My Stepford Life

This weekend has been hyperactive! On Friday I skipped out early to go for a drink with a couple of colleagues, before going to see Legally Blonde, the musical. Ever since then, my head has been filling my life with a backing bridge that goes "oh my god, oh my god, you guys". I wish I could comment more about the show, since I remember having fun, though thinking that the vocals could have been better. Sadly, the bottle of wine I had to myself before the show, and the three glasses I had during the show, left me a little addled. After the play, Riri, Kami and I all went for a drink with the other girls before meeting the Hubs and my sister at Belushi's. A clear indicator that my night was going to decline at the rate of knots. I wish I could describe the decline but all I remember is that the night ended in tears.

The Saturday was more positive... when it got started, that is. That would be about three in the afternoon, when I managed to get off the sofa (following breakfast on the sofa, made with love by the Hubs, who was an overactive DIY dynamo). Good thing though, since we were due at a cookery class at The Kitchen, Parson's Green. The menu that had been selected was a pumpkin and spinach tortellini, fisherman's pie, then mince pies. I had been hoping to learn to make pasta and shortcrust pastry from scratch, but the class was more of an assembly based class than a cookery class. Even so, I'd never tried to make tortellini or mince before, so it was a good experience. The mince pies were really nice - home made ones always are much better, though we were all horrified to discover the suet content. Having eaten and drunk our fill, we came home and attempted to watch the x-Factor finals, only to wake up at about midnight having missed the ending. UGH.

Sunday was much more effectual - for the first time in my life I tried my hand at DIY. The Hubs and I decided to try to paint our yet-to-be-used bedroom (or, specifically for today, the built-in furniture) ourselves. The whole venture is against my better judgement, but seems to have started well. Perhaps it won't all end in tears after all. Who would have thought it would be so complex though. There was sandpapering, Caulk filling, primer painting. Still another layer of primer to go before two more of oil based paint, then an actual colour. Jeez. Still, rather than watch the paint dry I baked some Christmas cookies, which I think I may give as gifts to the girls. Then it was time for the weekly Bistro le JamTam. Tonight it was samphire, crab, scallop and pasta sheets in a butter and sage sauce. We had this with a massive portion of Half Blood Prince, tuna-balls in a tomato sauce, and Duval Leroy. A delightful digestif of Freddie Stroma to follow. YUM. All in all a good weekend.

***
Update. While watching Harry Potter, I realised that Bonnie Wright sure gets around some, and how jealous am I!
***
Update II. How much hotter is Freddie Stroma now that I know he graduated with a 2:1 in Neuoscience from UCL.

Saga

I have been most remiss about updating this blog, which is strange since there has been so much to mention. The Hubs and I went to see Inherit The Wind at the Old Vic,the next morning we were up at five or so to drive to Champagne with Kami and AGL, since we've been back it's been Thanksgiving, which means a disproportionate level of weight gain. All that and the 'taches are gone. Much as I love Movember as a concept, the results are so often horrendous. Having said that, I don't remember seeing as many questionable mostaches on the tube this year (although looking around me now, I do see a few freshly shaved faces). Perhaps there has been less take up? Movember would be a great thing for celebrities to endorse. Brad Pitt is already pretty much there, but wouldn't it be fun if Jay Z, Zac Efron, Lady Gaga (allegedly could be able to) and Robert Pattinson were to gun for growth?

Speaking of R-Patz, I also managed to see New Moon (I refuse to refer to it by the ostentatious official title). Twice. The first time was with AGL and her latest crazy-fun friends (as opposed to crazy like a killer), RiRi and Kelly. There was squealing, breaths of "mmm" and some exclamations of outrage, I'll admit it. We were the least sober people in the theatre, having persuaded the staff at the Apollo to bring the ice bucket in for us. We were also, admittedly, the most likely to have acted that way sober. I've heard such mixed reviews on New Moon, which surprises me. The book was so exceptionally annoying that I can't imagine that expectations of the storyline were high (the next two books were vastly superior). In fact, I actually thought the film was much better than the book. Kristin Stewart sort of acted, Taylor Lautner was good, Charlie and the rest of the cast got semi decent airtime. Don't get me wrong though, there is plenty annoying about it. Kristin Stewart's random breathing is still confunding, she appears to have lost fifty pounds and wears a moonstone on her index finger which is really distracting. Robert Pattinson still doesn't do it for me, which is fine and my problem, but he especially didn't do it for me because I am convinced he was styled ugly. Value your merchandise-buying fanbase makeup people! I know he's going through some self inflicted suffering and therefore has crazy bags under his eyes, must be the ninety sleepless years he had catching up with him. Plus why didn't anyone give him a protein shake? Did they mean for him to look like Christian Bale in the Machinist when he got his shirt off? After an hour of the werewolf hotness?

