I could get used to this

We are graced with another four day weekend, easy as you like, just after the Easter one. The three days in between at work aren't so bad at all, half of London seems to be away, the tube is deserted in the mornings and there are no crushes at the bar for post-work drinks. Tuesday night is boy-I've-missed-this yoga (used to go regularly, haven't for a good few years now) with WI, Wednesday finds us in a Bavarian beer hall, Thursday eating Mexican on Charlotte Street followed by late night at the Wellcome Collection and the Dirt exhibition, fascinating, truly. Friday we do watch the wedding, at a friend's, with blueberry muffins, Buck's fizz, bagels. I get sucked in, sort of, love the dress, love the English grown bouquet, but still do not wholly buy into the argument that Britain needs a royal family, especially when they start to bus in all the minor royals. In the evening M and I take ourselves up to Primrose Hill, sit and watch the city as the sun goes down, then dust ourselves off and head into town for dinner, cocktails, making use of the city's apparent emptiness to eat at Dishoom (no reservations taken, have had to wait for an hour one Friday night in the past) followed by drinks at the Experimental Cocktail Club (more soon). Saturday I head to Norfolk for Dad's birthday, eat cake baked by S, devour asparagus. Mini mojito cupcakes, dusted with lime sugar, for a friend's birthday barbecue back in London on Sunday, Pimms, the smell of charred meat. Monday is blissfully lazy, a late start, brunch at Latana with Anna, a mosey round Foyles. A wander through Soho and then, because my capacity to eat has done nothing if not increase since getting back from NYC, a cinnamon bun from the Nordic Bakery which M and I eat in the sunshine in Golden Square, golden indeed filled as it is with bright yellow flowers, bun still warm from the oven, crisp outside, doughy within, cinnamon drenched, sticky fingers. We head to Regent's Park, to embrace the last of the day's sunshine, a bit of a battle with the wind at this point, but heck, we're British, poke our noses into the wonderful, hidden, St John's Lodge Garden, all tea roses and white wisteria, before heading, regretfully, home.

I fear next weekend is going to feel horribly foreshortened after these last two.