Monday morning, off to a good start... so far. Potential dangers lie ahead. Today's menu brings despair, pork goulasch, vegetable goulasch... I know what that means, in kitchen terms thats means making a load of 'vegetable goulasch', splitting it in two, and adding pork to one of them. I know cheffie is involved, I saw him this morning.

The weekend was wonderful. Jonathan invited us round for dinner on Saturday. Last week with drunken brio, I announced to everyone present that I could pretty much seduce anyone with pudding. Dinner was arranged later in the week, and pudding was assigned to me. I had by this stage not been able to retrieve the data from the alcohol induced 'blackout' zone that is post-pissed denial, there was no way I was getting out of this having blasted my own trumpet. I settled on bread 'n' butter pudding. Simple, delicious. I did have a few tricks up my sleave though. It is one of my favorite puddings to make. I have made thousands of them, in all variations, using brioche, croissants, fat sliced bread, thin sliced bread, stale bread, fresh bread, with currants or without. Every conceivable version of bread 'n' butter pudding has been made by me. I have even put it on menus in Sweden, where it was received with mixed reaction, mostly confusion. Strange that it was in Sweden where I perfected the pudding. I think one of the principle problems people have with the pudding is that is can be stodgy. I began using a light creme brulee mix as opposed to the heavier double cream and full egg type custard mix that the English use. I replaced the currants with caramel and armagnac soaked sultanas. I hear a history of English grannies thrashing about in their graves for this bastardisation of their beloved pudding. Don't fuck with their puddings. I am confident however that I could win anyone over, including the most ardent pudding traditionalists. It turned out to be more of a bread 'n' butter soufflee, light, puffy, with crispy edges, delicious. It was a winner. I then began on what I could do with chocolate. The people sat around the table, in particular the ladies let me work my way into a corner whereby I would once again have to produce the goods at a dinner party, or shut up. Another dinner date was made, pudding, would be mine. I never learn.

Dollar came back on Sunday from Devon. The last time I was at the Ward residence I left my phone there. No loss. I was walking down Warwick ave to get my phone when I passed the a car full of Devonshire folk. Dollar bounded from the car. She came hurtling toward me, shreaking, what I thought was my name - threw her arms around me and never let go. She was pleased to see me...

I knew that although she'd had a great time in Devon, at 'the vicarage' Where Chris and Ruby now live, she was pleased to see someone else. Ruby emerged from the car looking like someone from Totnes, 'oooo, iarch, y'oo don'e be fro' arowned these paerts' - it had obviously been windy in Devon, or Aunt Ruby had spent the drive up to London with her head out the window. We went upstairs and drank Jasmine tea.

Dollar has a mouth that would make a sailor feel on the bottom of the vulagarity evolutionary ladder. She can't help herself, it's fuck this and fuck that, some mild form of Tourette's. She was told that such vulgarities were not common place in the vicarage. Chris, a true diplomat and peace loving representative got Dollar on to using adjectival in place of vulgarities - so instead of saying 'oh my god, I burned the fucking toast' she should say 'oh my god, I burned the adjectival toast'. This probably turned out to be a bad move. Absolutely everything became adjectival - well, they did hand it to her. As kind and cultured as they are, you do not hand someone with a sense of humor so caustic, like that of a goat on speed, the opportunity to enforce your own preferences to the point where you then regret it, let Dollar curse! Fan the flames with ethanol, pure ethanol.

Dollar told me all about life down in Devon with Chris and Ruby. It sounds ideal. Three meals a day, 2 of those meals include pudding, at dinner you discuss what you would like for breakfast. There is an organic market in the vicinity, so well-hung beef, smelly cheese and a myrriad peculiar country delectables are standard issue. At lunch Chris reads the news to everyone, summarizing the important news for group discussion. That is such quality, basking in the after-glow of a 3 meat and veg lunch, pudding, wine a-plenty, and then dousing onesself in a round of debate and discussion. I might never leave Devon.