Oh, and Alice's vision was cloying. I know we burst into peals of laughter, but I'm not sure that was the intention of the scene. In anticipation of the next two (well, it's bound to be three) movies, I am mad that they recast Victoria for Eclipse. Not to mention the tackiest CGI since Ghostbusters. Still, what does it matter when you're bigger than Heroin?

Taking Tea

This has been a busy weekend and a half! On Saturday I got to witness the might of the Irish before hosting a baby shower (on two days notice) on Sunday.

Ms Peabody had arranged for a champagne tea for six in honour of her birthday. She had picked the Soho Hotel, which seems to be making quite a name for its Tea. It appears to be favoured by the fashion crowd, who seem to opt for it if they have high metabolisms, or for the "healthy" tea at the Metropolitan
if they don't. Pret-a-portea seems to be more popular with girls outside the fashion industry, but always amuses me. Personally, I'd like to try out the restaurant teas instead of the hotel ones. The teas at Mo Tea, Roka and Sketch sound particularly interesting. Much as I enjoy Tea, or any other excuse I can drum up for a cocktail at 2pm, there is only so far one can go with scones and pavlovas. Even sandwiches can be tricky to make exceptional without becoming hideously bad value.

The Soho Hotel was a strange experience on this occasion though. The entrance on Richmond Mews is referred to by the staff as "the back entrance" and involves cutting through the main restaurant. This is a practice I disagree with because I am a shameless people watcher. I realise this may sound contradictory since restaurant throughfares are condusive to people watching. The problem I have, as someone who deliberately sits with back to the masses when I can, is that it is incredibly distracting. Picture this: a group are sat at a table discussing the inevitable trials and tribulations of someone's love life. A stunning girl walks by, or perhaps a man in need of a stylist (this is London, the odds of those two happening are high. One of the common male pitfalls being continental fashion/American frame). A people watcher would probably pipe up with "whoa." at the very least, detracting from the conversation at the table. This is rude. I know this because I do it all the time and constantly feel bad for it. In any case, using a space characterised by conversation and the transportation of piping hot liquids for channeling groups of people seems decidedly ill advised.

Beyond the design flaw in the layout, there seems to have been a somewhat large gap in the training of the service staff. There were multiple instances where we waiting for around ten minutes for a drink, eye contact or a response. The staff were polite, but naïve. Saying "the bartender is very busy" is an honest but inexperienced response to "it's been quite awhile since my order of (a straightforward drink), when can I expect it?". The smaller slip ups were tolerable, like not setting up properly (missing wine glasses, tea strainers, milk), but not having available menus or a full service for the numbers seems foolish and lacklustre. Still, I discovered a new tea to cherish, the jasmine blossom tea. Apart from tasting great, it looked spectacular, with a spooky flower dominating the pot. I found this nigh on impossible to photograph, but this otherwise unexciting shot captured the blossom, almost:


They also obliged my request for an earl grey/lapsang souchong http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lapsang_souchong
blend, which I am grateful for. Anyhow, Tea is for Ladies, and it was the ladies who made the occasion.

Forget about the rugby, boy bands and hot accent. Ireland is all about its women. Apart from being an unusually attractive group, the girls were all intelligent and funny. Everyone was open minded and the conversation went down routes I hadn't fathomed. We talked about everything from Club Pedestal to whether it is just as bad to wear fur from an endangered animal or any animal (regardless of how bountiful the livestock may be) to Russell Brand (pro - humour, con - risk of disease) to Scientology. All that while drinking cocktails and eating cake. There cannot be many occasions better.

