St Petersburg

Peterhof Palace

St Petersburg…the very name conjurs up history, romance, adventure, excitement; founded by Peter the Great, a seat of art and culture inspired by Catherine the Great, then Communism, and now – an old fashioned but modern city leaving the Soviet Union behind and embracing capitalism…

And it is now Russia again.  Not the Soviet Union, not communist, but Russia…Russia – it is said often and with enormous pride by the locals. “It was Russia throughout our history and the Soviet Union for only 69 years (1922-91).”

Of course, whether the disintegration of the Soviet Union is good or bad, very much depends on the Russian you ask.  The older generation tends to think that the loss of cradle to grave State care is a bad thing, the younger generation have embraced the new life, the myriad of opportunities with such enthusiasm that there are now two distinct groups in this new Russia – those with ideas, money, flair, forward looking, opportunity driven personalities and those who hanker for what was, what, despite it’s issues, was at least known, predictable, comfortable and safe.  There are many similarities around the world when viewed from young and old instead of East and West.

With some hint of resignation a middle aged guide said, ”Originally called St Petersburg, then Petrograd, I was born in Leningrad, I now live in St Petersburg and I hope not to die in Putingrad” – the one city with four names to date, and the threat of the fifth….Putin was born in St Petersburg.

In their minds, Russia has more history, more modern thoughts, more worldly wisdom than the West gives them credit for.  They do not understand why America with only two centuries of history is judging them without trying to understand them.  The pride in their country, their history and their place in the world is palpable.  They are political to the tips of their fingers and vocal about what is right and wrong with Russia.  Stalin despite his many, many failings was a strong leader.  Putin is seen in the same light.  Unlike the West, where leaders must court popularity, Russian leaders must be strong, masculine, hard and unforgiving – to be respected and feared in order to maintain law and order across so many different peoples and cultures.  When you stand in Russia, it shouts this truth at you, even as you pity their fear of Western style democracy.

For the young, Russia has all the gadgets, wi-fi, coffee shops, fancy goods, fast cars and modern life style to meet every need.  It also has easy ways to make money.  “The official cost is X, but there is always a Plan B.”   Plan B is the code to set up the back handed cash from the West.  So the official tour through the books is 25% more expensive than the Plan B, which involves furtive calls, sleight of hand tickets from friends at the tourist spots, and assisted entry to the location, passing busloads of Plan A tourists – and then you pass them the amended fee for their books.  For a once communist country where all were equal (ahem!!), cash speaks very loudly to these new “non communists”.

Interestingly, Euros and US Dollars only, no British Sterling need apply.

Winston Churchill said Russia was “a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma”…some soundbites still ring true.

Fast Track

Let’s start with an admission…this was not the bike.  We managed to get a modern version, but this was a photo with a smile.

But back to my story.

We all went cycling in the New Forest recently. And what an experience that was.

I hadn’t been on a bicycle in over ten years, and it had been 20 years ago prior to that one day event ten years ago. So I had some minor concerns around fitness, breathing, distance, gears and how they work, falling off, wobbling but staying on and generally what if I held up everyone as I panted and gasped and eventually collapsed? Worse, what if, on the way to the forest, I just fell under a car and got killed by the traffic on the busy roads. I’m nothing if not dramatic…

Claudia and I had only cycled in P-Town about ten years ago, so at the outset we wobbled, we staggered, the saddles needed adjusting, our feet stretched to tip toe to touch the ground…we grinned like kids as we practised in the car park before setting off.

It was a huge amount of fun. My brother spent the first few miles cycling behind us saying up the gears, down the gears and using the correct jargon for professionals. No, no I don’t understand, make it simpler language for me. Ok, click your right thumb, pull your right index finger, and on special occasions for super speed or really high hills, use your left hand to click/pull as required. I had never before been on a bike with gears, my biking to school a million years ago worked on the basis of pedal power with no such modern accessories as gears.

So as I learned which bit and when to pull, click and pull again…and all while cycing, balancing, watching traffic and sorting out the weirdness of being on a bike after so long…Paul cycled behind me, casual in his balancing, not bothered by the slow pace, still able to chat with all of us, monitor our progress, keep an eye out on traffic and warn us, all while admiring the scenery and basically make it look so easy that if I didn’t love him, I’d thump him in a jealous rage.

