Mariella is taking the first tentative stages to walking. She likes to stand and take a few steps while gingerly holding my hand or K's. Where exactly she has plans to walk to is anyone's guess. One thing is certain though: she'll be getting there soon.

The two and a half litres of sloe gin I made recently has now been steeping for a month. Every now again, when I'm in need of a minor physical and spiritual reassurance, I go and turn the storage jars over a few times. It makes a gratifying slosh of a sound that very much appeals. Some days I just need a couple of sloshes. On others it's more.

M. grows every day. There are random word-sounding noises coming out now on a fairly regular basis. It's tempting to add more meaning to them than they actually have. Is M. actually saying 'Daddy' and 'Look'? It could be anything really.

Some people thrive on living alone. They structure their time naturally, get things done and do not (generally) waste time on pointless introspection. As you may have guessed, I am not one of those people.

Where is my life going? Why does my weight loss always seem to hit a wall? Why do I read wine literature in times of great spiritual need? All these questions and more have been running through my head over the last few days.

Now, thank Dawkins, I am saved by having to work long hours for the next few days. Back to the groovy grindstone. Yay!

You need 4 basic elements. A Turkey, Turkey Stock, Stuffing, and Gravy.

I am going to assume that your turkey weighs between 10 and 12 pounds (5.5 to 6.5 kilos). And that it comes with giblets. If it doesn't, you can get Turkey Stock from Granville Island, I guess. If neither, use good chicken stock.

O.K. Action. Create all the dry elements of your stuffing the day before. It saves a lot of time on cooking day. You need:-
Lots Of not quite fresh breadcrumbs
2 Onions
Thyme & Parsley
2 Eggs
4 Ounces Melted unsalted Butter
Between a quarter & a half pint of hot chicken stock or water
Salt & Pepper

Ist Stage. Chop the onions finely and mix with the breadcrumbs, chopped fresh herbs, pepper & salt. Leave overnight.
Beat the eggs and mix in to the dry stuffing mix. Melt the butter and mix in. Bring the chicken stock to the boil and mix in enough to moisten the stuffing so that it is not too dry nor too runny.

If you have giblets, make your turkey stock by putting them in a pot with a carrot and an onion cut into decent size chunks, a few peppercorns, and a bouquet garni of a piece of celery, some thyme, some parsley, and a bay leaf. Add a pint and a half of water and bring to the boil. Skim off the crud and simmer for an hour and a half. Strain and keep.

Now for the turkey. Take it from the fridge two hours before you cook it.
With kitchen paper, dry the inside and the outside skin. Remove the scaly leg bits. Now stuff the turkey. It's messy but strangely fulfilling. Now, because you want the meat to be moist, cover all the breast, leg, and wing surfaces with rashers of streaky bacon. Then prepare a cooking parcel of foil. Get two really good sized sheets of foil. Lay the turkey on them so that you can draw up the edges to create a roomy parcel with a pleat running the length of the bird. This gives air space around the old gobbler and helps the moistening process.

Pre-set your oven to 220C(or 200 if fan assisted)/Gas Mark7/425F.

In goes the turkey and cooks for 45 minutes. Then, reduce the temperature to 170C)150C fan-assisted/Gas Mark 3/or 325F and cook for31/2 to 4 hours.

Then turn the heat up again to the higher temperature, take the turkey from the oven...carefully...remove the foil, taking care to ensure that the juices inside the foil go into the roasting tin and not onto the floor. Discard the bacon strips. Baste the turkey with the juices, and return the glisteningly ivory coloured bird to the oven. Cook for a further 40 minutes or so, until you have created a beautifully bronzed work of art.

Remove from the oven. Place on a large plate and cover with a foil tent and leave for at least 35 minutes, while you carry on with veg and gravy. Fopr the gravy, use the juices from the roasting pan, scraping up all the lovely bits, and add the turkey stock. Cook on high heat to reduce a bit. Check for seasoning.
Thicken if you must.

Yipes, what a corker!! Yum YUM...and cold turkey sandwiches the day after.

God Bless you, my children.

I note that Prince William and Kate 'Charles' Middleton are getting married. Why did he give her his mum's old engagement ring? Given that Diana Spencer's marriage was a disaster and she died in a car crash then it could hardly be described as a good luck charm. Still, it's one less thing we have to pay for.