On Rememberance Sunday Casa Jamtam played host to Ms George's baby shower. The theme was American/English, and we celebrated with a tea that included a Victoria Sponge, Cupcakes, Pumpkin scones and lemon drizzle cake. Naomi at Vintage Secret did pretty much all the hard work, baking from scratch at six am to provide us not just with the vintage crockery and linens, but also teas imported from Paris and all this:


For favours, my friend's wife had baked green tea macaroons, which I bundled the macaroons into little baby socks and distributed with tea pigs for a take away afternoon tea:

All in all it was a hectic weekend. Amazingly I managed to lose two pounds over the weekend, despite spending the nights drinking copious amounts of champagne with the Hubs while eating cheese. Yum!

Housebroken

On Halloween mi casa had it's first ever JamTam party - a Halloween murder mystery. The murder mystery itself was scripted for 14 characters, which was a bit of a dillema since we had around thirty people coming on the night. Everyone lived up to the challenge and there were some brilliant costumes including the Hubs as toxic-green Frankenstein (though if you squinted he could've been a Ninja Turtle), Celia as Carrie and her capital-M in Man as a two headed monster. The Whaley's came as a hot vampire (with a slight lisp) and drunken pirate complete with Captain Morgan's, the pirate outfit was my favourite for the night (two headed monster came close). Mr. Anderson came as a Mummy and was soft to the touch. The Evans' came as a vampire couple in the best I-only-discovered-the-costume-I-was-meant-to-get-two-hours-ago costume imaginable. I'm still not sure how they managed it. Amongst my favourite moments of the evening were my sister's boyfriend being murdered around the corner from where the scene had been cunningly set, which led to a full three minutes of confusion; dunking apple into toffee and then rolling it in nuts (wasted = scalded finger, but it was tasty and therefore worth doing repeatedly); making ridiculous food; the random call-outs by the people playing the game; a visitation by my cousin and her friends; doing shots out of ramekins. It was a good night. Evidenced by the appearance of a pair of gold heels in my kitchen (someone was Cinderella) and scattered articles of clothing through the house.

Most impressively, the thirty of us (including at least four non-drinkers and four people who left early, so really it was about twenty of us) drank
- 15 bottles of wine
- 20 beers
- 2 bottles of Jägermeister *gag*
- 2 bottles vodka
- 1 bottle rum
- 1.5 bottles whisky

My neighbours, who until that day thought we were going to be pillars of the community, took photographs of our recycling. I don't think it's a good sign.

Bad Plus Ronnie Scott's Equals Great

For almost the entire six years that I've lived in London I've been trying to engineer a night at Ronnie Scott's. It's one of those places that, to my mind, is shrouded in legend and history. I care enough about music to feel like it warranted a pilgrimage, but never really knew any other believers who would go with me. The gigs can also lean toward the expensive, and, though I think of myself as a bit of an anorak, I don't know enough about jazz to discern the good from the bad. I also don't follow it enough to know who is worth seeing and who isn't. That was so until I read about the Bad Plus, a threepiece from the midwest, who have a reputation for interpreting indie or rock hits. Rich Maestro, whose musical views are aligned with mine (though if I'm an anorak, he's a four man tent when it comes to music), had seen them twice before and had nothing but extravagant praise for them. I tried my best to convince the gang but only had the Evans', Jeremy and the Hubs agree. This all got reshuffled in the end, with people feeling ill and the like, so my girl Kami came along.

I feel slightly like I'd missed the boat a little with Ronnie Scott's. Since I hadn't shelled out for the expensive tickets, we didn't have any assurance of a good seat, so I got there for doors and was first in line. The lady at the door had one of those 40 a day voices, which got me all excited. Inside though, most of the expectations were proved to be inaccurate. Gone was the smoke hazed, blue lit den of sin fron the older pictures of Ronnie Scott's which I randomly admired in a friends' living room in Tokyo. They gave an impression of an idyllic site to OD. Since the smoking ban, it's a very plush, very lush caberet. The front of queue status meant that I was able to get a comfy, circular table with a reasonably unobscured view. Which was a blessing, since I've never seen music performed with so much love (on the part of the bassist, Reid Anderson, who was working the base like it was Scarlett Johansson) and joy (from Dave King, the drummer, who yelled with pleasure when swaying, bouncing, laughing and smiling was not enough). I couldn't see the pianist, Ethan Iverson, but am willing to bet he was similarly enraptured. There was a lot that was unlikely about the Bad Plus. To begin with, if I had to hazard names to faces, purely based on the images in my mind, the drummer would have been called Reid, the bassist Ethan, and the pianist David. I judge on appearances, clearly. Then there was the dialogue. Given that this was minimal, limited largely to the introduction of the songs, it was impressive that there were references to Metatron. While I was watching them, I thought "the Mephsito-like pianist is referencing Metatron... I could imagine the bassist spouting Socrates in the sack... this is deep" (check that alliteration! Maybe I was too many drinks in).

