Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Monday, 1 September 2014
Highlight of the weekend
The previous post but one has lost me a follower, I notice. They must have taken me at my word.
London - as always - had its highs and lows. Absolute hilarity mingled with extreme angst - often running concurrently.
Sometimes when I have visited remote and far-flung parts of its suburbs, I have actually given up trying to find my destination and just turned around and gone home. I really have.
I have just bought a Sat-Nav, and realised that I should have bought one years ago. Four satellites patiently guided me through unspeakably horrid parts of South London until I arrived at my destination of East Dulwich. If it weren't for the fact that I hit the outskirts at the Friday rush-hour, it would have taken me a mere two hours, not four. Even when I took a wrong turn, the voice in the box (an English woman's) simply said she was re-calculating, rather than screaming at me for ignoring her advice, as H.I. would have done.
What was supposed to be an empty house turned out to contain six female students, so rotas had to be worked out for the showers and breakfasts. Girls - I have discovered - are much less tidy than boys. This fact astounded me.
The following day we went to a very fancy restaurant indeed, somewhere near Bond Street. It had a glass box at the entrance which contained three enormous black truffles, just to make everyone jealous.
The year before, it had one white truffle which was about 10 inches in diameter, and the owner somewhat tastelessly told us how much it was worth. Any guesses? £30,000.
We sat at a table for eight, with me sitting next to Step-Daughter. All went well, and when we had finished the main course we waited for the surprise birthday cake which had been pre-ordered about two weeks before, at huge cost. It was - I am told - an enormous thing piled high with various fruits on an exotic sponge base. Then we waited a bit more. Then we waited a bit more.
After about 20 minutes of waiting, a black-tied Italian waiter beckoned to Step-Daughter to come round the corner for a quiet word, which she did.
She got back, sat next to me and - with tears of hysteria in her eyes - whispered in my ear, "They've dropped the cake!"
I asked her to repeat what she had just said and when she did, we both screamed with uncontrollable laughter. H.I. became very confused, and it was not until the waiter brought an inferior substitute (rustled up in 20 minutes) that we were able to explain.
Everyone jokes about this sort of event with large cakes, but it is extremely rare for it to actually happen I think. There is that excruciating video of a waiter cutting a wedding cake in front of 200 guests, and the whole thing collapses in slow motion, landing on the distraught man.
I only wish we had photos of them actually dropping our cake, rather than all the selfies the kids took over the weekend.