Visitors' Book
The mound of citrus fruits was so abundant. Naturally I ate many of them within the first 48 hours and there were none left towards the end of the week. Every day I would look to see if the citrus fruit mountain had been refreshed, but it hadn’t, and I suppose this is the only negative feedback that I feel compelled to share with you.
I don’t necessarily think that there should be a never-ending supply of citrus fruits or that I deserve to eat as many citrus fruits as I like, only that someone had seen me eating the citrus fruits and warned me that if I ate them all today that there would be none tomorrow.
There were baked apples for pudding on the first evening and they were stuffed with dried fruits and nuts and butter and sugar. In the morning I saw there were some left over and I put one in a bowl and dolloped yoghurt onto it and went back to my room to eat it. But it was very cold and the butter had solidified so I accidentally ate a spoonful of very sweet, hard butter, which was NOT good.
I shared a chocolate hobnob with a robin. I ate the chocolate and then I crumbled the biscuit into the frozen grass for the robin.
Usually my brain goes like this: ‘The baby! The baby! The baby!’ But in the middle of the Devon countryside far away from him and with no phone reception my brain started to do this: ‘……………’
Since I’ve been home I have forgotten to eat a couple of times, which is normal.
At New Year my friend and I were swapping war stories about food and about being an adolescent girl. I told her that I used to hide food. ‘But I never had an eating disorder,’ I said. ‘Me, neither,’ she said, and then we laughed hysterically.
I think keeping sable grapes in the fridge is a very accessibly luxurious thing to do. I cut them in half for the baby. ‘He’s very picky, which is disappointing,’ I tell someone, to which he replies ‘He is only a year old.’
Today he had two potato waffles for lunch, and some cold sable grapes.
Yesterday my boyfriend and I went to get vaccinated together. The pharmacist’s name was Antonino and according to the certificates behind his head he also did Botox. The injection was quite painful but I pretended it was fine. ‘I can tell you now,’ Antonino said, after we were done, ‘that typhoid is the most painful injection.’ I was grateful to Antonino for telling us that, so that we could be proud of ourselves. For the rest of the day we complained about how much our arms hurt, and then we ate a whole roast brill.