The music was incredible to watch. I know, I know, that's not the one of the five senses you expected, but it was absolutely a visual feast as much as it was aural. The precision of the drummer, the cordinated, scuttling, spider-fingers of the bassist... it was the most skillful thing I'd seen in ages. I was absolutely awestruck. To listen to, I thought at some points it was like yoga, when they say to imagine a thread holding you from pelvis through to head, to keep you upright. When they played, it felt like a cord of platinum light between pianist, base and drums, beginning with me. So intensely beautiful. I thought this when listening to a track called People Like You, written by Reid Anderson, which so moved Mrs Evans and I that we could barely articulate. She's a journalist and I talk am capable of soliloquy, so this really is saying something (or not). It was elegant, lovely, emotive in a soothing way. It reminded me of a lullaby. It was followed by another song he'd written, Physical, which was almost ridiculously complex. It went from background to stark, to accusing, to a climax and it all just flowed. The skill in timing and sense that they were performing as one was unbelieveable. It showed me what music was like when people performed it who loved it.

I knew I was in trouble when I looked at the Ronnie Scott's logo, thought it was a koi carp but then realised it was a man playing the sax, which would make sense. It was getting harder to focus on the music, and my mind kept wandering. I got to thinking about what it must be like to have to focus on the music to perform it and decided that the Pianist must have it hardest, working with a different instrument each gig. Then I thought, him and every hot desker and prostitute. You gotta work with what God gave you. It's just that sometimes you're not Bridget Jones, who people love the way she is. Instead you're just the way you are, in his case a really talented pianist. It must be incredibly rare to have the ability to switch instruments and the like.

The band played several of their own compositions, and I wondered about their music making process: did they each write their own arrangements, and the others write theirs in around it? Dave's piece had the most complex drumming (and was called Thrift Store Jewellery, about how finding a treasure in a second-hand store can brighten up your day, which I absolutely loved as the premise for a song), Ethan's was trickiest on the piano. Perhaps it's the nature of the musician to hear in their instrument? Though then, what can be said of Songs in the Key of Life? Other than that Piano and Harmonica do not a band make, but can be enough for an amazing album. The thing that struck me, towards the end, is how much Bad Plus achieved with just three musicians. Not once did you miss the vocalists, back up singers, electric guitars or synths, it was just unadulrated talent. It was genuinely emotive music, and I sometimes feel that I don't get that any more.

Expectations Management

Hooked up with the Eton girls for dinner last night at Bob Bob Ricard. I've been reading about it for a couple of months now and was actually pretty excited about going. Reviews started out negative but recently got better and so I thought the time was nigh to pop on over.

5 cocktails, 3 sides (one actually a dish but priced as a side, so it stands), 4 mains, 2 bottles of wine, 2 hours and £260 later, I left thinking I probably wouldn't go back. Nothing was wrong per se, it just wasn't right. We arrived early for the table and were shown to the members bar for cocktails which were absolutely commendable. At £10 a short drink though, they almost had to be. The members bar was a basement affair and pretty enough. I liked the way there was space for bags under the tables, although I suspect that may have been down to interpretation as opposed to design.

Dinner was taken in the main restaurant, which lived up to reviews to a T. The decor was lovely, reminiscent of the Orient Express (where is Poirot when you need him?). The menu was haphazard (on page 2, a cold favourite of "Mini Magoo's 100% Organic Muesli" and on page 3 "30g Caviar Blinis, Sour Cream") but conceptually successful. More successful than sides of cold Scotched Quails Eggs and runny Mac & Cheese. Warning bells did go off when our amicable waitress asked each of us if we would want a side with our orders, all of which sounded like the were going to be hot and heavy. This was clearly a place where bills ratcheted up.

