The start of a 21st-century 'Grand Tour'

It as been raining in London since the afternoon. Grey – and very cold, although nowhere near as bad as much of the rest of the country, which has been 'enjoying' a sharp reminder of winter.

After a four-hour flight from Venice yesterday (with 40-minute stop in Geneva), followed by battling through the 'enhanced' passport controls at London City Airport (it would be fascinating to know just how many millions of 'undesirables' are actually refused entry at UK airports – but then again, the probably small figures wouldn't appease the knee-jerking, hysterical tabloids and their terrified, little-Englander readers), we finally made it home.

As I tried to sort various things out, The Other Half popped up the road and picked up fish, chips and mushy peas, on the grounds that he felt that: "You don't want to start cooking now".

It was hardly the best grub I've eaten – but then again, we simply needed fodder by that stage. The in-flight food hadn't been up to much – and only very tiny snacks at that. With long queues at Marco Polo to get through woefully understaffed security, we'd had no time to get food there either.

So this morning, having taken today off as a bridge between our holiday and Easter, I sat in bed with camomile tea, paper and pen and Antonio Carluccio's Complete Italian Food, which has been on the shelf for years after I'd found it in a discount bookshop and which continues to floor me.

It was no clearer today. So I set off shopping, in bright (if cold) sunshine, with no list at all and even less idea of what I would cook for today and tomorrow. All I knew was that the one place that might guarantee me some form of support in my characteristic state of post-Continent pissed offness was a visit to Borough Market; and the hope that, regardless of the weather, like last year, the first Jersey Royals would be available there – even at a price.

I wasn't wrong on the potato front. But after approaching the situation in a totally novel (for me) way – wandering right around the market to get an idea of what was available, but not buying at that juncture – I went and sat down for a coffee and fag outside a café alongside Southwark Cathedral, pulling out paper and pen to compile menus and list. And then it started to dawn that the last few days have been a leap forward in my culinary education, and potatoes, potatoes, potatoes – even if those potatoes happen to be Jerseys, those early-spring jewels of the soil – was not really what I wanted.

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The British Pullman pulled gracefully out of Victoria Station at 10.45am on Thursday 25 March, carrying the first passengers of the new season to Folkstone, where they would transfer to a coach to be taken, via the Eurostar, to Calais, to join the famous Wagon Lits of the Orient Express.

The Other Half and I were particularly delighted to discover that we'd been allocated a private compartment to ourselves – no having to mix with the rest of the passengers on this rather posh package tour. Was this a treat – or a form of quarantine?

We giggled like children as brunch was served: Bellinis followed by a "fresh fruit cocktail", "scrambled eggs with chives, Inverawe smoked salmon, served on a potato and herb rosti and pan fried mushrooms". What the menu didn't mention was that our cheeky Cockney waiter would also bring around caviar. Now I love lumpfish roe, but have never had the real stuff. This was too good an opportunity to miss and, when The Other Half declined his portion, I dived in to make sure it didn't go to waste.

There was bread and butter and preserves, and then a slice of pear and rosemary tart with fresh cream, plus coffee, as we chugged elegantly through the rain-sodden Kent countryside, past oast houses and orchards – and all designed by "executive head chef" Matthew Smith.

A train. With an "executive head chef". This was a different planet.

And that different planet continued at Folkstone, where the train was met by a four-piece Old Orleans band that played us off the train and onto coaches that are, apparently, more usually used to transport football teams to and from matches.

After faffing around at Ashford for a tedious, wet half hour, the coach was allowed to board the shuttle for the 35-minute trip under the sea to France.

Amazingly, the weather had already changed to welcome us, as the coaches disembarked and drove us through Calais to the railway station. There, after our baggage – which had been delayed in transit – had been stowed, we were finally allowed to get off the coach and stroll to our carriages as the train's staff stood alongside.

It also offered an opportunity for a mass use of cameras to record this first sighting of the train – plus desperate last fags before boarding.

