Quiet and full of free time, it's the most organised Christmas ever

The run up to Christmas is, usually, crazed. There's that inevitable surge of work before the holidays, paired with the round of unmissable work related parties and the need to see all your friends before they disappear home for the holidays.

Being off on sick leave transforms things. No mania, no business. Quiet. Enormous stretches of sleep. (The side effects from the first chemo treatment have mostly been exhaustion. Far worse has been a bad cold with chesty cough that settled in on the 12th and is still hanging in there.) I am more organised on the holiday front than at any time in my life.

Decorations were up around the house by the 1st. I bought my last Christmas present on the 15th. I baked eight varieties of Christmas cookies: pignoli (an Italian macaroon-like disk

topped with pine nuts); cherry biscotti; chocolate chip; sugar-free chocolate chip; white

chocolate and macadamia nut; raisin bars

(using the recipe from the Party Pastry Shop in Chesterfield, Mo.); gingerbread; rolled vanilla shaped by cookie cutters. The

last two formed the basis of a cookie decorating evening with my godson Sacha and his siblings, before we settled into a more grown up dinner with his parents.

The cookies formed half of our home-crafted Christmas gifts. The other half was alcoholic. Inspired by those infused rums we tasted in Mauritius, Piers and I decided to play around with infused alcohols. We made apple and cinnamon flavoured vodka, vanilla rum, bramble gin (infused with blackberries, blueberries, damsons and a bit of rhubarb) and Tuscan vodka (infused with sun-dried tomatoes, basil and a bit of lemon).

I also messed about with candle making, but couldn't get those to a quality I was satisfied with giving away. There lies a continuing craft project for the winter. A project, by the way, that already makes me appreciate why good scented candles are so expensive. Unlike the alcohol, the DIY option here is no big cost saver.

Having reached these levels of domestic goddess-dom, I turned to my computer and did something I've been meaning to for years: a detailed Christmas card spreadsheet. Track what's come in, what's gone out. Track annually, eliminating sending cards to anyone from whom you haven't received in two consecutive years despite your mailing to them. Sound theory, though I think I've finally gotten around to this level of organisation as the tradition dies. 68 sent, 27 received. I'll continue the traditional approach for one more year before I consider transitioning yet another aspect of life online.

Christmas Eve brought lows and highs. My hair started coming out in great handfuls. Exactly between two and three weeks after the first treatment, as the books said. Fortunately, Ferrara hair is so thick that we can loose a lot of it before showing any impact, getting me to midnight mass looking normal. Bef0re church, however, we went for a nice meal.

Finding a restaurant open on Christmas Eve is a challenge. My top two options near church were closed, by next booked. We ended up at the Thomas Cubitt, an upscale gastropub I'd enjoyed at a business dinner a couple of years ago. (See 9.12.08) It's a classic English menu, with presentation and fine touches taken up several notches. Highlights were my scallop and black pudding starter and our mains: pork belly for Piers and a succulent venison for me. Piers Mum reported her salmon Wellington good but a bit overcooked. Desserts of chocolate fondant, Christmas pudding and cheese board all looked good and tasted fine, though not exceptional. The upstairs dining room is a beautiful space. Classically Georgian with plaster moulding, fireplace and sash windows overlooking Elizabeth street, it's painted in a soft grey and decorated with black and white photos of the legacy of Thomas Cubitt, architect and master builder of the mid-Victorian age. An fine choice for this area, keeping up the quality I found on my first visit, but not value for money. Three courses, two vegetable sides, one bottle of wine, one glass of house red, three glasses of port ... £70 per person. About £10 past what I thought the meal was worth.

Oh well, it was Christmas. And the five minute dash to church from there meant that we got excellent seats for the spectacle of midnight mass. First, candlelight carols. The golden altar looked magnificent, glittering beneath the brass chandelier and the towering candlesticks. More delightful for me than the carols themselves, which combined several I didn't know with three traditional ones that are sung to different melodies in the UK. A lovely concert but, for me, missing the joyful ability to sing along. The drama kicked it up a notch with the procession of the clergy ... 10 on the altar for the big night ... and a dramatic ringing of hand bells when the main lights were thrown on. The highest of high masses followed, featuring Haydn's St. Nicholas Mass, a ceremonial laying of Christ in the manger and our vicar, Father David, handing out chocolates at the door afterwards. A nice mix of drama and community.

We spent Christmas ... our first together ... at home alone. We exchanged gifts, watched TV, rested and indulged

ourselves. Piers took on cooking duties and serving up a very Danish meal, with home-cured gravad lax followed by duck with bilberry sauce, red cabbage and fondant potatoes. A few luxury cheeses, ending with slices of our wedding cake (which has been preserved in rum since September) and port.

We emerged from our solitude for a family Boxing Day lunch at my brother-in-law's in Putney, for which I got to contribute the dessert.

I opted for Heaven and Hell cake, the signature recipe of Dallas' master chef Stephen Pyles. It's a layered concoction of angel food cake, devil's food

cake and peanut butter mousse, iced with chocolate ganache. Not difficult, but not for the time constrained. I counted no less than six hours of prep time. Another sweet consequence of this season's bonus of free time.

Da Vinci exhibit deserves its accolades; not just for the paintings, but for context and big picture

Museum exhibitions can change lives. At least in the Ferrara family.

A touring collection of treasures from the Vatican museums in mymother's childhood (sent out to raise money for restorations after the trauma of WWII) set her on a firm path as an artist and art historian. During my senior year at university, I couldn't afford to get to Washington for The Treasure Houses of Britain exhibition. Later, descriptions of the show and its contents set a blueprint for holidays that eventually led to me settling in England. I suspect Leonardo Da Vinci: Painter at the Court of Milan will have life-changing effects on many. It is certainly a show that deserves the much overused accolade of "blockbuster".

This is the biggest show in London this year, and in recent memory. Its claim to fame is bringing together more Da Vinci paintings than have ever been on view in one place before. Given how few he actually finished, there's a good proportion of his work here.

For me, there were three specific highlights.

1. The Lady with the Ermine (Cecilia Gallerani). An incredibly famous work I never thought I'd see, as she lives in Krakow. More on her in a moment.
2. The two versions of the Virgin of the Rocks, one from the Louvre and ours from the National Gallery (below on the left, recently cleaned and restored to dramatic effect). I'd seen both of them before, but being able to stand between them and compare and contrast is fascinating.


3. A full-sized copy of the Last Supper done by one of Leonardo's pupils before the original started to deteriorate. I didn't even know this existed. It is supposed to be a remarkably accurate copy, giving you a sense of the colours, expressions and details that would have been in the original.

Curators are likely to add a fourth here: the revelation of a newly-authenticated, previously unknown Da Vinci called Salvator Mundi (saviour of the world, as in, a portrait of Jesus). It is fascinating, and interesting, but was a bit of an anti-climax for me after the aspects above. And even if it is by the master, it doesn't have the emotional depth and other-worldly beauty of some of the other pieces.

Despite the superlative of "most in one place ever", there are only nine of Leonardo's paintings here. For two ... both the Salvator Mundi and the Madonna Litta from the Hermitage ... the attribution is questionable. So how do you build a whole show around so few paintings, and make sure the punters get their money's worth? Adult tickets were almost £20, which is lofty.

Here's where you have to give the curators some real respect. Leonardo was as prolific with his sketching pencil as he was frugal with his paintbrush, and thanks to the Royal Collection and the British Museum, a large proportion of those sketches can be borrowed from resources just up the artistic road.

Thus in each room we have one or two of the masterpieces, surrounded by related sketches and works by Leonardo's pupils. It helps us to understand what drove the great man, how he

worked and how he influenced all of artistic life at the Sforza court.

The best illustration of this is the room anchored by two gorgeous portraits. One, La Belle Feronniere, is probably Ludovico Sforza's wife Beatrice d'Este. The other, the aforementioned Lady with the Ermine, is his 16-year-old mistress.

