Out to Lunch

A restaurant review.

What do you buy the man who has everything?

It's a dilemma, especially as I am currently a woman of no-independent-means. Whatever present I bought my other half for his 50^th, it was not going to be a surprise as he would inevitably end up footing the credit card bill.

I decided to take him out to lunch, on the premise that if he’d already consumed/ enjoyed his present, he’d be more than happy to pay for it himself.

He’s a bit of a foodie, and his current favourite is Michel Roux jnr. No gimmicks, just down to earth (?) cooking with a Gallic twist.

I googled Michel Roux jnr, along with several other celebrity chefs with restaurants in London and decided that his set lunch menu was (a) affordable, and (b) edible.  No point paying good money for something neither of us would want to eat. 

I read the reviews on Trip Adviser and Top Table and it all looked good. Three course, a glass of champagne, coffee and petit fours all for £36.50. Compared to the some of the others I looked at that wasn’t too bad at all. I noted the comments about the smallish portions, but that’s nouveau cuisine. I’m always the first one to bang on about oversized portions and wastage, (although to be on the safe side I decided not to skip breakfast).

I had chosen the Landau located in the Langham Hotel, just off Regent Street and opposite BBC Broadcasting House. My husband had never seen Broadcasting House before and insisted we hang around outside in the hope of spotting someone famous. We loitered for ten minutes as a woman emerged  surrounded by waiting photographers and autograph hunters.  Neither of us had any idea who she was. It was just like LA all over again…. My lack of celebrity knowledge is a serious let-down.

We crossed the road to the discreet (blink and you’ll miss it) entrance of the Landau. We were greeted and seated immediately, our jackets taken, our napkins unfolded and placed on our knees. We were handed menu’s, invited to enjoy our champagne. From start to finish the service was impeccable. Not rushed, not delayed.  We were offered bread, served appetisers. There was a choice of three dishes for both the starter and the main. I had fish, followed by fish. He had meat, followed by meat. He left to visit the cloakroom, his napkin was whipped from his chair and re-folded in readiness for his return.

We had dessert, coffee and a platter of petit fours - decorated  with a birthday message as I had commented on the on-line booking form that it was his special day. It was  a small but personal  touch that was very much appreciated. 

I couldn't fault it and fortunately neither could he.  Highly recommended.

Happy Now?

According to a study – and I read about this in The Times so it must be true – women are at their happiest in their fifties.

Last year, when I was still 49, the dental receptionist commented on my approaching ‘big’ birthday – which I was then dreading - and told me it was the best thing that happened to her.

‘You can get away with anything once you get to 50,’ she said.

Taking her advice I planned a birthday party – I hadn’t had a party that was just all about me for years (in fact since my 18^th) so I thought, why not? I insisted on fancy dress, gave my night an 80’s theme, and thought what the heck – go for it.  I invited everyone I’d ever met and had a great time.  Not sure what everyone else thought, but well, I was 50. Who cares?

And that’s probably the reason why women in their 50’s are at their happiest. They’ve stopped giving a toss.  They’ve stopped worrying about body hang-ups because well, everything has already ‘peaked’. It will only get worse. They’ve stopped worrying about  keeping everyone happy because, after 50 years of trying, they finally realise they can’t.

Life is too short. Each day becomes more precious, and should be filled with doing something you want to do, rather than something you have to do, or feel you should be doing.  If the husband can’t cook his own dinner, then it’s about time he learned.  If the kids can’t work out how the hoover works, so what, it’s their room that stays messy, not yours. That’s the attitude you reach at 50. 

The empty nest - or nearly empty nest - is not to be dreaded, but embraced.  It’s ‘me time’ - an alien concept when so much of your life revolves around looking after other people and ‘servicing’ their needs. I remember when even snatching 5 minutes to read a book was a sheer luxury – I never thought that I could perhaps, if I planned my routine carefully and a kept a couple of hours a day clear ‘just for me’, find the time to attempt to write my own book….

Men have a ‘mid-life’ crisis, desperate to recapture their lost youth. Where’s the Ferrari? The blonde half their age, the Harley Davidson? I don’t think women want to recapture their youth – awkward moments hoping for a date at the school disco, stressing over exams followed by sleepless nights, changing nappies and the dread of children’s birthday parties? No thank you - that's the last place I want to go back to.

