The weeks seem to be passing in a bit of a sleepy haze, filled with dreams of the weekend. Maybe it's just January. In true New Year fashion I am fixated with list-making, things to see, things to do, things to make and cook over the next few months. I'm a New Year cliché.

After work on Friday we met with lovely friends who we hadn't seen since before Christmas and re-established a


tradition. We ate plates of hot, sizzling chilli paneer, coal-kissed and deliciously spicy lamb chops and koftas, comforting dal and buttery peshwari naans. Amazing. Then we wandered through the drizzle to Brick Lane and spent a few hours in

Danger of Death

supping (one too many) cocktails in candlelight and jazz music. Apart from a brief run-in with a hipster with a very precious APC coat, it was loveliness. Catching up, chatting shit, arguing about Giles Coren and foam parties.

The rest of the weekend was chore-central. Very productive. But it was very nice all the same. I like to get things done, it makes me feel happy. R made bread again (good again) but he's on a mission to perfect it. We took Nordmann the 4th (the Christmas tree) down. So sad - I hate doing it every year - but at least it joined its other naked friends at our local garden centre.

I couldn't resist keeping one of his beautiful branches.

I made a Nigel Slater soup - chickpeas, tomatoes, garam masala and spinach. Mmmmm. And sausage and lentil stew, earthy and fragrant, to be mopped up with bread.

I had my haircut, and got a late-Christmas pressie too (courtesy of R). We chatted, and 

cosied, and couldn't resist a little Poirot, curled up, afternoon falling to night, the evening turning dark and damp outside the windows.

On Sunday morning we went on an exciting mission.....