In both cases, Leonardo was more concerned with creating an ideal beauty than depicting reality. (And, frankly, both of these portraits are far more spectacularly beautiful than the Mona Lisa.) In the series of sketches we see not only how he created perfection with the women, with obsessive studies to find the perfect finger, forehead or

eyebrow line, but even how he applied his composite approach to the ermine.

A symbol of the Sforzas, having Cecilia hold one marked her as Ludovico's. Thus Da Vinci needed an idealised animal: strong, handsome, noble, sexual. We see sketches of dogs' paws, and a gorgeou

s study of a bear's head, all used to

create a gorgeous creature that's half ermine, half mythical beast and entirely memorable. I suspect Ludovico was pleased.

The approach is particularly effective with the true-to-life-sized copy of the Last Supper. I have been lucky enough to see the real thing three times and, frankly, seeing this copy and all the sketches was a lot more impressive. This is not to take anything away from Da Vinci or the valiant curatorial team at Santa Maria delle Grazie. It is a masterpiece. But it's a faded wreck, and the copy is a vivid glory. It hangs dramatically over the gallery, while all around you can see Leonardo's specific studies for different apostles' heads, feet and movements. It is a masterstroke of curation.

There is something beyond painting in the best of Da Vinci's work. Stand before the National Gallery's Virgin of the Rocks, pristine in is new restoration, gaze into the angel's face, and the room disappears. You don't sense people or the architecture around you, or the painting's frame, or even the rest of the scene. You're simply drawn in by that face, more beautiful and serene than anything in your real life. That, of course, is the point of both devotional paintings and idealised portraiture, but few artists really achieve it. Leonardo's work transports you to another reality.

If you don't already have tickets for this exhibition, I'm afraid you're unlikely to get in. All tickets through its close on 5 February are sold out. There are a handful of tickets released each day on a first come, first served basis, but the news reports people are queuing for three hours or more and they sell out quickly every day. Is this a show worth sleeping in a cold and rainy Trafalgar Square for? Quite possibly. I, for one, am glad I responded to the National Gallery's marketing and booked in June. In this case, advanced planning paid fine dividends.

Lion in Winter and First Actresses make fine theatrical-themed holiday treats

Theatre is one of the exceptional glories of London. I'm not talking opera, ballet or musicals (though there are plenty of those), but proper plays, well produced and often anchored by stars of global renown. It is a point of guilty regret that I only seem to get to one of these a year.

The show that got me to the box office in 2011? The Lion in Winter. Its film adaptation would be one of my "desert island videos", and though I was aware it was based on a stage play, I'd never had

a chance to see it live. The Theatre Royal Haymarket indulged me, and all other fans of cutting wit and verbal repartee, with a revival anchored by Robert Lindsay and Joanna Lumley.

This is the ultimate dysfunctional family story; a very modern exploration of damaged relationships set in a distant past. It's 1183. Henry II gathers his family for Christmas. He's cobbled together the greatest empire since Charlemagne, but he's troubled by who will follow and the legacy he'll leave. Joining him is his wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine, once his great love match but now a political enemy held prisoner for a decade because she backed a rebellion against him. They each have different ideas

about who should take the throne next. Eleanor supporting the eldest, Richard, Henry backs baby John and nobody supports clever middle son Geoffrey. A parental division which, of course, puts all the sons at each others' throats while making them distrust their parents. Joining this tense gathering is the young king of France, who's elder half-sister has grown up in the English court, betrothed to Richard since she was seven but who is now Henry's mistress. In one intense, 24-hour period plans rise and fall, alliances change, secrets are revealed and relationships falter.

What makes The Lion in Winter so special to me is the sparkling writing. This could have been a straightforward, tense, dark, drama. But it's a glitteringly clever comedy, too, with all those moments of sharp passion cut by wry one-liners. (Eleanor, after a particularly bitter confrontation during which all the relationships have imploded painfully, shrugging her shoulders and saying "oh well, all families have their ups and downs.")

It's brave actors who even consider following in the footsteps of Richard Harris and Katherine Hepburn in the film version. Though not quite as good as their mighty predecessors, Lindsay and Lumley have the talent to carve their own identity on the roles. I've been a Lumley fan since her Ab Fab days and have an enormous respect for the travel programmes and political campaigns she appears in as herself. But I'd never had the chance to see her on stage. She was a more flirtatious Eleanor than Hepburn, who was all iron. Lumley's portrayal offered more of the feminine wiles that covered the master politician. Lindsay, on the other hand, I'd seen in a great version of Richard III in 1999, when I first discovered his tremendous range. (He's known more as a comic TV actor here, but his dramatic heft is impressive.) They each capture the sense of ageing without grace that's so essential to the characters, and make the love/hate relationship between them entirely credible.

It was only after seeing the play that I read the reviews, which are universally poor. Crit

icisms of facial expressions and costuming I can't agree or disagree with; we were in the balcony. But from there, everything looked fine. All of the reviewers bashed the play itself, and several used its likeness to Blackadder as a criticism. And there's the difference. It's precisely because this is Blackadder turned serious drama that I love it. So I'll leave you to make your own decision from there. If you're a fan of historical drama, wit and clever banter, it's on 'til 28 January.

Just around the corner at the National Portrait Gallery is another theatrical treat. The First Actresses: Nell Gwynn to Sarah Siddons gathers together the depictions ... many of them quite famous ... of the actresses that rose to prominence on the London stage from the first legalisation of female acting in the Restoration through the Regency period. As ever with the NPG, while portraits are the visual fodder, the exhibition explanations and catalog help you to understand life stories, and through them, the times themselves.

Acting was a scandalous profession, something no fine lady would consider, and yet the stories revealed here make it clear it was packed with vivacious, intelligent, powerful wo

men. Women who channeled their exceptional charisma into acting then, but might have easily been politicians or corporate executives as much as media stars today. Though they may not have been considered "good" society, most had fascinating lives, and they certainly didn't all have bad ends.

We start with Nell Gwynn, who ended up a popular mistress of Charles II and, through him, matriarch of two English aristocratic families. (They're still around. I once spent an evening knocking back port in a cellar with one of them.) Another aristocratic line comes from the union of William IV and Dorothy Jordan, whose three dramatic portraits here leave you no doubt that she was gorgeous and interesting. While her royal children did well she ended sad and strapped for cash; she'd stayed faithful to her lover, but when he became king he was forced to put her aside, after more than a decade, and marry. Mary Robinson (pictured here in Hoppner's famous work), was also known as "Perdita" from one of her more famous roles, did slightly better after briefly being the mistress of William's brother George IV when he was a prince. She went on to be a poet, playwright and respected authority on the Georgian arts scene.

In fact, most of the women in this exhibition did fairly well for themselves. Some married into the industry and retired to management (Elizabeth Ann Linley, who married the playwright Sheridan). Some were so alluring they got the full marital prize from their admirers. Lavinia Fenton became the Duchess of Bolton, Elizabeth Farren the Countess of Derby. Sarah Siddons, after locking her reputation as the finest tragic actress on the London stage, went on to become tutor to George IIIs daughters. Her full length portrait here is as dignified and stately as any Jane Austen heroine. Of course, there are the tragic young deaths, a few addictions and plenty of sexual impropriety on display as well. A fascinating preview of our modern age, as is the cabinet of little statuettes of the actresses in some of their leading roles, and the display of first editions of their memoirs. Clearly, the cult of celebrity is nothing new.

The show spreads over just four galleries and, like most NPG shows, isn't very crowded. There are exhibition catalogs scattered on benches throughout, allowing you to linger, read the stories of the various women, look into their engaging faces and speculate on what they were really like. This show is a lot less known, but a heck of a lot easier to get into, than the far more famous exhibit around the corner. That's coming next.

