We had to forego our morning cuddles and a story in the big bed yesterday and I was at pains to do so. It’s not very often that I skip a Sunday with her and for good reason. Those slow starts, those quiet times together while the world just breathes are part of the fabric of life and to squander them would be a sin, if such a thing exists. That said, I had good enough reason to need to be elsewhere. Understand that I would have taken her with me but due to other birthday celebrations elsewhere, she would have had scant suitable company with whom to spend the body of an afternoon, despite how much I think we might have enjoyed the journey together.
Hence I placed her in the care of The Mothership for the day, albeit with a dispatch of sourdough bread, ripe avocado and some strawberries for a semi-bougie breakfast. She did insist that I kept some of the punnet of strawberries and became upset when I tried to give her all of them to take with her. Apparently Daddy should also have strawberries to enjoy when we cannot be together for whatever stupid reason. This child.
It was the ragù that was promised and more. Having made the trip out to foggy West London for Mr. Simoncelli’s birthday celebrations, we were spoiled with an afternoon of fine dining, excellent company, and some album III ruminations. I have been privileged to partake of his cooking a few times over the years and it’s always the most authentic experience. The man chops half a baby carrot for fifteen minutes and it goes into the pot and despite my scepticism, something must happen between then and when it’s served because the result is the most considered manifestation of nom that ever did nom.
It’s always nice whenever we have an excuse to come together for a reason that does not involve noise