The steward for our carriage was Davide, who assured us that he had come from Mauritius just to buttle for us. And finally, off we set into the French countryside at a sedate pace, passing through stations where people stood on the platform and gazed at the train in disbelief or delight, grinning or snapping away with their mobile phones, and waving at us.

The compartments are small, but that only remotely becomes an issue when the time arrives to dress for dinner, requiring a certain amount of organisation. Which we managed rather well, before heading for the bar car and pre-dinner cocktails, accompanied by the Italian pianist on a baby grand, playing a selection that ranged from Piaf to Dean Martin to Abba to Jethro Tull to songs from the shows to popular classics.

As if that wasn't surreal enough, things soon took an even camper turn. Halted in the middle of nowhere for some time, an announcement was eventually made to inform us that we were being held up because, further down the line, a train and a car had had an altercation.

It was around this time that the pianist struck up a selection from The Sound of Music. Sitting around in evening dress, a number of the travelers joined in – the campest communal sing-along ever witnessed.

But so to dinner.

We started with an "open ravioli of Brittany lobster on a bed of slow-simmered, shredded Belgian endives with orange peels", followed by "roast fillet of beef with its marrow with a red onion chutney and a red wine and shallots sauce", accompanied by a "mille-feuilles" of vegetables and "potatoe cake" (God, they need a sub-editor).

Cheese and biscuits came next, followed by "chocolate and pear cake with Reims lady fingers flavoured ice cream", "small pastry delicacies" and coffee.

In this case, the "chef de cuisine" was Christian Bodiguel.

Stuffed after the cheese and biscuits, I forewent the rest of the courses. Two such big meals in one day was really pushing things for me.

But here was lesson number one: the "open ravioli" was nice – but it was, to my mind, rather too sweet. I'd have added a touch of red chili to cut right through the sweetness.

The Other Half asked whether I really felt like taking such a matter up with the chef. I suggested that Monsieur Bodiguel was far too busy to be bothered. But daring as it might seem to believe that one could add something to the art of a French chef, I stand by the idea.

The compartment had been transformed by the time of our return. But if it had been a matter of organisation to get dressed for dinner, it was utter chaos to undress for bed. It could so easily have resulted in a case of murder on the Orient Express.

Yet once that was achieved, amazingly, we slept comfortably and with no disturbance from the sound of the train as it plodded away through the French night, having finally got moving again after a delay of some two hours and to the sounds of cheering from the bar and restaurant cars.

I had already had a discussion with Davide, who, on discovering my desire to try to photograph the scenery, had suggested that he would knock on our door at 6am for the start of the best stuff. As it happened, I woke at 6.30am and, carefully lifting the blind, found that we were stationary in Basel station – he had thankfully decided that since we were behind time, it was best to let me continue sleeping.

By the time we'd dressed, we were heading into a vast tunnel beneath Zurich, and Davide knocked on the door shortly after that to alert me to the first lake. It was just the start of a stunningly beautiful journey into and through the Alps; blue skies and green water; snow-capped peaks and picturesque villages. Gorgeous – and I snapped away madly, helped by the fact that the compartment windows can be wound down very low and, whatever a small plaque said to the contrary, it was very easy to lean at least a little way out of the window.

The results – given that we were moving, and often bending round at quite substantial angles, are surprisingly good, including this shot of a rather austere castle, which was snared just before we crossed from Switzerland to Austria.

There are no showers on the train, although each compartment has a little closet with washbasin. Hot water is provided by a stove in each carriage – all of which are kept burning by the stewards. The faint smell of the stoves became one of the familiar accompaniments on the trip. The stewards also bring you breakfast – fruit cocktail, fruit juice, tea or coffee, bread rolls, butter and preserves.

