Hello fellow bloggers. I've been estranged from blog.co.uk a long time, and it's good to be back. It seems that I haven't had any time for blogging at all for months. And months. It's not as though I've got much time now, either. But something has been compelling me to write recently, even though I haven't really got that much to write about. I keep thinking "oooo - I could write loads about that", but not having a pen or paper to hand, and by the time I have a moment in which I could blog, my mind is empty, and my memory blank.

Anyway, I thought I'd better damn well start somewhere, and so this week is it, a week during which nothing - nothing of note has happened to me. That's probably a good thing, as I've lived long enough to notice that one tends to live longer, the less notable things that happen to one. In the hotel lobby last week, I passed Barry from Eastenders, and only the previous day had thought for a glorious moment that I was shopping from the same section of the yogurt counter as Andrew Marr, but on closer inspection it turned out to be some ordinary bloke who just happened to look like the hero himself. No wonder I'm still alive.

I've just been out to eat at a Brasserie called Cyrano, on Holland Park Road. It was very nice actually - from outside it looked like one of those painted Parisian street cafe scenes, with the small round tables each covered by an impossibly white tablecloth over which attractive people exchange muted pleasantries. I was shown to an identical (but alas, indoor) table, from where I perused the menu whilst waiting for a glass of the house red. During this inaugural wait, my nose started to feel irritated by something, and I swiftly realised that the source of my discomfort was the Grant Mitchell look-alike who was smoking at one of the immaculate outside tables. The smoke was being blown into the restaurant, which I supposed alleviated some of the pollution elsewhere in London. Still, the thought of the rest of London being spared didn't prevent me wanting to slip a potato sack over his head and knot it around his neck. So much the better if the sack had been full. As there was no sack to hand, I steeled myself and ordered the "Pâté de Campagne and Toast", evidently a dish named by Del Trotter himself. I was informed that the pâté had run out (I wondered if he meant literally), and so I settled for a main course only - Coq Au Vin (you can make up your own pun, I'm not going to do it for you). I had noticed with some amusement the "Breakfast All Day (until 6pm)" menu section, but won't mention it here so as not to seem like a pretentious neurotic.

When it arrived, the food was excellent - the chicken was tender, and was easily separated from the bone. The carrot slices were lovely too - all four of them (although they were spread out around the plate, and thickly coated with gravy, an arrangement which did keep me fooled for a while). I shouldn't complain - it really was a very tasty, well-presented meal, and to top it all, some other unfortunate part of the city was now playing host to the smoker. (How appropriate - there's a song by Smokey Robinson on the radio as I write!) I suppose that smokers reading this may well think resentfully about me while they shiver, huddled outside some warm, waterproof-looking building, staring miserably at the floor while the rain gently makes paper mache of their small, cylindrical raison d'être. It's all for your own good you know, this smoking ban. Anyway - un moment - allow me to dismount my grand cheval.

I managed to get through my meal, which was no mean feat while reading "The Wit and Wisdom of Discworld" - a collection of excruciatingly funny bits from Terry Pratchett. I guffawed my way through the green beans, chuckled over the chicken, creased with the carrots and made merry with the mashed potato. Occasionally, I could be found doubled up with my hand over my mouth just to keep the food in. It was that kind of read. The strangest thing was that the man seated at the table next to me was doing the very same thing, only he was reading The Times.

When I had exhausted all that my dinner plate had to offer, I sat back to enjoy more of Terry's wit, and to take the most miniscule sips humanly possible from the tiny drop of wine that was left in the bottom of my glass (you know how it is in these places - the next glass will take 45 minutes to arrive). The wine arrived more quickly than I expected actually, and so did the dessert menu. I hadn't intended to have dessert at all, but browsed the menu out of politeness, and to relieve my aching sides. I did fancy the Crème Brûlée, but noted the description ("Crispy, creamy and deadly") and went for the Apple Tart instead. I didn't get where I am today by eating food which the restaurant owner describes as "deadly".

I leave you with a random quote from Terry:
"The Disc's greatest lovers were undoubtably Mellius and Gretelina, whose pure, passionate and soul-searing affair would have scorched the pages of History if they had not, because of some unexplained quirk of fate, been born two hundred years apart on different continents."

Bonnet de douche,
~jonny