A lot of tradition and a few gourmet touches mean a Thanksgiving unlikely to be repeated

Last entry I wrote that eight courses, with balance and discretion, can leave you feeling light and energised. At the opposite end of this spectrum we have Thanksgiving, where just a few courses can leave you feeling like you've swallowed lead weights and need a nap immediately. Still, it had to be done.

As I establish the routines of my married life, there are a handful of traditions, some family and some American, I'm passionate about keeping alive. At the top of this list is Thanksgiving. You don't realise just how wonderful this holiday is until you move to a country without it. A day specifically set aside to count your blessings and give thanks for them. A holiday filled with family and friends, but without the pressure of gifts or excessive decoration. A formal start to the Christmas season.

These things have nothing to do with food, and yet the procession of dishes required at the table is as formulaic as the words of a church service.

It's just not Thanksgiving without ...

If you're American born and bred, you'll end this sentence with three or four essential dishes. (In addition to the turkey, of course.) While the basic components are the same, every region and every family has its own culinary traditions, without which the holiday would not be complete. Americans have no problem with variety at Christmas, but don't mess with the Thanksgiving menu!

We had six friends over, and I wanted to produce a classic Midwestern, Ferrara/Wallemann family table. The dishes I grew up with.

Five things strike you immediately when putting together this particular meal instead of our typical dinner party:

1. The predominant elements of the Thanksgiving menu are starch and sugar. Nobody planning a balanced meal would ever whip this up.
2. The number of side dishes is wildly out of proportion with the mains.
3. Traditional Thanksgiving recipes rely heavily on processed food products (Libby's tinned pumpkin, French's fried potatoes, Karo syrup, tinned sweet potato) that are hard to find here, requiring specialist sourcing or timely work-arounds.
4. Turkey is a rare bird here. Forget the loss-leader approach, where you get your free 20-pound Butterball when you spend $200 at Schucks. You can't even find frozen turkeys here outside of Christmas, which forces you to order birds direct from specialist farms. Making this menu far more expensive than the typical dinner party.
5. Thanksgiving is usually a pot luck affair, with everyone bringing a dish. It's actually a hell of a lot of work if you're doing it all yourself. But you can't really ask the Brits to bring anything, because they aren't familiar with the traditional recipes.

I write this last point as a reminder to myself for next year. I've rolled out all the traditional dishes once. Next time, I'll be doing a Thanksgiving-themed dinner party instead, with more balance, fewer sides and a lot less work. But for the inaugural Thanksgiving in the Piers Bencard household, I think we can proclaim a success.

So what featured in this Midwestern feast? Guests nibbled on crab dip and cheese and sausage balls as everyone gathered. The latter is always a big hit, simply mixing Bisquick with cheese and cooked sausage, pressing into bite sized balls and baking. No Bisquick in this country, however, so there's the first of the "convenience" recipes that took extra time.

My first course brought one of the three gourmet twists I incorporated into the meal: peanut soup. Most Midwestern Thanksgivings aren't formal enough to get a first course. You nibble on appetisers in the kitchen until the buffet is laid, then fill your plate in one go. But I thought that might be a step too casual for the Brits (and certainly for my husband), and I like an excuse to get out my massive but rarely-used Portmeirion soup tureen. The soup recipe is from the King's Arms pub in Williamsburg and, I think, really gets at the soul of colonial America.

Next, to the main event. Second gourmet touch: brining the turkey. We normally just slathered the bird with butter and threw it in the oven, or on the Weber. A bird as expensive as most Americans' grocery bill for the entire Thanksgiving meal needed special care and attention. Taking Saveur magazine's regional holiday guide to heart, I chose their Midwestern recipe for cider- and sage-brined turkey. The night before cooking, you boil up cider, sage, salt and sugar into a solution, add more water and plunge the turkey into it overnight. Some chemical magic takes place to make the bird retain moisture and take in the subtle flavour of the sage. I don't know whether it was the brining, or the rare breed, but this was the best turkey to ever grace a Ferrara Thanksgiving table.

Alongside, we were in deeply traditional territory. The family stuffing: an everything-but-the-kitchen sink hybrid of Wallemann and Ferrara recipes, blending stale bread with wild rice, toasted pecans, sausage, apples and herbs for a side dish that's a meal in itself. Sweet potato crisp from the Blue Owl in Kimmswick, Missouri. A dead simple mix of tinned sweet potatoes and cream cheese, topped with chopped apples and cranberries, then an oatmeal, sugar and butter crumble. Made a lot more complicated in a country without the tins, forcing you to roast and prep the potatoes in advance. Which, I have to admit, made for a much better dish that wasn't so cloyingly sweet, though my husband still found it rather pointless. The classic mushroom soup and green bean casserole. (Vile. What a way to ruin both green beans and fried onions, proclaimed the love of my life.) Spinach loaf. Frozen, drained spinach mixed with butter, pine nuts, basil and eggs and banged into a loaf pan to cook, then cut and served in slices. Much to my surprise, Mr. B quite liked this one. Mashed potatoes. Cranberry Sauce. Sheila came up with two cans of the jellied stuff ... another unobtainable, foreign item here ... and I made my usual from scratch with orange and port.

Dessert brought my final gourmet innovation. Ferraras are content with pumpkin pies with a bit of Cool Whip on top. We need nothing else to mess with the purity of this delight. But most Europeans only try pumpkin pie grudgingly (see 29.11.08) and Cool Whip is both unobtainable, and would be considered an abomination by residents of this land of premium dairy products. I thought wider variety on the dessert plate was in order. Though pumpkin was essential, and we made the trip into John Lewis' food halls in London to get the requisite tins of Libby's. The final dish ... which I'm kicking myself I didn't photograph ... was a deep, individual pumpkin tart baked in a mini brioche mould, topped with a scoop of home-made pumpkin ice cream, accompanied by a wedge of chocolate pecan pie. There were few remnants to scrap off plates.

And thus the first Thanksgiving in my marital home passes to memory. What have I to be thankful for since last year? Friends and family, as ever. For a husband who, even though I didn't meet him to my mid 40s, was worth the wait. For a wonderful wedding that went to plan and a honeymoon that was the trip of a lifetime. For a secure job in a frightening economy. For my mother slipping away easily and painlessly with friends around her. For the remarkable medical imaging equipment that found my cancer and, once again, is allowing early treatment that will prevent its spread. Perhaps most important, that last one. Because I have a lot more Thanksgivings stretching ahead to plan.

Bath Priory delivers great spa deal and dinner to make memories

Rarely does 24 hours go by on the Bencard TV without the appearance of a celebrity chef. We love them all, but pay special attention when Michael Caines turns up.

He has all the usual creds ... Michelin stars (two, at Gidleigh Park in Devon), impressive training (a protege of Raymond Blanc), does great takes on the classics and has an engaging, easy-going way with the camera. What makes Caines worthy of special attention is something he rarely talks about, but you can't fail to notice. He's missing his right arm.

He was already a rising culinary star when he lost it in a car accident. You'd think that would be a career-ender for a chef. But he was back in the kitchen in weeks, transferring knife skills to his left hand and learning how to make the most of his prosthesis. And from there to one of the top five chefs in the UK. He's the kind of person who reminds you that "I can't" shouldn't be part of the human vocabulary.

Caines is the executive chef at The Bath Priory, meaning that while he doesn't run this kitchen, he supervises the menus and staff and sent his No. 2, Sam Moody, up from Gidleigh Park to run things. While the place doesn't have a Michelin star yet, it's now the top ranked restaurant in Bath and 45th in the country, according to the latest Sunday Times and Harden's guide. Common sense said we really couldn't afford to sleep at the Priory (a luxury Relais and Chateaux loca

tion), but we decided to make splashing out on dinner there our treat of the weekend.

