I am so full, I don’t think I can eat another thing before ACTUAL Christmas Dinner.
Last night, despite the snowdrift, I managed to make it up and across town, to the Maestro’s lavish Chiswick pad for a Christmas dinner/partay. Armed with a bottle of red and a stylish ensemble that matched my wellies, I set off, and arrived only about twenty minutes later than I would have done if there was no white stuff.
Take that weather man! Snowed in? As if. Fabulousness doesn’t stop just because there’s a couple of inches of slush on the ground!
I arrived at around 6.30, and was greeted with a ‘Christmas Shot’. I soon deduced that the Maestro and his flatmates had been drinking since around midday. There’s a recipe for a successful meal! One unfortunate individual with a hefty derriere, knocked a champagne flute over and glass shards scattered all over the kitchen floor. A simple task to clean up you say? In this house? In the Maestro’s words…
‘Where the fuck does the cleaner keep the dustpan and brush?!’
The Matador’s job was the turkey. He took this role very seriously. No one was allowed to even LOOK at the turkey, lest they soak up some of it’s juices through their eyeballs.
The Weasley’s job was everything that went with the turkey. He did very well – amazing veggies, honey roasted parsnips, crispy roast potatoes and a very respectable attempt at a festive risotto for me, the lone and difficult vegetarian in the corner.
The Maestro’s job, after swanning around looking fabulous dressed in a Christmas apron and repeating ‘I wanted to get a chef in, but they wouldn’t let me you know’, was the wine cellar.
There were three of these. One, where you may expect, in the kitchen. Here lived twelve bottles of red and an extensive collection of spirits. Despite actually being a drinks cart in the middle of the kitchen, the Maestro showed remarkable commitment by miming ‘heading downstairs to the cellar’ every single time any one needed a top up.
Now, as the fridge was stuffed with food already, he had needed to be a bit more creative when it came to the mixers, six bottles of white, two bottles of rose and the obligatory bottle of prosecco. The answer? Put them on the window sill of course. One outside the dining room, one outside the bathroom. Three floors up. In West London. In the middle of a blizzard.
Three courses and three Christmas karaoke CD’s later, a fleet of cars show up (lord only knows how the rest of London can’t even manage to hail a cab in the snow and the Maestro books five at once) ready to ferry us back to various parts of the Arctic.
The Maestro leaves me with these – completely irrelevant but hilarious all the same – words of wisdom;
‘Sticks and stones may break my bones… but fuck it. I’ve got BUPA.’
RitziC and the crazies of London Town x