But I was busy, concentrating hard. I laboured up the hills, clicking my right thumb like a demented maniac, loved the straights when I could pull my right index finger in a relaxed “I can do this” kind of way and oh my, my…the downhills! What a joy, what freedom, heedless of the danger, not thinking (much) about how skin hitting gravel at high speed might have an impact on my ability to function in any future social situation, but I was off. I still wasn’t as fast and crazy as Soraya who took off like a rocket and just got faster, but this made all the uphill struggles worthwhile.

Highly recommended, five stars, new adrenaline junkies are we. We’ve already booked our next cycling “event”…We have re-discovered our inner child.

Meg – Simply Magnificent, RIP

If you love your pet, be it dog, cat or a dozen other animals, then you are blessed with 100% unconditional love. They hang on your every word, they never hold a grudge, they are excited to see you arrive home, and happy just to be in the same room with you. There is no requirement to entertain them, hold a conversation with them or even notice them…and still they love you.

Ten years ago, we became the proud and loving owners of our British Shorthair cat, Meg. We were her second owners as her previous owner definitely neglected her and almost certainly was violent towards her. She arrived anxious, stressed, nervous, desperate for affection, hoping for safety, warmth, food and drink, and crying out for someone to see her as the most beautiful, sweet tempered, sensitive and loving little thing we could ever have hoped to have in our lives.

The first night she jumped on the bed and I nearly leapt out of my skin. She purred in contentment and I thought she was warning me of impending attack. I was a dog person, I didn’t understand or trust cats, we both watched each other carefully, not really sure what to expect, and not above assuming the worst of each other as we warily made space for each other. I had many a scratch as we learned what was and was not acceptable behaviour in a cat’s version of playtime.

Within weeks, Meg was waiting impatiently for my arrival home each evening. Her joy was wonderful to behold until I realised that my arrival meant food, and that was more than sufficient for a purring session and lots of affectionate head butting.

It took time to earn her trust, she would allow a little tummy rubbing but only on her terms. She would give one warning and then the paw would flash out like lightning. But she always warned you. In the years to come, she’d look for these tummy rubs, a gift of immense love and trust that just melted our hearts each and every time she rolled over and looked up at us in entreaty. And as she learned that we never did anything but love her, she brought us gifts. In her younger days this meant daily tustles with mice, birds and on one eventful occasion a squirrel. She certainly loved us, and there were times we wished she wasn’t quite so demonstrative with these tokens of affection.

As she aged, she inevitably slowed down, the gifts became less frequent, no longer the fearless huntress. She was bullied by the younger cats. She would watch birds in the garden with nostalgia; she spent more time under the lavender bush in the garden. Now her world was not in trees, along walls, jumping on the rooves of sheds and stalking her territory like a soldier on patrol, but gentle snoozing, the nonchalant stroll, the noisy demand at the door in order to have us save her clambering through the cat flap.

Starting on this journey with her, I assumed no more than saving her from a neglectful owner and I was not all that comfortable with this imposition. Within weeks she stole onto the bed, crept into my heart and dug her little claws in deep. We were besotted, oceans deep in love with her antics, amused by her successful attempts at manipulation. She owned us. She knew it, we knew it. We were not the bosses in this relationship. If it were possible for a cat to say “idiots”, “feed me”, “I’m happy” and “I love you”…alongside “watch yourself now you’re annoying me”, our little Meg had a voice, a look in her eye and a tone that we came to recognise.

She was magnificent.

This week, after only 24 hours of a still inexplicable illness, and on our vet’s advice, we had to let our little Meg go. She couldn’t stand, couldn’t breathe, it was the kindest thing for her. It was in our gift to save her from further suffering. In our love for her, we condemn ourselves to endless tears and no future with her in our lives.

I so wish I could have tickled her tummy one last time, touched her tail and sent her on her way. Without doubt she is in a better place, if there is a cat heaven, she is knee-deep in feathers, chasing mice and tracking down a sardine.

She’s only been gone a few days…

An Indian Wedding

An Indian Wedding…in England.  This would be a first for us.  Exciting to think we’d been following the young couple’s story and preparations – dating, will he propose, yippee he did propose, designing the engagement ring and then the nerves and organisational mayhem that makes up every wedding. Albeit at a distance, I felt a certain attachment to seeing its success.