But first ... the spa

The last thing I expected was a deal. However, online comparison showed the spa here to be far better value for money than the Bath Thermae, and we assumed (rightly) that the small, boutique luxury hotel location would give us a quiet, intimate experience. The half day package, with a one-hour treatment and use of the rest of the facilities, is £75 on weekdays. Including, critically, Friday afternoons. If you want a longer treatment (which we all did), you can just pay the difference.

The spa is small but beautifully appointed and well managed. The comfortably heated pool is perhaps 16 feet wide and 30 long; not large, but big enough for a few laps and lounging. There's a bay on one side with jacuzzi jets, beautifully positioned to look out the French doors onto the formal English gardens. Designers have managed to pull off a fine balance of traditional and modern.

That garden view and the Cotswold stone paving say olde England, the long, thin, brown and black streaked tiles, artwork, grey and black loungers and curving walls with glass insets scream of the latest design. There's a round, free-standing steam room with benches of tiny, sparkling tiles lit by mellow coloured lights. I am normally not a fan ... wet saunas remind me too much of summer in St. Louis ... but here the steam was permeated with eucalyptus, clearing out the nasal passages and bringing a sense of well-being to your whole body. There's a large dry sauna behind this.

The treatment rooms are in a different building, requiring a quick outdoor dash up stairs and across a gravel path. Worth remembering when booking in the depths of winter. I had the Mala Mayi Wrap, one hour and 25 minutes of pure bliss that counts as my best spa treatment ever. Yes, even better than that open-air massage looking out over the Zambezi (See 6.10.09). First, an exfoliating scrub for your whole body. After that, warm, mineral-rich mud gets massaged into your skin. Then you're bundled in the towels that were draped beneath you, secured by the heated pad you've been lying on, now transformed to a warm cocoon. While that mud is doing its good on your skin, the therapist gives you a deep scalp massage and puts super moisturisers on your hair. Then you rinse everything off in a hot, scented shower before returning to the table to have rich moisturisers massaged into all the treated areas. I've had a lot of spa work that feels great at the time, but this one came with lasting benefits of rejuvenated skin.

And now to dinner

You can imagine our state of complete relaxation by the time we left the pool at 5:30 to get dressed and drift upstairs for cocktails. Entering the drawing room, it's immediately obvious what paying three times our B&B rate gets you. There are two elegant rooms to choose from fo

r your lounging, each exquisitely furnished with art and furniture to such consistency this could serve as a Downton Abbey set with little change. The larger drawing room has a sport and military theme, dominated by a wonderful portrait of a whole family painted, life sized, in their motor car, and another dashing chap standing confidently with his polo stick. For the turn of the century, there's a modern, trendy edge here; back in Downton world, this would be the home of the newly-enriched Sir Richard. The other lounge is decorated with portraits of dramatic and romantic women of the time. We had aperitifs in the first, and digestifs in the second, with impeccable service in both.

Settled before the fire with a kir royale in one hand and the menu in the other, we considered our choices. We were aided by a diminutive plate of nibbles featuring polenta cakes with blue cheese and some particularly tasty juniper- flavoured potato crisps, cut into perfect, flat rounds to serve as sandwich top and bottom for steak tartare filling. We could easily have polished off a platter of those!

As with most establishments of this sort, it's "in for a penny, in for a pound". Experience has taught me that going a la carte is never the cheaper option, even though you may think you can reign in expenses this way. The extras and the individual wine prices will always kill you. Especially if your friends have particularly good taste in wine. Far better to go with the tasting menu and the matching wine flight. Take the price tag hit once, gasp with shock, move on and know there won't be any other surprises.

There were three tasting menus on offer. First, the Master Chef menu, three courses that contestants prepared for guests at Gidleigh Park in the finals of Celebrity Masterchef, at £47. The seven course tasting menu was £84, and the seven course signature menu (full of Michael Caines specialities) was £95. Calculating the per-course price, we figured seven courses were a much better deal than three; we felt the bigger menus were the more fiscally responsible path! We were tempted by both, but there were a few dishes we found more intriguing on the regular tasting menu, so went in that direction.

We started with a mushroom velouté topped with roasted peanuts; a surprising but very pleasing combination. The sommelier ... our new best friend ... matched this with an equally surprising Riesling, magnificently dry but with a sweet finish. Next up, duck two ways. Or, as the menu put it, "Salisbury mallard, hazelnut crust, pâté en croûte, soused vegetable."

The fish course was a highlight. Truffle butter poached turbot served with beef cheek, a duxelle of wild mushrooms and a cèpe velouté. Anyone who says they hate fish would be converted into a true believer by this dish which, thanks to the fish's ability to take on the flavours around it, was as meaty as anything to come out of the deep forest. The Californian pinot noir that came with it was light enough to not overwhelm the fish, but had depths to match the meat. Sublime.

The savoury dishes climaxed with local rabbit done four ways (loin, rack, offal, confit leg) with pease pudding, ham hock and mustard jus. I know this sounds heavy as a sledgehammer with flavours that can overpower. But the dish was elegant, subtle, light and beautiful to look at. I, the offal hater, didn't even know it was there until I reviewed the menu afterwards. It was simply a great dish, and one that made us all wonder why we don't eat rabbit more. If for no other reason than to drink big, bold bordeaux like the liquid garnets they poured into our glass with this one.

Hillary and I were unable to decide between cheese and pudding. The truncated-topped pyramid on the cart announced the presence of my favourite cheese on the planet, pouligny-saint-pierre. Meanwhile, the dessert menu promised chocolate fondant. What's a girl to do? The lovely waiting staff, warmed up now by 90 minutes of our charm, suggested we split a single extra plate of cheese, and then loaded it high. Adding four options from the French regions and boutique English producers to join that lovely goat's cheese.

Next, the pre-dessert. Such a fine concept, meant to transition you slowly from the height of your savoury experience to whatever sweet blockbuster is coming. In this case, a light vanilla panna cotta with fig and cinnamon. A fine contrast and appetiser to the chocolate fondant.

Many try with this dish, and few succeed. This one was perfect, if too small. A tube of hot, firm cake, oozing semi-liquid, steaming chocolate, gone in two bites. The diminutive size was compensated for by the exquisite presentation. A paint strip of chocolate, accompanied by two circles of passion fruit coulis with dot of chocolate at each centre, a chocolate cup of the same size and shape as the fondant filled with tonka bean sorbet (tastes like passion fruit). A study in black and orange. Rarely have I wanted so badly to lick my plat in a restaurant, but I reminded myself that ladies do not do such things. (Real ladies, no doubt, wouldn't have the thought, much less revel in multiple desserts.)

Finally, on to coffee and petit fours, which counted as one of the seven courses. I like the honesty of this. With many menus it's an extra, but coffee is usually essential, and can be an expensive add-on. If you're going to make it a formal course, however, then the petit fours better be up to it. Which they were here, with a range of truffles, brownies and tiny pannacottas with a black current caramel crisp. Seeing the extent of the final course, and the chocolate on offer, we could have chosen the cheese over the fondant without feeling deprived. Three full dessert courses was, perhaps, a bit excessive!

You'd think the whole meal would feel excessive, but this is where the magic of the chef's planning shows itself. Despite the heavy flavours, and the hearty and substantial ingredients, everything balanced beautifully. Because each plate was just a few bites perfect bites, all that food left you feeling satisfied, but not stuffed.

Sam Moody may not be as famous as his boss today, but I suspect it's coming. As, one assumes, is the Bath Priory's Michelin star. Wonder if that spa deal will get more expensive when that day arrives?

Bath surprises with fabulous, continental-style shopping

Were it not for breast cancer, dear readers, this week would have brought a series of reports from Barcelona. It was time for the annual Gartner IT Expo, and the usual holiday extension into the weekend afterwards. After years of returning to Cannes the conference organisers had moved to Spain's most trendy city for art and culinary experimentation. The Northwestern girls were excited. But medical leave put an end to both the work trip to Spain, and the fun afterwards.