There was no chance that anyone was going to starve on this expedition – and as though we'd all actually climbed every mountain on the way, step by step, lunch proved to be yet another epic occasion that I have – perhaps thankfully – lost the full menu for. Suffice it to say that it included duck and later, a tart of apples, with Fourme d'Ambert cheese caramelised on top, accompanied by black pepper ice cream and topped by a nasturtium.

Now I love cheese – and I like Fourme d'Ambert – but this seemed to me to be a case of over-egging (so to speak) the pudding. Apple tart – with ice cream: there's nothing wrong with that that requires correction by adding extra, and frankly superfluous, ingredients.

Later – stuffed for what felt like the umpteenth time in a meagre two days – we flopped in easy chairs in the bar car, nursing Becks beers and watching as the train trundled through the rain, down from the Brenner Pass and into Italy.

We had caught up some time, but not a great deal. As we headed across the Ponte della Libertà to Venice itself, through the mist and with no hope of seeing the Queen of the Adriatic rise magically out of the water before us, I felt so tired that the only idea in my mind was to get to our hotel and go to bed.

Perhaps it was no great shock that Serenissima should change that.

Finally leaving the train behind, together with the package tour groups who were transferring en masse to hotels, we hauled our bags down the station steps and out alongside the Grand Canal. A water taxi dropped us just beyond the Rialto Bridge, and we were at our hotel itself in mere moments.

A rapid unpack followed. And then we faced the knowledge that we had the rest of the night to ourselves. Food might not be on our menu, but a beer and a walk and smoke all were.

The concierge asked if we wanted directions – but we were already in the mood simply to wander and, if it happened, get lost, as it is said visitors should do in the city.

We headed in what we hoped was the direction of Piazza San Marco, rapidly betwitched by the architecture, the tiny side canals disappearing into velvet blackness, the shops trading in glass (was this the real Murano or Chinese imports?) and Carnevale masks, the paintings and the pasta.

In San Marco itself – the one piazza in Venice (all the other public spaces, irrespective of size, are campi), the Doge's Palace was lit up brightly. St Mark's Basilica, St Mark's Campanile and the Loggetta added to the ocular feast. But unlike the rich diet of the preceding 36 hours, this didn't leave one feeling constipated, but eagerly anticipating more.

We wended our way back and sat at a table just below the Rialto Bridge, nursing welcome beers and watching the lights play on the waters of the Grand Canal.

We had arrived.



PS: there are no pictures of both myself and The Other Half together in evening dress. But since some of you asked, here are the next best things – The Other Half in his best bib and tucker, and a quickly taken self-portrait.

Moving east

We woke on Friday morning to find ourselves in Basel – behind schedule, after an 'incident' the night before in France had delayed the train.

But it certainly had its advantages – allowing a far greater state of wakefulness when we'd passed beneath Zurich in a lengthy tunnel to find first a rather large lake – and then the Alps themselves beyond.

Here are a first few pictures – all taken from the train.

Almost ready for the off

It's Wednesday evening – and my ability to concentrate coherently waned ages ago.

This is ridiculous: I'm more obviously excited than I've been about a trip for – well, years.

I have most of my packing done – and have complied a list of 'things to do' and 'things to pack'. The Other Half laughs at such lists, but they do help to be a tad better in the organisation stakes. And hopefully, they also help to avoid my near legendary ability to forget to pack something or other.

I'm also getting close to incapable of eating anything much, although The Other Half made it quite clear this morning that the idea of omelettes or a frittata tonight were not his idea of a proper meal. So I picked up some sausages after work and may well let him do something with them. To be honest, I don't know what I fancy – I'd struggle to eat at present.

Then there will be the small matter of sleep. I'll struggle. My mind will buzz non-stop; I know exactly what I'm like.

And there is still so much to do – or at least it certainly feels that way.

This is exactly what I hate about travel – the near panic beforehand.

6.51pm: The Other Half is practicing doing up his bow tie while we wait for our cat sitter to call.