And now, finally, the big day.  As Europeans, we assumed a wedding follows a standard format (ok allow for some differences but . . .) – i.e. start pretty much on time, the guests sit respectfully watching the exchange of vows, hearing the vows, you’re now officially married, kiss the bride.  Simple.

Nope, that didn’t happen.

The invitation said an 11 am start, so we arrived at 10.30.  The bride was still having hair and make up done, “my entrance won’t be for hours yet, go see the sari” she grinned.  The sari was an Indian wedding dress concoction of silks in gold, green and red, it looked incredibly ornate, colourful and quite unique to our Western eyes and …at 20kgs /44 lbs… it took the two of us to lift it.  No wonder the bride had been pounding the machines in the gym for months.  This dress was not for the faint of heart.

We made our way to the main area for the imminent start, hundreds of chairs wrapped with ribbon, the ornate canopy at the front, the white carpet, and no one was there, no one!  With five minutes to go, really?  What did this mean?  Now it felt different.

Eventually the groom arrived with his entourage and hours (literally) later the bride was carried down the aisle by two male relatives on a white carpet.  With the weight of the sari, I felt sorry for them.  Theirs was a labour of love.

My version of what was happening (and thanks to Jay for the quick overview), is that you have to imagine two people from different villages in India.  In olden days, a wedding meant that the two entire villages would get together to get to know one another.  No sitting in church pews, formally silent an awaiting the priest’s solemn tones.  No, that’s the West.  In an Indian village, under a hot sun, everyone would mingle, chatter, wander and laugh in the open air.  Here in a modern setting, the concept was  similar, a marriage, family gathered, friends reunited for the big day, photos, mobile phones, children running in and out, the elders sitting at the back of the room, waitresses passing around soft drinks in the hot weather and amid all this apparent chaos to our eyes, two people went through their unique  and special ceremony.

Lots of colour, swirling saris for the women, and the men resplendent in their Nehru jackets, henna coloured hands, smiles, laughter, teasing, and relatives presenting gifts  The symbolism of the joining of two families was clear, the bride’s parents washed the groom’s feet, the new couple were tied together with red ribbon, a red spot was annointed on the bride’s forehead to show she was now married.  The happy couple smiled flirtatiously, laughed out loud, honoured their ancient traditions and indulged the family elders in this modern setting, smiled for a thousand photos and shared many amused looks.  And throughout all of this the numerous photographers crawled on the floor to capture every moment.

Meanwhile the guests looked on, left the room, walked in the garden, talked on their mobiles, and all of a sudden many of them left completely…ok… now what?  One of our group went to check it out.  “They’re eating, they’re all in the other part of the Manor eating already”, but….the couple are still being “worked on”.  They’re still up there under their special canopy and … well, now we need to decide.  Decorum and politeness suggested we stay until the couple decreed it was time to leave.  But on the other hand, the food beckoned, what to do?  It took about five seconds to dash for the food, leaving the couple to fend for themselves.

This was part one of a longer day.  We had no idea it would be so different, so colourful, so strange to our eyes, and yet it was wonderful to have been included, unusual in a hundred ways and an honour to have witnessed.

Now all they have to do is pay for it all!!

Pay For What You Weigh

I travel a lot.  I seem to spend hours and days in trains, planes and automobiles (to coin a phrase).

Having just spent three weeks in South Africa (blissful), getting there and back involved the inevitable toil and stress of an intercontinental 11 hour flight; people and luggage watching in the airport got me thinking…

First Class means you can almost pack your car and no restrictions will apply, but for the rest of us mortals, the airlines limit you to 20kgs, or 23kgs depending on what level of ticket you buy.

But as we all pack our bags, each time it becomes a worry of can we fit this in, dare we buy this as it weighs so much, can we include this or will it make us over the allowance?  It set me thinking.  If the passenger is a featherweight or of a more generous size – the same restrictions apply.  This is patently unfair.  The airline makes no allowance for the smaller sized individuals who are equally limited in their baggage allowance.  In reality it is the overall weight of passenger plus baggage that should apply to each traveller.

Now before I am lambasted from all sides for being anti fat people, or against persons of size, may I simply state that I am far from being a featherweight.  Suffice to say that while there may not be “a lot of me to love”, there’s certainly enough there to grab hold of…  So, I am very aware of the issues, the tender sensibilities that can barely withstand any further comment when size becomes an area of note.