My other half has just celebrated his half century at our local Chinese Disco (rather bizarrely we have one of these in our village). The Teenager came with us and afterwards expressed her surprise at how much fun  ‘old people’ had when they went out.  

Us oldies have nothing to prove and no-one to impress. If I’m in the mood for dancing to the Nolans and reaching for the stars with S Club 7 then so be it. The dental receptionist was right, at 50, you really can get away with anything. Just do what makes you happy.

the old folks do know how to party after all...

De-Cluttering

When we arrived back in the UK 18 months ago and moved into our new house, we realised we had accumulated a lot of stuff.

We had shipped home the contents of a spacious three bedroom apartment, plus we’d kept a UK flat containing the ‘basics’. The new house became home to two sets of everything.  One year on and daughter no 1 graduated and returned home, albeit briefly, with several boxes of possessions acquired as a student, and then the husband finished his stint in Saudi and another overseas consignment arrived, containing yet more stuff.

I’ve realised I’m not so much living in a house as a three storey storage unit with a kitchen and a bathroom.

A few years back I was a great fan of that programme ‘Life Laundry’.  I’ve always been quite good at de-cluttering, trying not become too sentimental about inanimate objects, and encouraging the others around me to 'let go'.

With my other half now home and relatively quiet on the work front, we decided it would be a good time to finally put our stamp on the new house and decorate. What better opportunity, as each room is emptied for painting, than to de-clutter.

I don’t need four cut-glass fruit bowls. I rarely entertain.  Nostalgia has its place, but the chipped Grecian urn bought many moons ago on a package holiday to Rhodes has probably had its day. As with clothes, the fashion, and passion, for kitchenware and ornaments change. It’s time to be out the old, and not necessarily, in with the new.

I have every intention of downsizing in the not too distant future, so it’s off to the charity shop with several bags of belongings.  Old furnishings, Jigsaw puzzles, boardgames – why am I keeping them? Trivial Pursuit anyone? No, I didn’t think so.

Perhaps it’s the arrival of the spring sunshine but I’ve also felt the need to rejuvenate colour schemes, plump up cushions and re-arrange a few pictures around the house.

‘You wouldn’t know I lived here,’ the teenager complained when she noticed her photograph had been removed from the mantelpiece.  (One look upstairs and there is no doubt we still have a teenager living in the house).  Despite the fact that there is very fetching picture of her on a nearby windowsill, and another on the bookcase, a photo on the mantelpiece is apparently the ultimate accolade.

As for the bookcase, do we actually need books any more now that we’ve all evolved onto the Kindle? Should I de-clutter my bookcase, throw out all those much loved favourites now that I have the ability to download everything?  Now that’s a tricky one. Maybe there are some things that are still sacrosanct after all.

Gone Girl

We all have to learn to take criticism.  I’m a Virgo which means I take it quite badly. However, in the writing game you have to learn to take your knocks – and your rejections – and pick yourself up again.  We all know the story of JK Rowling and how many publishers are now kicking themselves because they turned down her first story about Harry Potter…

So, when my tutor gives me advice, I generally take it.  We are constantly told to ‘show’ not tell, leave the reader guessing, allow them to use their imagination to fill in the gaps. This directly contravenes with ‘too many questions unanswered’ – another one of my tutor's favourites, presumably when I have taken the first piece of advice too far.

People think writing is easy, and it isn’t. It’s a skill, it’s a craft.  You have to hook your reader, keep them guessing, then give them a satisfactory finish. Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl was (apparently) the book of last summer.  It’s not an easy read, but I persevered only to be rewarded with the crappiest ending ever. Having stuck with the two obnoxious antagonists over many chapters I felt I deserved something better - one of them at least should have got their come-uppance (and it's not very often I'm on the side of an adulterous husband....).  I felt the author had copped out and I felt cheated.

Last term my tutor told me I’d ‘cheated’ the reader out of a proper ending on a 900 word short story because it didn’t have a definite ‘conclusion’, I re-wrote it.  I understand that Gillian Flynn has now done the same for the film version of her book. Shame no-one suggested it earlier.  I'm usually the first one up in arms when a story is changed beyond recognition to satisfy Hollywood. As far as I can see in Gone Girl's case it can only be a good thing!