Speaking of Queens....

I have just met the Queen. Of Belgium that is. I was doing my annual stint on the ECHO stand at the Berlaymont for Open Day, which I always enjoy, when along come a six-camera media circus, a flash of photographers, and an assortment of large men in dark suits milling around our Commissioner, Louis Michel, and her Majesty Queen Paola of the Belgians. Sans tiara, in case you're wondering.

My fellow Brit colleague S and I, trained (in my case from my earliest youth by my Hyacinth Bucket of a mother) for the elaborate protocol of dealing with the doyenne of all monarchs, our Second Elizabeth, stood to attention and smiled tightly. When you are British, you do not speak to royalty unless they speak to you first, you do not offer a hand to shake unless theirs is extended. If invited to shake hands, one rips off a small bow or half-curtsey, which I had been a bit nervous about as my balance is still a little unreliable and I had worries of keeling over and bringing down the whole stand, pamphlets and postcards fountaining up and out in a mushroom cloud of information, which would not have been very elegant, would have shamed my mother forever, and furthermore would almost certainly have violated protocol.

Our non-Brit colleague Su, though, seemed unaware of such restrictions. She launched into an explanation of our activities, repeatedly calling the Queen's attention back for a further sentence or two (unbidden! the horror! we Brits curled into small mummified versions of ourselves), and then presented her Majesty with one of our rather classy jute rucksack bags, stuffed with pamphlets featuring our most photogenic beneficiairies and all in her native Italian. Her Majesty was somewhat nonplussed at being offered such an item, which apparently no other stand had had the gall to try doing. She turned to her retinue and made a help! gesture, whereupon the Commissioner scooped it up and handed it to a senior official. We have no idea where it went, but at least it didn't come back.

All I can say is it's a good thing we weren't all Brits behind that stand, otherwise the Belgian Queen would have thought Europe's entire humanitarian aid effort was staffed by wan, tight-smiled mutes.

The dinner is claimed...

.... by Drama Queen. I have not as yet met the Drama Queen, as she has not as yet deigned to turn up to a Blogmeet. She'd better turn up for the dinner. I have been known to fly into fits of pique when peeps disrespek' my soufflés, man.

In the meantime, I am now faced with the dilemma of whether to divulge Mrs T.'s blog details unto you. Some of you have already found her, Sherman, Gosling, and are probably now wishing they'd put 2 and 2 together a bit earlier and rendered themselves eligible for a bit of duck. Some of the rest of you are still searching. Well, anyway, what I recommend you do is start watching people's sidebars. You'll get there sooner or later. Holler out in the comments when you do.

Mrs. T's blog...

... remains elusive. I've got the clue from Tippler's blog and have google oogle oogled 'til I just can't google no more and it just ain't there unless she's claiming to be a Danish pensioner. But this wasn't the point of the exercise. The point of the exercise was that I was planning to reward the kind person, plus guest of his or her choice, with one of my fabulous dinners, in exchange for the URL.

The menu would have gone something like this:

Crevette grise and parmesan soufflés on a bed of lamb's lettuce, wholegrain mustard vinaigrette, accompanied by a perfectly fresh Pinot Grigio

Pan-fried duck breast with a marmelade and port gravy just slightly touched with star anise and a little cinnamon, gratiné dauphinois, steamed courgettes drizzled lovingly with Austrian pumpkin oil, served with a suitably cuddled Australian Shiraz

A perfectly aged Chaource cheese served with homemade sun-dried tomato bread rolls, served with port

My own apple and almond tart with Dorset organic vanilla ice cream, served with coffee or tea and a Calvados

Sigh. It's such a pity that no-one seems keen to claim it...

New flatmate - and it's Scouse Doris

The house is all a-flutter this morning as the oft-beblogged Scouse Doris moves her belongings 9 houses down the street to join me in my apartment, which heralds the end of the stagiaire-flatmate era. I started taking flatmates in 1997 because I caught myself sharing my dinner with the cat and realised that I was turning into one of those self-sufficient bra-hitching cigar-smoking spinsters that have men achieving personal bests in the Great Escape Steeplechase and I couldn't be doing with that. Over the years having flatmates has hopefully brought me adaptability and negotiating skills that could come in useful if ever Cupid's arrow actually stuck for more than five minutes. He needs to use something with a point to it (wow, that works on so many levels) and at the moment all he's actually using is suckers.

It's been fun having a new bright young thing in the house every five months or so, I've learned a little Italian and Spanish and German and Swedish and I've made a whole bunch of friends. But now it's me who's thinking of travelling, mid-term at least, and I want to leave the apartment in the hands of someone stable and permanent. How much nicer for that person to be Scouse Doris, fellow sci-fi fan, gastronome, and seeker after knowledge. Our differing libraries alone will keep us in after-dinner conversation for years. The only danger will be that it might turn into one long party. We have decided to impose an alcohol ban when we're home together without guests. I have a strong suspicion there'll be a lot of people dragged in to dinner.

Speaking of dinners and guests, the Mrs. T's blog competition is still open. By all accounts, Tippler has found her blog, but as he has not as yet vouchsafed its URL unto me, he can still be beaten to it. Until I get the address, the dinner remains unclaimed.

Win a dinner!

OK. Mrs. T says she's started a blog, and she wants us all to go and hunt for it.
I've googled her, and it seems she is either running a pierogi and desserts delivery service, a triathlon in Chicago, was the first woman Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, takes photos on Cape Cod, or runs a blog reviewing handbags, none of which sounds remotely like the Mrs. T I know.

I can only assume Mrs T. is writing under a different name than that which she comments with. In which case, how are we ever supposed to find her?

I hereby announce I will cook a dinner for the first of you to give me Mrs. T's blog's URL. Mrs. T and her husband are not allowed to enter this competition.

Alea iacta est

I sent my application for Delegation today. The final shortlist featured

Managua, Nicaragua (twice)
Bogota, Colombia
Delhi, India
Jakarta, Indonesia
Suva, Fiji

I clicked the 'send' button and within about 10 minutes got a case of the shakes. I have to say I also felt completely euphoric. It was the wierdest combination of fear and thrill...

Now there'll be a couple of interviews or so over the next three months, and then in September we'll all be told where we're going. I'll keep you posted... as to where I'll be posted...

2.50 Monday morning

and I've just finished The Time Traveler's Wife and I'm sobbing salt with the loneliness of it all, the Gobi of my own emotional life that stretches back from now and, in all probability, for the next 40-50 years. I've, sporadically at best, dated nothing but alcoholics and depressives for the last twelve years, who clutch at me like drowning men but I'm never enough to fill the void within them. I'm so fed up with sticking my heart back together with lipstick and a sense of humour. What an appalling waste.

My mother says there are lives of chocolate and lives of love, and I don't think this one is either. There are times when I wish I was able to drink myself numb, but my control's too strong. And in this cold wet country my hip hurts at night, and it's hard to sleep, and even with two duvets I feel cold and alone.

Everything will look better in the morning. I hope. But sometimes it's very hard to keep the faith.