oh The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men, gang aft agley
I had all sorts of fun planned for the Bank Holiday weekend. On Friday, I had excellent hair, courtesy of a ninja blow dry by Laura at John Frieda
and was supposed to be heading to Dalston to meet Miss P and godson no 2, Edward, for supper at Street Feast. So imagine how thrilled I was to slam into a mirror in my office mid afternoon, breaking my little toe. I had already badly bruised it two weeks before by surfing across the kitchen floor on my bottom, so this was just the tin lid.
F8ck it hurt. Like, really, really hurt. Amazing how such a tiny part of one’s anatomy can cause such acute pain.
I took to my bed, and medicated with frozen peas, pizza and Tio Pepe Fino. I would like to point out that I made this pizza myself. Sort of. More on this later, but I had attended a pizza dough class earlier in the week at Rosso Pomodoro, and brought my dough home. Some smashed tomatoes and mozzarella adornment, and I had a pizza that cooked in 7 minutes at 250C. It was far from perfect, but tasted delicious.
I spent Saturday sulking in bed, accomplishing precisely nothing through my painkiller haze. (I was supposed to be driving up to my mother’s: the problem wasn’t the driving, but the not being able to get down the stairs to the front door from my apartment.)
By Sunday morning, I could kind of hop and, driven stir crazy by cabin fever, I wobbled my way across the road to my car, picked up my sister from Kentish Town, and drove all three of us to South Northamptonshire, to surprise my mother. Driving is actually very easy with a bust foot, even with a shift, as you don’t need to flex your toes at all.
We were blessed with a glorious day, so the moment we came off at junction 15A, we stopped in a lay-by and put the roof down.
We hid either side of my mother’s cottage porch, and strategically placed the fat rat on the doormat. My mother did get a shock when she opened the door to find P Bad waiting there.
It was a perfect day; the cottage garden, now that my mother has been there there nearly three years, is starting to take shape. I found Wiggy, the Luxury Cat, skulking under the laurel.
I spent most of the day in the garden room, with my foot up on a sofa, with the Sunday papers, and a biscuit tin hard by, fending off a long Whippet-y nose, admiring the juxtaposition of the Madame Alfred Carriere rose, and the bright blue skies. “Vita Sackville-West chose Mme Alfred Carriere” as the first climbing rose to be planted in the rose garden at Sissinghurst in the 1930s.)
We ate local asparagus from the farm just down the road in Banbury for supper, and drove back in the dark, taking advantage of the traffic-free roads.
I spent yesterday working in my office, after brunch at The Diner in Camden. Decent Tex Mex Chorizo, egg and potato skillet for £8.20, godawful acidic guacamole, good (bottomless) filter coffee, free wifi, and charming service. (Would love to know why they call a normal tortilla ‘tortilla bread’.) I shall be back to try the delicious-sounding burgers.
oh and to heap coals of fire: I smashed my phone, by trapping it between the sill and the door of my car. So net result of the weekend: one smashed toe and one smashed phone. Hurray.
The Diner (camden branch) 2 Jamestown Rd, London, NW1 7BY. Telephone: 020 7485 5223. Email: firstname.lastname@example.org