He went to collect his suit yesterday and then, once at home in the evening, tried it on – only to find that neither the evening shirt nor evening waistcoat had had 'button' holes put in for the studs. He had to take it back this morning and then go and collect it late this afternoon. But that's sorted now.

Quite a lot more done – but plenty more to do.

I feel as though I'm not going to get everything sorted in time.

20.42pm: finally I'm beginning to feel a bit more relaxed.

Ivan, our cat sitter, called and everything is sorted on that front. Boudicca, who usually runs away when anyone visits, actually came to say 'hello' to him, while the kittens seemed singularly unbothered by the presence of someone 'new' in their home. Indeed, Loki jumped onto the back of the chair he sat in to have a cuppa and sniffed his hair very carefully and closely.

I've managed to eat – and all I have to do now (I think) is polish my boots for tomorrow. Oh, and then have one of those lovely long baths that starts with fiddly jobs such as having a shave.

Who knows – I might even get some sleep tonight. There'll be no trouble rising tomorrow – the moment the light comes up, the furry alarm clocks will be busy trying to rouse us, and me in particular.

Getting a bit demob happy

After a fairly manic week at work, I’m now starting to feel distinctly demob happy.

I spent a rather large portion of the weekend scouring the Time Out guide to Venice and pouring over pictures of the city in another book and online.

As the date for departure nears, it seems ever more of a fairytale place; not quite of this world. And it is increasingly – rather than decreasingly – difficult for me to imagine myself there.

I’m rather surprised at the size of the place – or the lack of it. According to the maps, it’s actually far smaller than I’d ever realised – although you can bet your bottom dollar it’ll still take some time to get use to navigating around.

I am almost ready – well at least I’ve now got everything together for my evening attire on the Orient Express itself.

To complement the £15 M&S dress – long, black, sleeveless and simple – I got a bolero shrug in black lace from ebay for £16 and some Van Dal slingback courts with kitten heels in black patent leather. Then a pair of knot gold earrings and a Swarovski ring to go with the cuff I got a few weeks ago.

I am now of the opinion that nobody – but nobody – will notice the dress itself at all: they’ll simply be blinded by all the bling. I could almost be hypnotised myself by the ring – it catches the light beautifully. The Other Half looked at it, rolled his eyes, and made some snide comment about bling. But who cares? If you look at the sort of things that Tiffany produces, it's just very expensive bling, with actual jewels instead of crystals. The use of 'bling' in a derisive tone is simply snobbery.

The hair has been chopped right back, coloured a rich teaky sort of shade (which also covers all the grey) and styled. I have – miracle of miracles – persuaded The Other Half to actually got to a proper hairdresser tomorrow instead of his usual £6 barber (who does a decent enough job – but never seems to get the crown right).

He has taken to saying things in Italian, making the very most of really rolling every ‘r’.

He will collect his suit tomorrow – and our cat sitter is popping round to collect the keys and meet Otto and Loki on Wednesday evening.

Actually, that’s my biggest concern – how they’ll do with us disappearing for a week. Fortunately, they’ve seen both of us come and go individually for anything from a night to a week since their arrival. And when we’re away, I will miss the cats.

Amazingly, Boudicca is spending more and more time playing with the kittens – although she’s giving off some extraordinarily confused signals: she seems to think that hissing and growling are part of play as well as being genuinely cross.

But she’s now chasing with Otto as well as Loki – and has also been seen to do that sort of high five jumping in the air with each of the kittens.

So they should be able to cope – at least she won’t now be on her own for any length of time. She might still grumble about the kittens, but the lack of boredom behaviour for the last few months is evidence, were any needed, that she really did need some feline interaction.

Lessons in not being underdressed

With his 50th birthday celebratory trip on the Orient Express nearing, The Other Half has gone mad on the sartorial front.

The website proudly proclaims that: "You can never be overdressed on the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express."

Okay.

"The historic decor of the train and its atmosphere encourages everyone to dress to suit the occasion. Dinner provides you with a marvellous opportunity to recreate the style and glamour of a bygone age."