Mains were a mixed bag. A-Dub of A-Dub AWL fame loved the booties on her chicken kiev, and the sweet corn mash she got with it was a dieticians nightmare but delicious (as these things always are). I've never seen booties, by which I mean the paper cuffs I normally asosciate with lamb chops, on chicken kiev before, so I was fairly sceptical from across the table. Still, that mash would have healed most wounds. Vee went for the steak and received what appeared to be a fillet on the bone. She'd been precise in how she wanted in done ("medium. That's only a little pink") and sadly received it rare. That's entirely pink, closer to scarlet, really. Di (not the Princess, but close) opted for salmon and a side salad, which appeared to be a fairly straight forward affair. Then again, everything I've seen and heard has supported what Anthony Bourdain had to say about chicken and salmon in restaurants. They'd best get it right! My own choice was actually tasty but dissapointing. A hefty slice of Halibut browned in butter on beurre blanc came with overcooked wild mushrooms. Nothing wrong with it but it stabbed the heart of my personal adage "If I can make it just as well, I don't want to pay for someone else to".

Dessert was an "ooh!! Cake!" moment. Di and I decided to share the platter of cakes that, even now, I hold a sneaking suspicion may have come from Waitrose. Now that Maison Blanc are pre-packaging and distributing from Waitrose, I'm suspicious of miniature cakes on a plate.

All in, nothing was wrong with dinner. It just wasn't £65 right. I know people who pay less for an orgasm, and I'd have liked at least that for the money.

Revitalised

The ladies with the hotness are starting a new trend and I thought I'd jump up on that bandwagon by kicking this 2002 blog back into life... suffice to say...

I have nothing to say.

Most of the characters I can see from the 2002 posts are still a part of my life. Breeze and I don't see each other enough. Neither do Ineffable and I, who now live continents apart. Guy is the exception and shall now be termed "Missing Guy", who I haven't seen or heard from since 2003 when we broke up by the banks of the Thames. Breeze told me once he married Chang, which is actually laughable in the context of the names I christened them in the blog and the lifestyle we led. I'm no longer a student of any schools, but am literally now playing lead role in a drama with the working title of "At Desk From Seven: Generation X goes Y".

These days there are still a lot of girlfriends - boys are a little off-limits now that I am an official Honest Woman. Still, who has time for hot panting boys when there's so much fun to have with the girls? Until a month ago I didn't think it was normal for girls to dance around in their underwear to 80s rock tunes before midnight. How much did I miss in my youth?! Who needs Chang and Guy(s)... there were friends to be had!

Still, 2009 seems to be all about reforming and reliving. So far this year I've watched 90210, screamed my undying love to Joey McIntrye, attempted the Hoedown Throwdown (surely the modern day equivalent of Dirty Dancing now that chastity is cool), been to my High School Reunion (in a non-musical context) ... who knows what the rest of the year will bring? One thing's for sure though, you'll be the first to know.

"So, Ineffable," I ask, "how would you like half of this out of date cod that I've just managed to burn?"
Ineffable - "sure!"

No more depression.

I was on the (delayed) train back to London today when I realised something incredible. For the first time in my life, I have more girl friends than boy friends. This might be standard for a lot of people out there, but it really is quite strange for me. I'm not particularly fond of the females of the species, and they are a lot trickier to negotiate than the males, so I haven't often bothered. I mean, don't get me wrong, all those years in convent school, I do know how to interact with girls, and I can say all the right things. It's just that until pretty recently, boys were a whole lot more interesting to know. Nowadays, I'm surrounded by women, and it is good. I'm starting to bond with my sistas!

I think it probably has a lot to do with how, beyond the age of about 20, girls seem to stop competing with each other. My girl friends at the moment are all girls who I have never once competed with for a bloke [or other girl, where relevant]. We sometimes go out on the pull [metaphorically speaking, boyfriend dear], play chat-up-line-bingo and all, but never actually directly compete for men. Maybe it's because we're so varied. When my Nottingham [where I went to uni] girl friends and I went out, we were like Baskin Robins, there was a flavour for everyone [imagine the impact we could have had on Craig David's latest single]. There were blond friends, black friends, asian friends, dizzy friends, intellectual friends, horny friends, untouchable friends, prick-tease friends... but maybe that's why we didn't compete?

The point of these musings is that while blokes seem to bond over everything they have in common - sport, clothing, hair loss, girlfriends, beer - girls seem to function best when among those they have little in common with, the way a man may see it. Like Carrie in SATC [great clothes, dodgy story], I'm left wondering. Do women judge themselves by men? Even when selecting their confidantes?