We still wanted to get our traditional girls' Christmas shopping weekend in, especially since it's now decided that I start chemotherapy on 7 December. Some power shopping, spa relaxation and good food sounded like a fine idea before the medical hijinx. Where to go to find that variety without too much driving? Bath.

The Northwestern girls had been there together years ago, and I've lost count of the visiting Americans I've taken around the sights. It is undoubtably the most beautiful and extensive Georgian town in England. Huge swathes look pretty much the same as they did when Jane Austen lived here, which is why keen eyes will pick out Bath in the background of just about every film set in the 18th century, no matter where its action is supposed to take place. As if Georgian architecture weren't beautiful enough, all of Bath is built of that distinctive, golden Cotswold stone, which gives it a rich yet mellow glow under most lights, and it's built up the slope of a bowl-shaped valley, adding height and drama to the views.

Tourists usually wander about the ancient baths after which the city is named (with plenty to see from the original Roman complex), the abbey, the assembly rooms where the Georgian great and good socialised, Pulteney Bridge and the aristocratic housing developments of the Royal Crescent and the Circus. There are enough architectural highlights, small museums and neighbouring country houses (Dyrham Park being a favourite) to keep a serious culture vulture occupied for a week.

Having done all of this before, our primary objective was the Bath Thermae spa, which opened in 2006 in some of the historic spaces that had been public baths in earlier centuries. Research, however, cooled our enthusiasm. Treatment prices were at least 10% higher than nearby luxury hotels, and did not include the price of admission. You have to pay an hourly fee just to get into the complex. When we discovered they also charged for dressing gowns and shoes ... and found a better package spa deal at a five star hotel nearby ... we decided on a change of plans. I still plan to pop in to the Thermae someday, but only for the main facilities and not for the overpriced treatments. (For more on the spa day we ended up with, see the next entry.)

The real surprise of Bath was the shopping. Based on previous visits, I'd thought of it as a mix of tourist tat, chain stores and dusty old antique shops. No longer. The chains are the more upscale ones, and at least half the shops in the central district seem to be independents. The town is now awash with trendy clothing boutiques, interesting galleries and fun home decor shops. New arcades and alleyways have been developed, and everything feels far more prosperous than it used to. (Our B&B host attributes this to the spa bringing a more affluent type of tourist, and broadband allowing more people with well-paying London jobs to move here.) In a country where shopping is increasingly homogenised, this was a retail experience closer to our outings to Venice or St. Paul de Vence. We will all be going back.

If heading there yourself, explore Milsom, George and Bartlett Street, paying special attention to the latter two. George Street is now a string of independent boutiques and galleries. Check out Prey, which carries quirky stuff like buttons and aprons made from vintage fabric, and silk scarves copied from ancient book frontispieces, screen printed by the same workshop that produces Hermes scarves. They have a great range of cards, jewelry and home decor items. A few minutes' walk east is Via Appia, an Italian boutique filled with exquisitely designed knits and formal wear and some surprisingly reasonable, yet beautifully designed, jewelry. Just next door is Topping and Company, an independent bookshop so redolent of individual taste and good advice (hand written descriptions and recommendations taped to shelves below books) it almost makes you want to give up your Kindle. If bookstores are to survive at all, I'm convinced this is the kind of place that will hang in there.

Turning up Bartlett Street ... a small lane that heads north and is a prime cut-through to get to the Circus and the Royal Crescent ... you'll find more women's boutiques like Mee, Lux and The Loft that all carry boutique brands with interesting cuts and distinctive looks. Not cheap, mind you, but if you want something that's obviously top quality and is unlike what everyone else is wearing, this is a place to wander. The Loft is also a home decor shop with some great rustic furniture and modern accessories.

After a satisfying and successful day of Christmas shopping in ever increasing crowds, we were glad that our B&B was outside the bustling city centre. Bathford is just four miles from central Bath, but could be a village deep in the Gloucester countryside. Except that its architecture is a spill-over from the Georgian jewel. In fact our B&B, Eagle House, was designed by architect John Wood, famous for the Circus and Queen's Square in town. If you want the experience of staying in grand Georgian architecture, but don't want to pay for a grand country house hotel, this is a good option.

Eagle House is a classic small country house of the era, with an imposing classical pediment surmounted by an eagle on the garden face that looks out over gardens and sweeping views. Inside, guests have access to a gracious staircase hall, an octagonal drawing room with towering ceilings and a large dining room used for guests' breakfasts. Several of the bedrooms are large and quite grand, sharing the same view as the drawing room, and there's a large family room with three beds that's perfect for our girls' trips.

Despite the grand architecture this is more standard B&B than luxury experience, certainly one step down from a place like Cotswold favourite Windy Ridge (see 27.7.10). Though, sadly, not that much cheaper. This is still very much a family home, with surroundings being a hotch potch of items (including some shockingly out-of-context works by an artist son) rather than a carefully put together decor. Architectural damage like a glass screen at the top of the stairs and odd interior windows harkens back to the building's days of institutional use from the '50s through the '80s. There's a gorgeous fireplace in the sitting room but it's not lit, and there's no honour bar to draw people into the room or encourage them to linger. Most irritating, there's a charge for a cooked breakfast. At £45 per person per night ... £135 for the room ... we thought this was a bit of cheek.

I had used Eagle House seven years ago for a house party to celebrate my birthday, and it was ideal for booking out for exclusive use. The location, beauty of the house and helpfulness of the owners still puts it on my "must consider" list for Bath. But after this trip I do have to question value for money, and think I may be doing a bit of web surfing to see what else is in the area.

Of course, if money were no object, I'd be sleeping at the Bath Priory. For our adventures there, see the next entry.

The Hunger Games are gripping, frightening ... and make me ponder differences between generations

I have been a voracious reader since childhood. I don't actually remember learning to read, in fact, I just recall retreating to my bedroom as a very small girl, alone, with a stack of books. Classic only child syndrome, I suppose. I graduated quickly from picture-heavy books to the Chronicles of Narnia, the Wind in the Willows, Nancy Drew (the original 1940s books inherited from my aunt, in which Nancy drove a "roadster", wore "smart frocks" and never even kissed Ned Nickerson) and anything about classical mythology I could get my hands on. From there, I remember jumping pretty much straight into grown up fiction.

There was no phenomenon of "young adult literature" in the late '70s when I was in my early teens. Nor do I recall everyone reading the same thing in cult-like fan groups. We all had our own tastes, and, frankly, I don't remember sharing mine with many classmates. About half my reading was fantasy like The Lord of the Rings, the Shannara series and the Dragonriders of Pern books, common enough amongst the boys but a bit rare at my girls' convent school. The other half was detail-rich historical romances by people like Jean Plaidy and Victoria Holt. (Pen names for the same writer, it turned out, an amazingly prolific Englishwoman named Eleanor Hibbert.)

Now, of course, young adult literature is one of the hottest categories in publishing, with readership stretching up into the adult world. The phenomenon seems to have established itself with the Harry Potter series and flourished (at least amongst women) with the Twilight books. Next up: The Hunger Games. I'd been hearing about the last for at least a year. With strict instructions to stay immobile for a few weeks after surgery, my friend Hillary had the entire trilogy delivered to my door. Three days later, I'd finished the stack. "Powerful read", "fast paced" and "a gripping page turner" are all much-used cliches on back covers, but they're well applied to these books. But if these are books for teenagers, then they must leave any adult reader with one big impression: How times have changed.

