Tomorrow's tea

(since there's a good chance I'll be too drunk to write about it) will be big dogs' cocks and spicy tiger turd in blackhead sauce. There's a picture of it on the front of the paperback edition of The Kitchen Diaries. I'm sure my guest will be delighted. It sound delicious. Like any good recipe, it's on the internet. It will be washed down with whatever beer's on at The Famous Royal Oak, a pub I've not been in for years.  Don't tell me you haven't heard of it. It's famous.
Tonight's tea, on the other hand, is the bits of last night's leftovers I don't need for tomorrow's lunch. With no booze, once again. The secret to the twelve-step programme is to keep the bottles 15 steps away, I find.
Today, finally, the black millionaire's (millionaires'? Depends how hungry they are.) shortbread got eaten, and it went down well, luckily. I've been commissioned to make a cake for someone else on the back of it. Best find my cake tin. In the meantime, check out them tats.

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