And yet,

What if the airlines allowed a total amount per passenger?  The individual and baggage would “weigh in” in a section where the weight would not be visible to any but the staff and passenger.  So a total allowance of xx pounds, clear, concise, easy to apply and then no exceptions.   A large husband would pack less but his smaller wife could pick up the extra allowance.  Fairness all round, equality across the sexes, the nations, the age barriers, no way anyone could question baggage allowances.

Would it work?  Is it fair?  I would argue that it is fair, and certainly fairer to those who are fit, healthy and above all light weight.  They are currently penalised because no one wants to upset large people.

Interestingly, having had the above thoughts over the weekend, I notice that Samoan Airlines are launching just such a policy – Pay only for what you weigh!  Samoans can sometimes be big people, and so the airline has stated: “we are keeping airfares fair, by charging our passengers only for what they weigh. You are the master of your Air’fair’, you decide how much (or little) your ticket will cost. No more exorbitant excess baggage fees, or being charged for baggage you may not carry. Your weight plus your baggage items, is what you pay for.  Simple.”

I’m not alone, this could catch on…

Gay Marriage – Part II

If you don’t approve of gay marriage, then just make sure you don’t’ get married to a gay person.

This is my second visit to this subject, (see Love is Love, October 2012), and following my previous outing, (pardon the pun), a friend took me to task for allowing the “civil partnership = marriage” argument to slide along as being only semantics.  Her example was segregated education in the US in the 1960s.  If black children were really receiving the same education as white children – why the need for separate schools?  I had no answer, especially as she’s a US lawyer and manages to make me think with just about every sentence she throws at me.  But I’ve been thinking and watching ever since…

In the UK, civil partnerships were “sold” as being the same as marriage.  The argument was that the title was to appease the religious right, and that the title could be amended in the future.  It put gay marriage (by any other name) on the statute books.  If it was only a game of semantics, and the two labels were to all intents and purposes the same, I could live with it, frankly so could many of my gay friends.

So why am I revisiting this now?

Well, the UK Government has just passed Marriage (Same Sex Couples) Bill with a majority of 400 to 175 votes, it will now enter the House of Lords (upper house) on the road to being made law.  But if marriage and civil partnership are the same, why do they need this in the first place?  I hear my friend saying “I told you so”…

I am civilly partnered (or is that civil partnered? – Who knows).  We bought into civil partnership as being equal to marriage.  If that is now formally incorrect, then the politicians lied (really – newsflash), and I’m not meaning they were a little fast and loose with the truth.  They told barefaced lies about the law of the land.  They stood up in Parliament and lied, that makes it a much more serious offence than lying to the press, or dodging a question from a reporter.

However, there are additional issues, under Civil Partnership rules, if you wanted the ceremony, it was yours as a right.  No exceptions!  Under the Same Sex Couples rules, the Church of England (at their request) remain outside the law and can refuse to carry out the ceremony…  So, to my mind that makes it an anomaly.  It’s a better title (perhaps) but now the Church of England can discriminate against gay people – legally!  Explain how that is better?  It seems to me, we are paying a high price as a society to get this law passed.  What if we changed the word “gay” to “black” and see how that reads…black people can marry but only if the priest agrees to carry out the ceremony – let’s imagine how that would play in the media.  Not too well – and rightly so!

As for civil partnership, it was and is ok.  It works, giving us all we need under the law.  Do not tell me we are not as “married” as a straight married couple.  Who can presume to make that judgement?

It’s hard to explain how I feel on this one.  The emotional reaction is obvious, but to put it into words makes it more difficult to define.  For me, I couldn’t be any more committed to my partner if I was handcuffed, branded and signed over in blood in an international treaty, but don’t tell me I CAN’T marry her.  Don’t tell me our civil partnership is a second class vehicle to keep us quiet…, now I’m mad!

But I don’t want to appear ungrateful for this momentous step along the path.  In the 1960s it was still illegal to be homosexual, now we are (almost) accepted.  A recent YouGov poll for Stonewall, showed that 71% of people in Britain support equal marriage.  The figure rises to 82% for those under the age of 50… so we are making progress.

Afternoon Tea

This, to the uninitiated, is the ultimate in Britishness, the top of the range in terms of old world charm, genteel calm and decorum.  In short, it’s a wonderful experience.

China cups and saucers, silver service tea pots and all the ambiance of Downton Abbey on a Summer afternoon.  One dresses well for these occasions, and it is an occasion!