Author Suzanne Collins mixes inspirations from Greek mythology, ancient Rome, modern politics and reality TV in her dystopian vision of the near future. North America has emerged from an horrific war into a ruthless dictatorship, ruled by The Capitol somewhere in the Rocky Mountains. Citizens here have a life of plenty and leisure, their primary concerns being fashion and entertainment. Their good life is provided by the labour of the people in the 12 Districts ... what's left of the United States ... now little more than gulags where slave labour produces whatever the Capitol needs. To make sure the Districts remember who's boss, and never forget the failed rebellion that destroyed the 13th District, they are each required to hold a lottery every year at which one girl and one boy between the ages of 12 and 18 are sent off to The Capitol as tributes, just as myths have young Atheneans going to the Minotaur. The 24 tributes are then given stylists and production crews, pampered and trained, then thrown into a 24-7 live broadcast reality show cum gladiatorial games, where there can be only one winner. The rest must die.

We follow our heroine Katniss Everdeen as she participates in the games and, through her natural teenage rebelliousness, becomes the catalyst that starts to unsettle the whole society. It's dark, violent, disturbing and utterly compelling. And it got me thinking: why are the books today's teens read so much more sinister than those I consumed 30 years ago?

On simple question of plot, I think it's because the "darkness" is so much closer to real life. Lord of the Rings baddie Sauron was pure evil, but was never going to make an appearance in the real world. No more than were the dragons, elves and magicians that populated most of the books I read. There were good guys and bad guys, the lines were solidly drawn and good always triumphs. Harry Potter draws a lot from that world, but arch villain Valdemort has gone bad because he was an abused child. Scary and potentially all too real. Valdemort's followers are all for racial genocide of the muggles, again fictionalisation of things readers will have seen on the news. The Twilight Vampires are good guys who've overcome their taste for blood, but we're still dealing with a frightening world of random violence and murder, while our main characters have some nasty emotional demons to deal with. The Hunger Games is scariest of all, because it creates a world that seems just a few steps away from what could really happen if humanity took some wrong turns. It brings a horror of the future that, I suspect, readers encountered when they first read 1984 or Brave New World.

As to the question of why today's teenagers are consuming this stuff rather than the simpler, happier-ending, clearer moral grounds of my youth ... now that's a tougher question. As an adult reader, they're simply great books, but I have no teenagers in my life to give the youth perspective. One assumes that it reflects the tougher, more honest world they've grown up in. One of greater moral ambiguity from the start, more violence, more skepticism. Maybe a purely good heroine, and an entirely evil bad guy, just won't fly with this gang. Or maybe it's the publishing phenomenon of upselling these books to adults in their millions; if the over-20s are going to buy them, they need a harder edge.

If I had a 12-year-old, would I want her reading The Hunger Games? Probably. But I'd want us to read them together. We'd have a hell of a lot to talk about as she worked her way through. And I'd expect a few nightmares. Who knows. Maybe the dark, rich complexity of today's teenage literature will produce a generation with both greater moral certainty, and a better understanding of the motivations and nuances of others. We'll have to wait and see.

Little known Flying Dutchman may be my favourite Wagner opera yet

My first post-surgical foray out of the house, other than for doctor's appointments, was to the opera. I was still floating on pain medications and not good for much more than six hours of continuous activity, but we'd had tickets to Wagner's The Flying Dutchman for ages (Piers' reward for coming to La Traviata last month), and I really didn't want to miss it. Even though the drugs in my system pretty much ensured that this was not going to be the first Wagner opera through which I managed to stay awake from start to finish.

That's not to say this is a long or a boring show. In fact, at three acts in just over two hours hours it's a snippet in Wagnerian terms. The only problem with this running time is that producers need to decide whether to put intervals after each short act, or just run the thing straight through. The ROH went for the latter. And even with a good plot and a nap, the cheap seats up top are not built for that kind of extended incarceration.

The plot deals with grand legend. A captain and his crew have been cursed to sail the seas forever, only coming ashore once every seven years. If, in that brief shore leave, the captain finds true love, he can break the curse. (Yes, you recognise this from the Pirates of the Caribbean films. Wagner's not the only one to get some mileage out of this plot.) In a boring Norwegian town, a young girl named Senta has fallen in love with the legend and dreams of breaking the curse. Things look set for a happy ending when Senta's father, also a ship's captain, brings home a fellow captain he's met at sea. It's the Dutchman, and he and Senta fall in love immediately, making plans to marry. Unfortunately, a local boy with a passion for Senta shows up to plead his case, and his very existence causes the Dutchman to doubt Senta's constancy, and the wisdom of her commitment. So he sails away.

In Wagner's ending, Senta throws herself into the sea after his departing ship. She dies, but this proof of her enduring love breaks the curse. (You didn't expect a cheerful close, did you?) For some reason ... maybe it was too expensive to stage a watery suicide convincingly? ... Senta doesn't die in the current version, she just sinks to the stage cradling a model of the Dutchman's ship, over which she'd been obsessing since before she met him.

I'm not sure it was Wagner's intent, but the main theme in this production seemed to be the dangerous passions of teenage girls. The staging was modern and grim. Senta worked in a grey sweatshop. She would have indulged in any fantasy that would get her out of town; one that involved mythic passions and redemption was irresistible. There is a stage in the lives of most teenage girls when they cling to the tale of Romeo and Juliet and think there'd be nothing better than to die for love. This is just where Senta is when we meet her, and why her foolish love-at-first-sight for the Dutchman is actually so credible.

Though not considered one of Wagner's greatest operas, I quite possibly enjoyed this more than the installments of the Ring Cycle we've seen. Good plot, credible impetus for the love story, and the action moves at a decent pace. A great overture that evokes the stormy majesty of the seas, with equally dramatic music throughout. I wouldn't mind sitting through another interpretation of The Flying Dutchman to see what other companies would do with it.

Cardinals and cancer are an odd match; let's hope I'm as victorious as the Redbirds

In 2006, I had breast cancer, and the Cardinals won the World Series. In 2011, the Cardinals returned to the championship, and my cancer came back.

I do hope they're not related. It could kill my love of my home team.

The cancer showed up in my annual ultrasound on October 11th. A tiny dark streak on the screen. "It could just be scar tissue, but it wasn't there last year, so we want to be extra careful," said the doctor doing the scan. "We're going to do a biopsy." In that moment, five years fell away as I remembered, vividly, the pain of the first one. The guys at Guantanamo Bay had it all wrong. Forget waterboarding. Biopsy a bit of breast tissue and people will tell you anything. No question of refusing, however. The results are more important than the pain.

Sure enough, a new cancer in the same breast as 2006. Strange, as I'd had a total mastectomy so there shouldn't be any breast tissue left in there. Post surgery, tests proved it to be lymphatic tissue, though all lymph nodes tested were clear. Which means I'm destined for a winter of chemotherapy, once I heal from the operation. I had the surgery on the 27th, just 13 days after the biopsy results confirmed there was something in there that needed to come out.

A routine operation, a small cancer found early, a positive prognosis. Add all those things together and it still doesn't take away the anxiety. Especially for poor Piers, who could only watch from the sidelines and have all the stress of dealing with this the first time around.

We spent the night before surgery in town, since my 6am check in time made it impossible to come up from Basingstoke. We tried to make a celebratory evening of it. An indulgent dinner at Orrery with the tasting menu and the wine flight. Should anything have gone wrong on the operating table, it would have made a fine last meal. Traditional French with modern twists, a progression of small, delicate plates, that exceptional cheese trolley and a satisfying chocolate tart. Still on the same form as previous visits (see 10.12.07), reminiscent in quality and price to Roussillon, though not quite as elegant and innovative, with a far less intimate dining space. A good option for fine dining in that part of town.

