Last weekend, we got Christmassy. We spent Saturday rustling up our house Christmas lunch. With mulled wine constantly on the go, we lemon and thyme roasted the chicken, roasted the potatoes and parsnips in goose fat, made sweet potato mash, fried the sprouts with bacon, onion and garlic, maple syrup roasted chanteray carrots and baked broccoli with cheese. Then we topped it off with homemade gravy. After a much-deserved nap (cooking takes it out of you, okay?!) it was onto the fun.
M had got us tickets to see Miracle On 34th Street at the Twentieth Century Theatre in Notting Hill. A little pop up, they're screening festive favourites in the run up to Christmas and singlehandedly getting everyone in the mood. You clambered through a wardrobe into Narnia (or to get to your seats), grabbed a hot chocolate (or beer, if you're me, for some bizarre reason) and settled in to watch Richard Attenborough as everyone's favourite fellow in red. Neither of us had seen it before and so we found ourselves in this little world of 90s schmaltz that was all about the cute.
Feeling terribly festive once it finished, we meandered through the picturesque streets behind Westbourne Grove and Portobello. We ended up in The Kensington Wine Rooms for a glass of prosecco - sometimes nothing else will do, and it is almost Christmas after all - feeling as if I was in my own version of a West London romcom. With much better company than Hugh Grant.