The four of us were celebrating, my “baby” brother turning 39, or as his wife teasingly said, is now entering his 40^th year and the half way mark…  it was to be afternoon tea to help commiserate.

We started with champagne, to help numb his pain!

So what does “Afternoon Tea” mean?

Phase I is about sandwiches, tiny, dainty, crustless offerings of smoked salmon, roast beef and then the inevitable cucumber sandwich, each identical and sized for two delicate bites only.  These were not really sandwiches, more offerings of minimal substance.  When one first sets eyes on them, the fear can be – is that it?  That’s all we’re getting?  We’ll starve!  But no, as you approach the end of this plate, a new plate arrives.  Always fresh, never overwhelming in size, and as long as you would like to sample, the plates will keep coming.  But don’t overdo it, this is just phase one.

The next phase is three tiered plates offering hot scones, teacakes and fruit cake with jam and clotted cream, followed by minute concoctions of delight, better described as lemon meringue pies, profiteroles, and pannacotta with fruit compote in the smallest container I think I’ve ever seen.  All of these are delightful, tasty, tempting and truth be told – high calorie heaven.  We sampled, spread jam and cream like professionals, polished off probably 90% of all that was on offer before admitting defeat on the last 10%.

One is only vaguely aware of the gentle swish of aprons as the staff quietly and continuously “top up” our tea cups, and ensure this production runs flawlessly.

By the end of the afternoon we were groaning under the combined total of thousands of calories, We were awash in liquid and about to burst (in a ladylike way of course) from our delightful over-indulgence.

This was an unhurried, relaxed, conversation filled 5 hours – and we never noticed the time go by.

One should experience such exquisite formality and splendour at least once… absolutely delightful.

Photograph: Courtesy of Dukes Hotel London

Christmas Cheer

It’s less than a week to Christmas.

There – I’ve said it!!  Stand back I’m about to panic.


Usually, the lead up to Christmas is reasonably structured, paced, organised – what does that tell you about my character?




This year, due to the death of a dear elderly friend, we have had to include more important considerations than sending cards, buying alcohol or testing the various types of turkey stuffing.  The important things on which to focus spring up quickly, and life’s usual banality then seems incredibly silly and unimportant.

So here I am, lists surround me, gifts remain unwrapped, some cards will not make it out of the house – with apologies to any and all who expected to receive one – I still love you, it’s just complicated right now.





Groceries are almost done, with one final push on Saturday for the all-important, you can’t do Christmas without these items –




Turkey                         check,


Roast potatoes           check,


Alcohol                        check,

Ham                             check,



Cranberry sauce         check,


Christmas pudding    check,



Brandy butter              check,


Brussel sprouts          check, although on this one I’m happy to live without, but it’s tradition, so they’re in.



..

The poor unfortunates tasked with the ham and cranberry sauce are currently reclining in Spain with it all to do in the few hours they have free on Christmas Eve – but they offered, and their recipe is so delicious that I could not say no.

Guests, start arriving on Friday, with various additions throughout the weekend.





”Don’t forget” has become the mantra.   The list seems to grow, no matter what we complete.

But I’m excited.  I have most of the presents bought, I’m all excited to see the faces of those as they rip open paper wrappings – I’m such a baby about it all.  I get emotional and choked up thinking of absent family and friends.  I miss my parents especially at Christmas when I try to replicate the happy Christmases of my youth.

It’s manic, it’s crazy, it’s hectic and I love it.  But I also agree with my Dad from all those years ago who every year would sigh and say “thank God Jesus Christ did not have brothers and sisters” – Exactly right!




So thank you to everyone who has followed and joined in my journey through 2012.  Remember to hug those you love.  I wish you all a wonderful and family filled Christmas, and let’s raise a glass to  absent family, friends and to a peaceful, successful and happy 2013.

Death Is Nothing At All…

I have a friend, an elderly lady, who is probably approaching the end.  Each
 time we visit the hospital there has been another step taken down this road,
 something else to be considered, treated, worried about and  of deep concern.  To
 date she has end stage cancer, has a dislocated shoulder courtesy of some
 over-rough male nurses, cannot speak due to a stroke and now cannot write
 because of the shoulder injury.  And yet, her brain is in high gear, she
 spells out her message on an alphabet page, wants to know about her house
 insurance, car tax, who is at various meetings, which financial advice she 
needs to consider.  It is a peculiar kind of hell in my view.

