I am thirty-ten... oh, OK, forty. It's a number. I'm surprisingly fine about it. Surprisingly, because I was very much not fine about 39. Strange how these things go.

Anyway. I look good on it.

And what a great way to celebrate a big birthday. The Fat Duck apparently isn't the best restaurant in the world. If that's true, I don't think I'd want to go to the best one, because I think I'd pass out.

( I just saw how much I'd written, and it really needs to go behind a cut. Warning — this is long, and if you read Alasdair's blog a while back, a lot of it might be familiar. But if you want to read well over 5000 words about a visit to the Fat Duck, carry on, carry on... )