This has been a productive day, with much grateful thanks to the cake-doulas of twitter who helped me to produce what may or may not be a fine chocolate sponge for the birthday party this weekend. I have made the best chilli ever. The physio made my ankle sore but gave me lots of attention, which is a combination that works for me. The laundry is outside, the floors are swept, real cider is chilling in the fridge. Let’s address the virtual drinks, then.
Having commanded everyone to share the happy, we still allowed people to be a bit grumpy if they had a note from their doctor. To the best of my knowledge, the only actual doctor we have here is Lisa, so she had better have her drinks first and then attend to the moody wounded. She and I both took instruction this week from Simon Hopkinson on how to make a perfect martini. The secret, it turns out, is to wash the ice and stir it with a chopstick. To that end, I’ve put the ice in the dishwasher.
Today’s drinks are on Gert, who has had a little windfall and is also on the gin. The first thing Gert ever said to me in real life was to offer me a glass of wine, so this seems quite in keeping. I’m putting her in charge of Pigwotflies, who doesn’t hang around here terribly often, but has invented a proper Parisian cocktail with champagne. This can be shared with the star of next week’s interview Pixeldiva, pink shoed but grumpy, so long as Dr Lisa is happy to prescribe that.
Happily, Anna and Pete can share a whisky and soda. Last night when I was rediscovering flickr, I found photos from the blogmeet when Anna and I swapped necklaces. Sadly I can’t remember which necklaces they were; presumably nothing of great value. If there’s some whisky left over, they could probably let the maligned Mr Sevitz have some of that, after his vigil. I’m going to go out on a limb and state that he writes terribly for a middle-class Jewish male, but a bigot he is not; and many of us know that feeling of being kept awake by internet unpleasantness. So make that a double. The least I can do is stop Graybo from throwing bricks at him.
Lyle‘s vodka-thyme-lemonade sounds delicious, if a little girly (can I say that? I am one). I’m confident that Clair could share that without too much danger of spilling it on the rug. Mainly because she’ll be lucky to get a full glass, especially if he farts in her general direction.
Happy solstice, to those of you who like that sort of thing. Happy seven-years-of-parenthood to me and Pete. Have a happy weekend.