Every Easter I pack up shop and head down to the coast for a holiday. Or at least, I try to.
I have friends down here, and it’s been lovely to sit and enjoy delicious wine, indulgent food and forget about all the crazy I’ve left at home. And then create new crazy, because there is SOMETHING about the low altitude that is giving me some bastard hangovers!
As we all know, having a mean hangover is an excellent excuse to freely consume whatever will ease your suffering the fastest, even if it’s weird. I know this is a real thing, because the Bridget Jones books told me so, and thus this morning I have eaten (for breakfast):
– Some grapes
– Two hot-crossed buns (Easter food!)
– Chocolate eggs (Easter food, again!)
– A plain slice of toast
– Ten thousand cups of tea
– A spoonful of interesting looking cough-syrup (it was mulberry flavour!)
All of this was eaten very furtively, because I’m a guest in someone’s house, and can’t act like the fucking locust I usually am.
I’m assuming that once I achieve my bald-eagle-freedom-dream, I’ll head to American wine country, in California. I’ve heard that it’s not the best wine (compared to the Mediterranean, New Zealand or Cape Town).
Psshh, I don’t believe the snobby hearsay.
Plus, I’ve watched James May drunkenly stagger all over that place, and it looked amazing!
Come to think of it, so did James May… mmmm. Don’t ask.