poached pear tartlets in the Royal Academy (supplied by Sketch) and a stroll through the Burlington Arcade. The shoppers were all out in force but they seemed less urgent this year. Have we all got more polite or am I slowly getting more tolerant of shovey-pushiness on the pavements in my increasing dotage?
Anyway, we did well and finally made it to a lovely little eatery in Bruton Street. It was gorgeous. I had fois gras, red mullet and cheese cake. Lynnie had ravioli, turbot and creme caramel. That all sounds simple but it was simply fabulous. You don't hear much of the chef in the media, Philip Howard, but, by 'eck! That lad can cook...