Argh. I've fallen into the Ebay trap. When I realised there was a new flat to move into [and therefore new needs], I went ebay crazy. Rather unfortunately, I depleted my chequebook. This meant I had to change the address of my account and then order a new one. This was viewed with real suspiscion by my bank, which I suppose I should appreciate. Rather unfortunately, this has led to my being blacklisted [or something] on ebay. The thing is, I wouldn't normally give a damn, but some weirdo *ahem* girl is giving me real stress about it. CHILL! Just tell me how much to pay you!!! Argh!!!

Anyhow, the beloved has just left and I must admit that it's making me a little moody. The work is piling up and I suppose I might as well go make the bad mood worse.

Oh - saw Road to Perdition last night. I was a little surprised about it. Sam Mendes did really well. I see nominations for Hanks, Law and the Kid, not to mention a lifetime contribution for Newman, but just don't think anyone really shone. Good film though. Totally watchable. And Law with a slashed up face? I've always like the whole marred-beauty thing.

So... This is turning out to be trickier than I thought. I can't seem to alter the template this blog is set on, although I have been promised assistance by my blogmaster housemate. I must admit to being a little half-hearted about it, though, since my long distance [hey, London to Cheshire is MILES!] boyfriend [my only boyfriend, I hasten to add] has come to visit for the weekend. He thought he'd surprise me by coming two whole hours earlier, but this backfired as I couldn't manipulate my exceptionally busy social schedule around this and ended up dragging him to my class party.

**Background**
I've just begun at the College of Law a month ago, and am still in the whole get-to-know-you-without-waking-up-with-you stage. The class I'm in has the usual hotchpotch of people. Those I absolutely adore, those I have no desire to get to know but am civil to, and those who really get on my tits [totally metaphorically] but who for some reason think I adore them. There is a disproportionate number of international students, of which I am one, and a typical proportion of public school kids [it is law school after all]. I admit it, I do belong to the public school category as well, but only just. The class I'm in is actually pleasantly surprising. There are a few people in particular who I'm getting good feelings for. Stangely enough, they are mostly female. This, I do realise, isn't particularly strange, but those of you who know me well will know my views as to womankind. I think most girls are stupid, most women are false and that only a select few women can actually genuinely get along with all other women. It's like we're all bred to hate each other. Don't be offended, female readers, you don't know what I think of men and animals yet.

Anyhow, I'm really getting on with a few girls/women in the class, and I have high hopes. There are only two boys/men in the class who I think I could get on with, and so far so platonic - very good.


**Back to the story**
Having swanned around Paddington to pick up one of my best [male] friends, I managed to talk two classmates into picking up my boyfriend as well. This led to all five of us being just under three hours late for the party, which was actually a bonus since the classmates at the party were mostly 'maybes' in the will-we-ever-like-each-other catergory. The real magic was in the fact that by the time we got there, a fair amount of alcohol had been consumed on empty stomachs, and everyone was so drunk that we were life-long buddies. My boyfriend immediately launched into an amicable arguement about Queen, and I started chatting up every pulse in sight.

The food was incredibly good, considering that the Chef was the classmate who often had much to say, with not much point to make. He thinks himself a borderline psychic having been guinea pig to a scientific experiment measuring the levels of intuition in men, and tested out highly. Now, he does things like wander up to people and saying "you're famous aren't you?" or "aren't you really good at something?". He knows a person for every occasion and every topic, and has infallible opinions on everything. I have another friend with similar traits who isn't psychically [sic] inclined, lets call him Herr. Herr is a wanker of the highest degree, which doesn't prevent him being one of my best friends. He's obnoxious, annoying, and never wrong, even if he is. I still love him. It's the psychic thing, I think, that makes Chef unbearable, although alright in the daylight hours and in small doses. He also flirts with women all over, and wonders why his girlfriend is the jealous type. Maybe the psychic intuition doesn't extend that far?

The other thing of interest [?] that came up was the way six degrees of separation seems to reduce to three-degrees, or even two, in terms of public schools kids. Nice guy in my class went to one of those posh boys ones where people wear tails or something. He's mates with the friend I had to pick up from Paddington, John, and also happened to have been in the same class as the boyfriend of one of the girls in our class. Meanwhile, John and I are good mates with two Cypriots, who are cousins to the best friends of the hostesses last night. AMAZING!