Poor Old Malvolio

A rather restless night and woke up at 4.15am to hear Malvolio puking on my rather expensive Kashmir carpet. As I cleared it up (it was not too bad, fortunately) I tried to decide whether this was a feline dirty protest against my newly cleaned flat, or a reaction to the Frontline flea treatment I had administered.

I have moved the furniture around yet again, almost to its original position, except for the table which has been made more accessible for dining.

I have decided to make the effort and start inviting people to dinner. However, before that I must take Dorian to Simpsons for his birthday next Monday as it is a kind of anniversary of the time we both went there on a sudden impulse, two years ago, when he was desperately ill, but perked up quite a lot in the genial surroundings of Simpsons, managing to eat and drink quite well.

Thinking about recipes, I was rather keen on doing a garlic prawn starter, but Dorothy and Madeleine decided this could be tricky, and suggested pissaladiere, which I think is even more tricky unless I serve it cold with a few leaves. For a main course I am dithering between pheasant in red wine, boeuf bourgignonne and Algerian lamb with couscous. Puds will either be trifle, macedoine of fruits, or my good old oranges in gin.