So, I was with a few lovely people at the start of a tour of the Croatian wine district of Istria. It was after midnight in Rovinj and a relatively balmy 16 degrees at the beginning of March.

We had just tasted a lot of interesting Malvasias, some exquisite white truffle oil and met a woman called Dragana.

It was a good 30 to 40 minutes around the bay on foot back to our fancy new hotel, so I suggested a walk, seeing that the weather was so calm and pleasant. I felt sure in such a pretty harbour town that we would be able to find a couple of nice bars and a couple cold beers to settle us on the way home, so the plan was set. I was accompanied by Niamh Shields, food blogger and cook extraordinaire. Sure enough we found a couple of waterside bars to refresh the palate on the route back, and it felt like we had been walking for way longer that the half hour that we had predicted, although I suspect, considering our relative state of relaxation, that we were neither walking very fast or in a particularly straight line. Eventually the familiar shape of a large, well-appointed white hotel loomed large up the steep hill side in front of the glistening bay.

Thank god, I thought. I was ready for bed and looking forward to what the next day had in store for all of us, and was just pleased to see the hotel by this point. I suggested to Niamh that we could walk up the rear entrance to the hotel, saving us a tedious and tiring further 15 minutes of hill climbing before we would have arrived at the grand front entrance. Niamh agreed and we shuffled through the bushes, goods loading-bays and sunloungers until we arrived at a rather dense, high bush-fence. “This is it Niamh”, I said. The hotel pool should be just behind here. We were both spat out of the other side, rather inelegantly, by the hedge, to find ourselves confronted, sure enough, by a gorgeous, massive swimming pool.

Something gripped me. Not a security guard (as it was past 1.30am by now), but the crazy notion that this may be the only chance I get to say that I had had a swim at the hotel when I returned to Blighty, thereby ticking Box One of the list of most effective wine trip gloats. Niamh saw the crazy, glazed look in my eyes and said, “No you’re fecking not, you stupid feckin’ eeedjit.” My brain translated this into “Go on then, you loveable eccentric”, and I stripped off. Down to a pair of old docker boots and a pair of rather loud yellow chequed boxers. It was cold enough for nothing dangerous or publically obscene to happen, but not too cold to stop me so……

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The man with the coolest name in the wine trade (you may be aware of the amazing shop making golf clubs in St. Andrews with the same name), the biggest heart (he loved everyone), and the rudest songs (anyone remember the lyrics to Craven ‘A’?) died yesterday.

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So. There I was. On my way home from quite an eventful but ultimately unfulfilling evening in Soho.

On the N207 to be exact.

“There are people on this bus that don’t appear that keen to go to bed.” I thought.

Hey. It’s London. More accurately, Notting Hill Gate. At 3.45 a.m.

A chap, staggers down the stairs, mistiming a jolt on the brakes from the driver.

“Oi, you wanker. You stood on my foot!” D&G waistcoat. Sharp Prada Shoes. Eyes like saucers. Blonde, trim, chippy.

“It wasn’t my fault! Don’t stand at the bottom of the bloody stairs!” Nice Indian gentleman. En guard and ready for anything.

“‘Ave you done any time inside?” says young Mr. Prada shoes.

“Yes! More than you could ever dream of! More than your age! Don’t look at me! Don’t touch me!”

Prada raises his well-threaded (now I’m guessing Essex) eye-brows. “

"Well then. Either apologise, or turn around so I can do you in the ’*@£$’.” That last word was muffled. I wasn’t enitrely sure what he actually said. But its not for blog browsing at breakfast.

The atmosphere is tense. There’s a Mexican stand-off. A hush on the packed bus. The two gents in question and myself are all standing near the exit doors. 

Then I see the nearly full moon’s smiley face look down on me, through the nearest window, filling me with calm philosophical power. I drink it in like a PacMan eats those big yellow biscuit things. I look at the two paused angry young men, ready to crash together like a Six Nations front row. Then it dawned on me. The solution. 

“Calm down girls.” I said. “ I went to public school and I used to bum people like you for breakfast.”

Ten seconds of very pregnant air. 

Prada looks at me with his cobalt cuff-links for eyes, and they begin to shrivel.

He gaffaws. Other fellow laughs. The whole bottom deck laughs. 

Then both combatants leave the bus, amicably. 

Ahh.

The power of comedy.

A well-timed ironic line kicks the shit out of a fronting, coked-up young buck and all the cage-fighting muscle he can muster.

Take note.

Goodnight children.

This is Fred.

He is a West Highland Terrier and will be 16 years old in June. His carers, my friends, are very loving and giving people. They put up with his shit and they put up with mine.

Paola (@sipswooshspit) and Mike (@brandtaylor) have been more than generous with their time recently, letting me stay here rather a lot, and helping me set up my blog. Actually, that’s not strictly true. They did it all, allowing me to drivel on without hindrance to you, my reader.

So. If you have enjoyed my first tentative steps up into the blogosphere then thank them, not me.

They like Westies. In fact, Fred has a mate belonging to Paola’s mum called Max. He comes around quite often.

This is the hardest pose you’re ever likely to see of two Westies. They think they’re hard too, but they are very nearly the softest, most affectionate dogs that you are ever likely to meet.

Fred at the back and Max at the front. 

Like the Krays.

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It all began at 8.15 outside Turnham Green Tube Station. That’s not strictly true, actually, because at this point, I had been up for 24 hours, having stayed with a friend who had received some devastating news. So, it’s fair to say that I was a little stressed and feeling ‘up against it’ at the prospect of cooking a four course 'investors’ lunch for a friend, his business partner, and three of their business associates. Now these guys like their food. They can afford to eat in the finest restaurants in the world, and do. Furthermore, as you will see from the pictures, they like the odd drop of something nice.

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Monday the 12th and all is quiet. I have arrived back to our great city of London from the Lincolnshire Riviera (Skegness). The sun is shining, and the weather is sweet, yeah.  

I have just been to a lovely Loeb tasting (see previous blog), and I am waiting in Soho for my good friend Richard Siddle. Hungry, but as poor as the clothes on my back and the change in my pocket, I feel that I must eat. It’s 5 p.m.

I’ve tasted 50 wines, and I haven’t had as much as an apple today. Que faire?…

Well, I’ll tell you what I did. As it was my birthday (nearly), and I was on my own, I sat outside Café Bohème on Old Compton Street, and ordered Ham and Cheese Croquettes, a starter portion of Salade Niçoise and a glass of white. Saumur, I think.

Here they are (beer’s not mine).

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I’ll tell you why.

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OK. Confession time. Most of my dinners and associated glamorous wines usually belong to someone else. In the words of Steven Segal in The Seige, “I’m just the cook.” I don’t mind saying that I’m good at it though. So I should be. My dad was a bit of a cook himself. Egon Ronay Chef of the Year, Michelin and Egon Ronay stars, Head chef at Quaglinos when he was 24, and Chef de Cuisine at The Chewton Glen at 27 blah blah blah..Yeah. He pretty much did it all, and left me with a couple of very serious handicaps.

1) I am not a cheap date.

2) Nobody will cook for me.

Well, that’s not strictly true, but it does mean that I’ll probably have to date a chef.

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