Ahhhh. Glamour. Hepburn, Dietrich, Garbo.

"For evening dinner, many travellers will wear black tie or evening dress. At least as a consideration for your fellow passengers you will need to meet our minimum requirements of a suit and tie for gentlemen and an equivalent standard for ladies. During the day “casual but smart” is the rule. At lunch for instance, gentlemen might wear jacket and tie. At no time during your journey will jeans be acceptable."

Yikes!

Not that I would have been planning to wear jeans, you understand, but there are limits to what I own that constitutes evening dress.

The Other Half decided quickly what he was going to do.

And last week he visited a tailor in the City to be measured for a new suit. To be fair, his previous suit had been ruined by a dry cleaner – he only found out when putting it on for a wedding 18 months ago: I had to dab mascara over the holes so that rather large spots of lining or flesh wouldn't show.

Indeed, he'd only taken it to the cleaner after it got splattered with blood at a family funeral when some distant nephew or other tried to put his fist through a reinforced glass window.

They do things their own way in Yorkshire.

So, off he went to a tailor and ordered a "midnight blue" three-piece suit. He's a sucker for waistcoats.

Then he added another jacket – same material, but this time an evening jacket. Then a tailored dress shirt and a dress waistcoat.

Since then, he'd ordered white braces and white and black bow ties (not clip-on ones).

And there was I hoping to get away with the black, devore Windsmoor kaftan top I snapped up in the John Lewis pre-Christmas sale, plus some decent black trousers. But frankly, if he's determined to dress like an extra in an Agatha Christie period piece, then I'm going to look – and feel – woefully underdressed.

He came up with the answer – or at least part of it. I do have a long black dress. It's not really an evening fabric, but it's incredibly simple and always looks very flattering.

"Why not wear that?" he said.

"It is a £15 summer dress from Marks & Sparks," came my riposte.

"Then dress it up," he retorted. You'd think he was Castleford's answer to Trinny & Susannah.

I have, however, decided to do just that.

Thus far, I have splashed some cash on a Kara Ross gold cuff as a hulking statement piece (everybody will look at that and ignore the £15 dress), while I've picked up a black lacy bolero shrug from ebay for little more than pennies.

I have next to no gold jewelry – I am absolutely NOT wearing the gold coffee bean earrings from Argos that my sister gave me years ago – so I need a ring and some earrings. A visit to John Lewis is on the cards.

I have a very chichi evening bag (small, round, black and with tassels) that a former colleague, who had been a model in her youth, gave me.

Shoes will be the biggest problem. I have awkwardly shaped feet – short and wide, with hereditary hammer toes (The Other Half claims I’m “deformed”) – and absolutely nothing elegant enough.

Obviously I’ll have a hair appointment shortly before the trip (and we’ll go for a rich teaky colour to get rid of the grey), and if I can manage to keep my nails from splintering in the coming month, I’ll have a proper manicure done too. I shall have to give some thought to my make-up – foundation will be essential for once, and I’m wondering whether my usual purples will work best or the current ‘nude’ look.

This might just work. And at least these days I enjoy trying!

Ten years ago, I’d have been in despair. Indeed, in 2000 I was due to attend the Bafta awards ceremony through work, but almost bottled out because I was absolutely convinced that I had nothing appropriate – and matters had not been helped when my boss weighed in, putting on her best New York Jewish princess routine to just ask me nicely not to embarrass the company with my obvious lack of sartorial elegance. Only at the last minute did I manage to get something together and go, after days of panic and feelings of inadequacy.

This’ll be a cakewalk by comparison!

TV serves for a bit of Christmas slobbery

One of the joys of the Christmas holiday, which drew to an end yesterday, was spending hours slumped comfortably in front of the telly.

It's not actually something that I do much of, preferring to read or even spend time playing Age of Mythology on the Mac, where my Norse warriors and their gods get to bash up Greeks and Egyptians and their lightweight deities.