We then retired to Hotel La Place on Nottingham Place. (The club, sadly, had no rooms available.) A Victorian townhouse remodeled as a small B&B, going for the upscale boutique hotel category. The room was lovely, with traditional dark wood furniture, beautiful upholstery and a crown-style canopy with falling drapes above the bed. All very English country house transported to the city. The public areas were a bit pokey and Piers reported an unimpressive breakfast (consumed while I was under the knife). For general London tourism, I'm sure you could do better for your £180 a night, though the room was admirably large for a centrally-located hotel. But for our primary objective ... be able to walk quickly to the Harley Street Clinic ... it was a decent option.

So the surgery went well. The doctor got the entire cancerous spot out without having to disturb my breast implant, so no major follow up work will be needed there. Floating on anesthetic and pain killers, I slept for most of the day. Wide awake, then, for most of the night. Just in time for Game 6 of the World Series. Without doubt, the single most exciting game of my life. Any baseball fan will already know the story. Texas led the series three games to two. A win that night locked their first-ever championship. (The Cards were playing for their 11th.) The Cardinals had already come from behind to tie or lead the game three times, but they entered the 9th inning down by two. And were still there as they got to their last out. When local boy David Freese drove in two runs, tied the game and sent it into extra innings.

In the 10th, the Rangers quickly put two runs on the board. I could hear the groans all the way across the Atlantic. Could we come back from behind for a fifth time in the same game? Yup. Again down to their last out, Berkman hit the tying run, forcing the 11th inning. This time, the Cardinals held the Rangers scoreless, then Freese returned to the plate and hit a leadoff home run. This was, frankly, as good as a Hollywood screenplay. Even if I was experiencing the game in the oddest of ways.

The first five innings streamed onto my iPad via MLB.com with no problem. Then the hospital WiFi went down. Really, there's not much you can do about that at 3am. The night nurses can handle any crisis of the human body, but network issues had to wait for the day staff. I tried a few options on my iPhone, with no luck, and ended up following the rest of the game through text messages from the Bruneel household in St. Louis. (I watched the game the next day when I returned home.) Despite the bizarre relay reportage, despite sitting alone in a dark hospital room, the game filled me with joy. And a very pleasant distraction from the medical situation.

Back home the next night, the joy returned. Still on an irregular sleeping pattern, I slipped downstairs to the couch from 1am to watch Game 7. Not nearly as exciting as No 6, thank heavens. The Cards had a job to do; they went out and did it. I think the previous night had ripped the heart out of the Rangers, frankly.

There was much joy in St. Louis, and for St. Louisans around the globe. Good thing, too. Because as those anesthetics wore off, I realised just how much even a small incision can hurt. I was very happy for the distraction. And I hope my beloved Redbirds can do it again soon. But please, let me be cancer-free next time.

Despite the cruise ship, Comms Directors' Forum a bust

This recession has killed a lot of events.

Before the crash, I used to be asked to speak at three to five conferences a year, and was invited to scores more. (The former invitations, all expenses paid, I often accepted. The latter, at several hundred pounds a day plus travel expenses, I usually skipped.) Most of those conferences have disappeared. Even prosperous companies aren't paying to send their employees on educational breaks these days.

That validates the cleverness of Richmond Events' simple idea: book a cruise ship; invite big corporate representatives free of charge; get agencies to pay for everything in exchange for guaranteed meetings with the big names. Given that most big corporates limit their vendors to those on a rostered list, and most corporate execs brush off new business calls like dandruff on a collar, this gig is one of the few ways a small agency has any chance of having a sustained conversation with global corporate types. Why they consider us nirvana, I have no idea. (In my experience, large mid-market companies are far more profitable on agency books.) But their enthusiasm has kept the Richmond Events cruise going.

Granted, it's a lot smaller than it used to be. On my first outing, the Communications Directors and the IT Directors split the whole cruise ship. There were hundreds of communications types, and more than 20 just from the IT services sector. It made for a fantastic three days, networking with colleagues, comparing issues and getting ideas for improvement.

Times have changed. Though the conference concept has survived, there are now five different types of directors on the ship. Meaning the specialist groups are much smaller, and the industry specialisms amongst them are tiny. (I still managed to find a happy cluster of colleagues from BT, IBM, Orange and Nokia to drink with.)

It is always valuable to get out of the office to mix, mingle and compare experience with colleagues. Beyond that networking, however, I found myself questioning the value of the time away. Perhaps I'm just getting too old and cynical. Perhaps, now that I'm head of marketing communications, I should have been on the marketing directors forum. But I found the seminars, on the whole, to be distressingly old hat. Surely, these are all the same issues, and all the same bits of advice, I heard at my first such conference in the late 1980s. The critical primacy of internal communications. The need for employee, marketing comms and PR to work together. Confusion over measurement. The call to understand the company's overall goals and lash yourselves to business basics. Good lord. Has the industry not moved on at all in 25 years?

I found myself deeply depressed, and indulging in my recurrent fantasy of becoming a farmer or a restorer of Georgian plasterwork. One thing, at least, comforted me. When I indulged in deep conversation with colleagues, I found their issues to all be the same as mine. If these conferences do nothing else, they remind you that you are not alone.

No time for post-honeymoon depression as London return piles on the glamour

On the plane back to Heathrow, I was thinking I'd had enough excitement, and it would be nice to get into a quiet routine for a while. Honest.

Clearly, I hadn't checked the social and work diaries before having that thought. If I had, I would have seen tickets for the Royal Opera House after the first workday back. Piers' annual company social ... a grand masquerade ball ... on the Friday night. The next week, off to a cruise ship to the Channel Islands for three days on the Communications Directors' Forum. So much for a quiet life.

Heading to the opera on our first night back wasn't ideal, but it was the only night we could get my father to the performance before he went back to the States on Wednesday. I've never seen anything I didn't like at the ROH, of course, and it's the grand, established blockbusters of the repertoire like La Traviata where they really hit their stride. Even the great critic of Italian opera, my new husband, can't say too much against this particular work. Grand setting, great music, good pacing. What's not to like?

This is a production first created by Richard Eyre in 1994, and is one of the ROH's most regularly revived works. The sets are a show in themselves. The first party scene is a dramatic two story affair with guests coming up and down curving staircases as action takes place in the drawing room at the top. The gambling den at the end of act 2 is smoky, a bit sinister yet echoingly grand; a perfect evocation of the raffish end of late 19th-century Parisian high society. The action wraps in Violetta's simple, impoverished bedroom, but the tall windows and use of space convey an almost church-like atmosphere as our heroine reaches her end.

You've barely had time to settle into your seat at the start when the rousing drinking song "Brindisi" makes you want to jump up again and raise a glass. (We didn't, of course, but we did exchange warm smiles. Remember, dear readers, this is the song we played as we entered our wedding meal.) Russian soprano Marina Poplavskaya and American tenor James Valenti were excellent as Violetta and Alfredo, not just in the quality of their singing, but in their acting. This is perhaps one of the most poignant yet believeable stories in all opera. Violetta, the courtesan with the noble heart who finds true love, then gives it up for the greater good of family honour. Alfredo, passionate and impetuous, who is too thick to see the sacrifice his one true love makes until she's on her deathbed. The couple played out the arc of falling in love, falling out, bitter recrimination and regret, ending with understanding, love and loss with a passion that had me reaching for the tissue.

The PWC annual party later in the week wasn't quite so grand as Violetta's salon, but it wasn't far off. After years of cost constraints at my own company, it was delightful to get treated to such a sophisticated and well-funded display of employee appreciation. Maybe I should have been an accountant. (Hmm. Would have required maths skills. Maybe not.)

The venue was the headquarters of the Honourable Artillery Company, a hidden gem in the City of London. The HAC is a voluntary regiment of the Army, founded in 1537, prestigious ever since and now acting as both a registered charity and an active military unit. Their headquarters is a gracious Georgian house a stone's throw from Moorgate tube, fronted by six acres of garden. This is all ringed by city buildings, so you'd never know it was there unless you were actually seeking it out. Once inside their grounds, you have the bizarre spectacle of country house and expansive lawns entirely ringed by urban tower blocks. We were in the Prince Consort Room, a modern, purpose-built function space to one side of the house. Smaller parties can take over the main building itself which, as the website shows, is an early Georgian blockbuster replete with wooden paneling, impressive portraits and glittering chandeliers.

