Bittersweet Camomile

After a few postponements, Absentee Boyfriend and I were going out for dinner on Tuesday, only I'd also suggested to international woman of mystery, Racquel, to come over that evening too, indeed, and Sir Leigh, mutual friend, was also joining us. Bung a pork fillet in the oven and toss some veggies around it I thought, it's all about the chat anyway, isn't it? Sir Leigh talked of stuffing, no need I said,  good grief. But he arrived with a melange of black pudding and other fine Irish foodstuffs, of which he is an aficionado and took over the kitchen. I donated an apron. Neighbour blitzed breadcrumbs for him and a very artful presentation resulted.

Dinner a la Sir Leigh

This could catch on, when he arrived ABF decided we'd dine in landladyhouse, and I, thanks to Sir Leigh, felt like I was dining out, such was the extent of his very tasty stuffed pork  and colour co-ordinated vegetable dishes.

There's no such thing as a free dinner in your own house you know, I finished scrubbing pots at 6 the following evening. The thing I remember most amongst all the undoubtedly scintillating conversation, ABF said he didn't like reading about himself in the blog. I might have to axe him. You know, Axe him....

By Thursday I was making progress on my edit and finishing the new Douglas Kennedy book I've to review (whom I've never read read), except I had an afternoon appointment with the recruitment consultant who'd told me there wasn't much call for architectural historians. He regretted saying that and invited me for coffee or lunch, I agreed to coffee, unsure if I could take any more career annihilation, and discovered a lot about the job market I didn't know, mainly I've no chance of getting one unless it's through a personal connection, as my skills are too 'specialised'.  Talent solution its called, and Linkedin is the new free recruitment agency according to him. So that's another project for next week.

Seeing as I'd put on a dress, I went for a pot of camomile tea with an old friend in the Dylan Hotel, someone else who is always flitting in and out of Ireland, let's call him the Scarlet Pimpernel.  He spent most of his time being evasive and typing emails, I can only conclude that it's the type of afternoon tea I can do without and when he left I hobbled out to say hello to some friends in the garden.

Friends, wine and chat, there was nothing for it but to leave the car. The concierge very kindly parked it for me and with the fear of clamping gone, I was home in a taxi and realised I'd left the Douglas Kennedy book, Five Days on the back seat. I'd got to a stage where the story began to hold my interest, when a dramatic twist was taking place on the streets of Boston. In five days this week the world had become well acquinted with the names of its streets and suburbs, where some mother's sons chose evil and we saw it is never far away.

I'd better get back to the Douglas Kennedy, because it's the nearest thing to a job this week.