THIRTY...

There were flowers, friends, cards, presents, Frank, family, food, Champagne, cocktails, and the sun even came out for the 10 minute walk from Cecconi’s to Claridges.



It’s all a bit of a blur. I think I spoke to everyone and I have pictures to prove it all actually happened. But having almost all my nearest and dearest together in one place was quite overwhelming. In the best way. Who knew they'd all get on so well most of them not having met before. Either that or everyone I know has social skills far superior to mine!



AND I got to wear my silk Rutzou dress, (Claridges kindly lined the walls of their bar with silk in exactly the same teal colour) although I don’t think Suzanne Rutzou envisaged her dress accessorised with two pairs of wool tights, a chunky cardigan, full length winter coat, scarf and gloves.

It was all rather civilised, I did not get drunk, nor did anyone else as far as I know. Although at 11 quid a drink at Claridges, it’s not the best place to go on a bender. But hey, you're only thirty once.

I am in full control of the cold. I have allowed it to rear its ugly head after suppressing the bugger during my birthday celebrations. I have spoken with it, and allowed it as much space as it likes, today and tomorrow. But I have made clear that Wednesday morning is eviction day because I am getting on that damn Eurostar. I feel fairly confident my plan will work. At present I am wearing a woolly hat around the house for the cold's benefit. I am feeding and lavishing it with hot toddies, early nights and Sex & the City dvd-athons. If all this fails to force it out I have a trump card up my sleeve: Chicken noodle soup from the Vietnamese place down the road. Never fails.