But with the kittens demanding a lot of quality cuddle time, it was easy to sit and gape at the goggle box.

Featuring high on the must-watch list were the final Dr Who episodes with David Tennant in the title role. Oh, I got a bit blubby at the end – although it has to be pointed out that writer Russell T Davies really did milk it, since it was his farewell to the series too.

I was not allowed to watch Dr Who as a child: I've never quite worked out why not, although all sci-fi was on my mother's banned list. It was probably as much because didn't personally like it as anything, although she was also an inveterate snob when it came to television: ITV was there to be avoided as much as possible, including its children's programmes, such as Magpie.

It was only when we got cable some years ago and one of the 'gold' channels started re-showing old Dr Who episodes that I started to watch and enjoy it. By the time RTD brought the Doctor back to our screens, I was ready to watch, with at least some knowledge of what had gone before. I enjoyed the Christopher Ecclestone ones, but Tennant was the best – he's even now overtaken the blissfully barking Tom Baker as my favourite Doctor.

And I also step beyond the accepted attitudes in that Donna Noble has been my favourite assistant – and I'm not a fan of Catherine Tate. We shall see what comes next.

But on a sci-fi theme, cable channel FX has been re-running Babylon 5. I have the entire five series on DVD, but have only watched a few favourite episodes in recent years. It used to be a passion of mine, but I've sometimes wondered whether the changes in me over the last decade would have changed that.

Wonderfully, watching it sequentially again – but with the knowledge of what the entire story arc is about – it's clear that it really is still a superb series. As season two progressed, G'Kar and Londo in particular started developing into such wonderful characters, with almost classical qualities and depths to them.

TV sci-fi seems to be a peculiar ghetto, where some very fine 'character' actors find their only encounter with stardom and fame. It was very much for the case for Andreas Katsulus, who played G'Kar (and who sadly died almost two years ago). He'd worked with seminal theatre director and innovator Peter Brook for years, yet in film, nobody really seemed to know how to utilise his talents. Being of Greek descent, he spent part of his film career playing general 'swarthy' types, plus the one-armed man in the film version of The Fugitive, before J Michael Straczynski cast him in B5, where his theatre training and wonderful voice helped him create a wonderful character.

The show was special at the time for having a single core story, told over five seasons – an arc. It remains good because the characterisation was good – and because the plot is dense and interesting and full of some really classic themes.

One of the other televisual treats of the holiday was a veritable flood of Poirot, with David Suchet showing how it should be played. No, it's not intellectually challenging TV, but it is good entertainment.

There was also a showing for the 1974 film of Murder on the Orient Express. I hadn't seen it for years, but with a trip on the train itself booked for March, a viewing was essential. I'd forgotten – or perhaps I'd never really realised – how dismal it is.

It's all well and good spending loads on a stellar cast – and it is – but it looked as though the only direction from Sidney Lumet had been for everyone to aim way OTT, and then add a bit more for good measure. Albert Finney was dire as Poirot – all shouting and crass mannerisms. And Finney – like many of the others here – is a good actor. But heaven alone knows how he came to be Oscar nominated for this performance – even the woefully miscast Peter Ustinov was better as the little detective.

I switched off in disappointment. At least there was Suchet to make up for such a let down.

But that, together with some sport, was about it – even if it constituted a TV binge by my standards. And now, in the new year, it's time to get back to some reading.

Beginning to relax

It was around 9.30am this morning, after I'd stretched deeply in bed and let my body sink back once more that The Other Half observed: "You're all relaxed now Christmas Day is over."

Well, it's not quite that simple: I felt relaxed last night, after dinner was finished. And then we'd also decided, given that the living is still knee deep in wrapping paper and a box that's large enough for kittens to be able to jump in and out of, not to shut them in that room, with food and litter tray, for the night. Boudicca has been objecting anyway for the last few nights – objecting at least to an internal door being shut.

