I didn’t take enough pictures. At least not with my favourite camera. In fact, I think I had forgotten how to see the beauty in the unexpected. Some things can’t be forgotten, they say.
I rode my bike through a rainbow of sunsets. Most often than not, with a baguette and a bottle of wine cosily snuggled into the wicker basket. We cooked and ate and drank and laughed. Nothing could ever make me change my mind about her – my grand-mère. I love her. So. So. Much.
I walked in the desert streets of London. At night. Possibly crying. It seems to be a classic. I walked through the very same streets, same early hours of the morning, except there was snow. And people. A lot of them. Getting home that night was on the fun side. If only it weren’t for the following one hour of sleep.
I didn’t sleep a lot. For the record. Perhaps a broken one.
I ate out a lot. For the record. Perhaps a broken one. In fact, definitely a broken one. There was a rhubarb Eton mess, and a demerara sugar soda bread. And figs and basil combined.
I fell in love.
And witnessed the April snow. Two things I can never get enough of.
I left London under a sky made on Union Jacks and the pre-requisite Pimms and lemonade. We had mint tea too. And dim sum. Oh and a rhubarb tart from Yauatcha. I guess, I could add rhubarb to the list of things I can never get enough of.
And then came the south of France. And really, there is no better season down there than late spring. We slept on a canal boat, and drank wine until fireflies stopped their dance. We watched the sun se from that rock we love. And ate sushi, because that’s what we do. We sat at a café terrace and ordered tomato juice. All day long. I wrote a book. And I still do. Because I’m scared as I’ve never been before.
We sat on pebbles. Many times. With a picnic. And the sea. Or the river.
I held Lukie into my arms. And when I saw her again, months later, nothing had changed.
I came back to London and had my desserts on a menu. It was grand.
It took me eight month to realise that – indeed – some things are best left unsaid.
I learnt how to make Greek coffee. And mornings turned magical.
I watched Ben cook at a market stall. And later, I was lucky enough to watch him do his thing on a daily basis. It was magical-er.
I made bread. For what felt like the first time. Yes, because this time, it wasn’t at home. One of them had red wine inside, and I think people liked it. Thank you Ben. For everything.
I drank eggnog lattes. Enough to make it a proper December.
I’ve kissed him. Under mistletoe, under a bridge, under a wool blanket. He tied a golden ribbon in my hair. And his hat had a fluffy pom-pom. We made quite a pair. We walked onto clouds made of dead leaves. And pretended it wasn’t cold. No, not at all.
He made me hot chocolates. With a dash of bourbon. And I made cakes. With mulled wine.
I made mince pies too. And I packed them into a box and sent them away. It felt scary. I had named them: wild turkey in a pear tree.
We opened our eyes to a bigger-than-life snow globe. It’s London by night. And it’s wonderful.
I arrived in France just in time for Christmas. There was a tree. And my parents. And my sister. And foie-gras. And no electricity. But, we had champagne.
It’s probably to late for that. But I’ll close my eyes and make a wish. For 2013. And perhaps, more realistically, for February.
The not-so-official February wish-list.
1. See more of this.
2. Carry my camera in my so-not-Mary-Poppins bag. And get on with the shoulder pain.
3. The watercolours we paint together.
4. Make a foie-gras brioche feuilletée. With duck fat instead of butter, it goes without saying.
5. Feeling so exhausted I can’t stand. Falling asleep in seconds. Dreading the five am alarm.
6. The cosiness of a freshly-made bed. And the hot water-bottle that goes along.
7. Never-ending dinner parties turned late-morning chats.
8. Reading more of this.
9. And this too.
10. Make a rhubarb something – anything really.
I know wishes shouldn’t be said outloud, but well, what are your let’s-not-call-them-wishes-then for the month ahead?