The PWC party didn't need the glitzy background, however, since the guests themselves were a star attraction. This was a full on masquerade ball, heavy on the Venetian influence. Women in glamorous evening wear, men in dinner jackets, and the whole assembly in masks ... with a good portion of the masks large and flamboyant enough to hold their own on St. Mark's square any night of Carnevale. The girl who won the best mask of the evening award had gone to a makeup artist earlier in the day and had hers painted on, swirls of powder blue and gold to match her gown, highlighted by sparkling crystals affixed in curves across her brow and cheekbone. Another of Piers' colleagues had a full mask topped by a tricorn hat and flamboyant feathers, worthy of Casanova. Had I known how seriously Piers' colleagues take their dressing up, I would have made more effort!

As it was, we got lucky. I grabbed a mask I'd brought back from Venice off the shelf in my office for myself. With a bit of time to spare on Wednesday evening, I went to the craft store, found a blank plastic plague doctor's mask (the traditional one with the big beak) and jazzed it up with some baroque-style wrapping paper and red feathers. I was just trying to get something that vaguely matched my headgear, but it turned out he was awarded the best home made mask prize. Now, this might have been because in this sophisticated and free-spending group, most people hired masks rather than making their own. Or maybe they just felt they should be nice to the newlywed. I like to think it was an honest acknowledgement of artistic ability. (My mother would be proud.)

Whatever the case, it was a nice conclusion to the first week back. So many friends have warned me of post-honeymoon depression, where you get all glum and bored because your post-marital life is dull in comparison to the excitement of planning the wedding and traveling afterwards. If this week is anything to go by, I think I'm safe from that complaint.

Food and wine are matches from heaven at Birkenhead

I wrote this entry after returning from Honeymoon, but the posting date coincides with when we were actually experiencing what's described here.

I have never before been formally introduced to the head chef within five minutes of checking into a hotel. Turns out nothing could have been more appropriate at Birkenhead House, since Nico Verster's kitchen is the thing that tips this place from delightful to truly extraordinary.

The culinary style here is global fusion layered on a classical foundation, taking advantage of the abundant local larder of the Cape. Wine is an integral part of the meal, with each server having a comprehensive knowledge of the house wine list (at more than 20 bottles, no small task) and the confidence of a trained sommelier to recommend food and wine pairings. Whatever the meal, dining here is an experience. At breakfast, there's not only a buffet groaning with home made breads and pastries, gourmet muesli, exotic fruits, cereals, etc. and the option of a traditional cooked breakfast, but also the chef's breakfast of the day. One day banana crepes, another an omelette Florentine. At lunch, weather permitting, the whole dining room would be transported to the patio, complete with fine linen and crystal, so you could dine at the cliff edge.

And dinner! The magic started with the descent from our room, with each step of the marble stairs leading to the dining room illuminated with votive candles. (When you returned to your room after dinner, you found votives glimmering around your bed.) Before dinner there was a proper cocktail hour during which you could sink into the couches in front of the fireplace, talk to fellow guests, drink your fill (the staff didn't need to be reminded of your cocktail of choice after your first order) and nibble on passed hors d'oeuvres. You could linger here as little or much as you wished before crossing to the candlelit dining room to indulge in three decadent courses with plenty of fine wine. Then it was back to the couches, where you could linger over your choice from a wide selection of after dinner drinks, including a range of whiskys, cognac, armagnac, several grappas and sweet stuff like Cointreau and the local take on Baileys, Amarula cream.

One of the things that makes the whole experience so special is that costs are all inclusive. You're not left feeling guilty about whether or not you should get the more expensive wine, wondering whether you can afford another cocktail or feeling that dessert or that single malt after dinner is profligate. Another is that with every meal, whoever is running the kitchen comes out to chat about the menu with you, answering any questions and suggesting alternatives if there's anything you don't like.

Adjusting dishes is no problem. One night, when told about the magnificent beef the chef had received that afternoon, Piers ordered his steak "blu" (extremely rare), joking that he'd take tartare if they could do it. We would, but we don't have any gherkins, the distressed chef apologised. He'd get some on his way to work the next day, so Piers could have a rare steak now and tartare later. Another day at lunch, we were having trouble choosing from the range of intriguing starters, so the chef offered to create a combo platter for us. Not only was it one of the most beautiful dishes of the trip (see photo at right), but it delivered a range of extraordinary flavours, like Asian beef salad and mussels in a cream sauce.

As already mentioned, however, the real delight of eating at Birkenhead was the wine pairings. Your all inclusive deal includes any wine on the house list, and there are roughly 10 reds and 10 whites to choose from. After seeing the knowledge of the staff, however, we didn't bother making any selections ourselves; we left ourselves in their hands. Sometimes, we even reverse engineered the menus to match the wine. "I haven't had the pinotage yet. What should I eat tonight so I can try it?"

Memorable pairings included a luncheon main of grilled calamari salad with sun dried tomatoes, red onion and goat cheese, matched with a Bouchard Finlayson blanc de mer which was mostly riesling with a bit of semillon. I would not have thought of that combination of salad ingredients, but the meaty squid, salty cheese and sweet tomatoes blended well, augmented by the same sweet yet sharp notes of the wine. At the same time, Piers was eating a gnocchi with blue cheese and fig and cream sauce with a bit of dill. Once again, sweet and sharp flavours in the food picked up the wine.

Lamb with shavings of deep fried squash went with a South Hill cabernet sauvignon from the Elgin Valley. This was a classic Ellen wine; big, bold, rich with berry flavours. Sadly, I wasn't having the lamb, so only stole sips of this off Piers. I was having sea bass, heavy enough to carry a light red wine in the Newton Johnson Felicite pinot noir 2011 from the nearby Hemel-en-Aarde Valley. I can't better the tasting notes on this one: red berries, brambles and pomegranates on the nose; poised, elegant, smooth on the palate with a lingering finish. The next night saw it equally well matched with mushroom soup dressed with truffle oil.

One of the best matches came with a humble but delicious burger. Add Spookfontein Phantom, 2006, also from Hemel-en-Aarde. Ruby red in colour, with hints of mulberry, raspberry, red currant, cherries and vanilla. The tannins would be a bit much to drink on its own, but great with food.

For a lighter touch, there were the scallops and bacon with pea puree and a bit of garlic butter, served with Groote Post Weisser Riesling, 2010. Fresh and clean with simple, unchallenging flavours, Piers thought the acid, apple and crispness didn't necessarily give a roundness to the wine, but there was enough body beneath it to prevent acidity from overpowering. We thought it would be exceptional with curry or other spicy food. Another fine white was the Beaumont chenin blanc, 2009, from Botriver (an area you drive through on the way down to Hermanus). This was a fresh and vibrant fruit combination of lemon, green melon and tropical guava, paired with tempura crab claws that delivered incredibly sweet flesh in a very light batter.

Back with the reds, Gabrielskloof's "The Blend", 2009, also from Botriver, was a Bordeaux blend on par with any of the big, traditional wines from France. This went with those lovely fillets, served with aubergine puree and red wine jus. This was a really magnificent red meat wine, deep and rich with hints of liquorice and chocolate. And the next day, when the fillet returned as the custom-created tartare? The Beyerskloof pinotage from Stellenbosch was fruity, a touch peppery, and very reminiscent of a good Rioja.

If ever you need proof of the sacred match between great food and fine wine, plan a trip to Birkenhead. At every meal we were presented with beautiful elements that could have stood alone, but were so much better together. What a great way to end our honeymoon. Because two becoming better as one is what marriage is all about, right?