They did wonderfully well on the first night in their new home where they could ramble around if they so wished. Both came to bed at various points and licked and nuzzled and kneeded us. And Otto slept for a while on my arm. And none of this really seemed to bother her majesty, who is looking more and more relaxed with each passing day.

Christmas Day – well, Christmas morning – wore them out. Boxes and paper are just perfect for kitten fun. After something like three hours of lunacy, they curled up to sleep it all off. It was a joy to watch them.

St Delia of Norwich had been right – lists (and then more lists – do help. This was probably my most organised and, therefore, easy, Christmas Day catering thus far.

I even bothered to do something I haven't done since the last time I spent Christmas with my parents – showered, blow-dried my hair and dressed in tidy fashion, before breakfasting on thin toast and goose foie gras with truffle.

There is an element of truth to The Other Half's observation. Although he'd forgotten that I've also been getting up fairly early this last week to feed kittens. With their way unblocked, if they were really hungry, they could find Boudi's food in the kitchen.

But yes, it's my big cooking event of the year and it might only be for the two of us, but I like to get it right. And whilst obviously I create the meal with more than half an eye to The Other Half's tastes, he's never set me any targets to achieve – I set those for myself.

The menu was, I'm delighted to report, well balanced. The salad of thinly sliced fennel, red onion and orange was made an hour before eating, and because it wasn't leaves, I dressed it then too. The dressing was supposed to be red wine vinegar, virgin oil, Dijon mustard and honey. However, I'd forgotten to pick up any Dijon, so some made Coleman's had to do. And when I'd gone to reach for the red wine vinegar, it was to find a sediment in it. So I substituted with raspberry wine vinegar. No sacrifice there, methinks. Indeed, the dressing proved zingy and fresh – a success, I thought.

Part two of this culinary epic was roast sirloin of beef. I'd started that off with a quartered onion under the meat (thank you, Nigella) and with plain flour patted into the fat on top (Delia again). A bit of a mare to carve, but lovely meat. It was served with a "confit" of whole shallots and garlic cloves, which had been simmered merrily for an hour in red wine and raspberry wine vinegar (again, the emergency substitution did no harm to the taste). That again was Delia – although research in my copy of Larousse this afternoon, while prepping today's sauce, showed me that it was not a confit: that is specifically a way of preserving meat (hence duck confit, which is stored and preserved in duck fat). But that's not to say that it wasn't gorgeous.

I'd done a few roast potatoes and a few sprouts – sautéed and steamed – and we opened a very decent bottle of red wine, having started with a glass of chilled white Banyuls, brought back from Collioure in September, as an apéritif. I'd managed a little gravy for the meat and, all in all, I was pretty satisfied.

And so to the sweet: the pear tarts baked in 17 minutes and were lovely – moist fruit and perfectly crisp pastry. The stem ginger ice cream – my first ever attempt at ice cream, and without an ice cream maker – was, though I say so myself, excellent (thanks again, Delia). The Other Half has already started hinting about making more ice cream – particularly vanilla, his favourite. Somewhere in the back of mind is an idea that more exotic possibilities exist.

We exchanged gifts. It's The Other Half's half century next month, and after seeing a TV documentary on the subject, I'd booked us a March trip on the Orient Express to Venice, where we'll spend five nights. So I'd piled in to Christmas by buying him books about Venice itself and a DVD about the train. There was a new lens for me, plus photography books.

And then it was the pleasure of flopping in front of the TV. Dr Who proved excellent entertainment (my mother never let us watch sci-fi, so this is a recently acquired taste, thanks initially to re-runs on cable) and then the newest Poirot on ITV, with the wonderful David Suchet as the eponymous Belgian detective, and a really rather chubby Tim Curry as an archeologist and peer of the realm. What happened to the Tim who flounced around in basque and stockings, pouting at the camera in The Rocky Horror Picture Show?

It was, as you might have gathered, a most pleasant day.

But yes – now the rather more serious relaxation can begin.