She is mentally alert, on full gear, opinionated, intellectual, politically
 aware, cultured, educated and astute – and now practically imprisoned in her
 own body.  Silent, mute and to those who don’t know her, apparently a mad old
 woman who will not speak.   The frustration ought to be completely 
overwhelming, the loss unbelievable, the fear in there of such epic 
proportions that it slowly drains of all hope.



And yet, such is her strength of character, her belief in life, her trust in
 death being nothing more than a word, that it is inspiring to see.  Where
 there ought to be pain there is quiet acceptance of her situation, after ten
 weeks in hospital there is still the desire to go home and get out of the 
environment that concentrates on the illness.  She is not ill…in her
 opinion her body is ill.  But her body is simply the mortal part of the total
 picture.

She inspires me, her fortitude in the face of overwhelming odds, her strength
 that is so solid, her belief that life does not end, that this mortal life
 may end to the human eye, but life goes on.  Better, brighter, to be
 anticipated, to be happy at the road ahead; to see this mortal life as simply a stepping stone to whatever is out there and ahead of her – and she is ready.

To know that her time with us is limited is a sadness too large to quantify.
  But she is ready, she waits patiently for her time, she has made her peace
 with the world around her.  For me, who has never seen someone so close to
 death, it is humbling and inspirational to see it through her eyes.  There is
 no fear, whatever her beliefs around what lies ahead, she sees it as a
 blessing.  That will give us consolation and strength when the time comes.

***

I wrote this a few days ago with the intention of posting it over the 
weekend.  I have just heard that she passed away this morning.  I hope and believe she is
 in a better place, I bid her a fond, loving and sad farewell and hope she is
 smiling.  I will miss her.

Dessert Trauma

This photo is not it!!  This photo is the opposite of what I hoped the dessert would be.  I couldn’t bring myself to photograph it, it was simply too dreadful to inflict on others.

Let me just say that I do like vegetarian food.  I cook vegetarian food – even though I am an avowed meat eater.  But I recently visited the home of a vegetarian and have yet to recover…

Before I start, I have a question.  Why is it that if a vegetarian visits my home, I hide away the meat and cook vegetarian fare in an effort to make this person feel welcome and comfortable.  However, when I visit a vegetarian’s home, I get no such allowance and must still eat vegetarian food?  Not wanting to make much of this – a simple observation on an unfairness in the balance of expectations.

But I digress – back to my recent ordeal.  We arrived knowing it would be vegetables.  I have little problem with that, but fruity desserts horrify me.  I don’t understand the need to cook, stew, dip or strangle fruit in the name of a dessert.  I don’t like fruit salad, I don’t begin to understand rhubarb crumble, save me from strawberries in gelatine, and winter puddings with berries make me feel distinctly odd.  But back to the evening in question…

On arrival the dessert was already in bowls beside the oven.  Sitting there, waiting for our consumption in the next hour or so.

I looked, looked again, flicked a horrified glance at this less than attractive offering.  It was brown, actually it was a drop of white on brown or something else that was brown.  At best it looked like a mud pie, at worst it was like something you might step in during a countryside ramble.  This was dessert?  This would have to be put in my mouth and swallowed?  My whole body shuddered, my mind rebelled at this impending horror.  I was silently screaming for help.  Oh please God no, please no…

My partner saw my reaction and nudged me to distract my gaze from the concoction.  Our hostess pottered about unaware of the underlying ‘conversation’ in the stunned silence now surrounding the three of us.

So what was it?  How do I begin to answer that?

If I tell you it was stewed pears, with a chocolate sauce and a drop of crème fraiche you now have the pure facts.

If I tell you it was so long in the bowl awaiting our arrival that it was now a congealed mess that tasted of nothing like the above ingredients, you may have some semblance of pity.

May I mention that it looked like bird poo, on cow poo on a marshy muddy puddle in a field in winter… and you can now have the mental image to work with here.

Politeness meant that I did finish the dessert, I worked my way through it as the Catholic I am, intent on performing penance for some unnamed sin.  I cleaned my plate in a manner that would have made my mother proud.  Suffice to say, battling queasiness, I moaned and groaned about it all the way home.

My partner informs me that I have tasted worse – although over a week later she has yet to provide me with any example.

I’m still recovering!!