Testing the French paradox. In a Spanish restaurant. In London
Last night I reunited with the fabulous Sitges holiday posse for our three-month-on get-together, very fittingly at Navarro's, a Spanish restaurant in Charlotte Street.
Memories were shared (our girls talking random strangers into taking their tops off in clubs), plans for next year's break were tentatively drawn (Israel?), imaginatively named desserts were savoured (gypsy's arm, anyone?).
We all held hands across the table in a 'Kylie ring' - our holiday happened to take place only days after she announced she was battling breast cancer, and that was our own way to send her good thoughts and positive vibes.
Oh, and we also managed to drink just as much Rioja and sangria as we did during our eight-day holiday. Ouch. A sure way to turn a cheap and cheerful £17.50 set menu into a hefty £35 bill. Ouch again.
Given that British sausages were not on the menu last night, this distinctive Bramley apple and pork aftertaste in my mouth right now can only mean one thing: I have been somnambuleating again. I knew sticking those pre-cooked left-over bangers in the freezer would come handy one day.