Anyway; the presentation seemed to be going okay. Much clapping and whooping was going on and Jobs was on top form. The event had started out an apology to users but seemed to be ending in the usual spirit of triumphalism.

At this point I became aware that a resurrected Benny Hill had ventured on to the podium. Repeatedly, Hill ran up to Steve Jobs and gave him a few quick little slaps to the centre of his balding head.

Ever the pro, Jobs carried right on and mumbled something about Security needing an alarm clock ap. Hill was not done yet though. No. Not by a long chalk.

He emerged again. This time, slowly walking up behind Jobs. SJ didn't even register the intruder was there. BH placed his hand above the head of the Apple boss. I'd say, Hill's hand can't have been more than two inches from SJ's head.

Why was he doing this? What was Hill trying to prove? The truth is that I don't think anyone in that room was really sure. All that can be said is that after about twenty-five seconds, Jobs whole body appeared to start shimmer and fade.

You'd have thought someone like SJ would have been aware he was dropping out of proceedings at such an alarming rate. I have to hand it to the guy though. He just carried on with the presentation.

I woke up at this point. It was Friday, 6.10am and K had kindly brought me some tea. 'weather outside seemed okay though.

Whatever took place during my sleep, I prefer to think that Jobs would have faded back into existence once Benny Hill removed his hand from the top of SJ's head. We can only guess though.

David Cameron's negotiating team can only bend so far in their increased offer to the Liberal Democrats. Possible support of some watered down version of Proportional
Representation, er, maybe. Perhaps if the Tories were to pitch up today with a few homemade cakes then it may help tip the balance of the negotiations.

In other news.... I was fascinated to come across a video showing a sommelier's analysis of the beverage/legend known as Buckfast. How the wine chap stopped himself from bursting into laughter, I don't understand. Heavy editing was, no doubt, required.

It all means that I'm actually enjoying the illusion of feeling younger thanks to my previous status as a 'young fogey'.

A strange old business.
A rum kind of do.
Some defiance of logic
but somehow strangely true.

Amen.

The odd glass of wine or two doesn't seem to do me much harm. A night on the cheese seems to make me feel drained and dozy the next morning. What is a bloke to do?

If it isn't the cheese hangover then this week so far has been about reeking of chlorine from the pool at Tooting Leisure Centre. The Lido is cold, ice cold. At least it doesn't leave me with cold-like symptoms and (even after a shower) smelling like a chemical plant.

The blerb mountain surrounding the Burgundy 2008 primeur campaign seems to dragging on a bit. My guess is that it's probably a bit of a hard sell given that people know that the hyped-up 2009s are just around the corner.

Wines at the top quality end of the spectrum usually work out, even in dodgy years. The key seems to be reducing the yield of the vine in order to concentrate the carbohydrate energy going into the grapes. Or, to put it another way: cutting off lots of undeveloped bunches prior to ripening in order to ensure the full ripening of what is left.

Burgundy (particularly for the Pinot Noirs) is notorious for chucking sugar into unfermented grape juice in order to boost the potential alcohol. Low end wines in poor years tend to be the worst for this.

K and I have bought a case of red Marsannay and a single vineyard 'standard' pinot noir burgundy from the 2008. They are both from an excellent producer called
Sylvain Pataille. It be inexpensive, quality drinking. If you see any of his wines: buy them!

Seeing the demise of the tenth Doctor Who was always going to be traumatic. It really was like David Tennant died and there appeared a younger imposter to take his place. 'very sad.

The man who is the UK Prime Minister is still older than me, Obama is my senior by many years. But now, now, the actor playing the Doctor is younger than I. This cannot be right.

Swimming in the Tooting Leisure Centre is virtually free for the over 65s. Sadly, in the large apple barrel of fine folks that this altruistic concept attracts, there is a fair share of rotters.

Exactly what kind of selfish eejit insists on doing backstroke down a swim lane designed to fit two people? Exactly how many times do you have to crash into someone before they think: "Mmm, something's wrong here..." Is it ageist to ask whether someone is insane?

Meanwhile, Tooting Bec Lido is fantastic, if fantastically freezing cold. The sense of freedom there is always immense. Sometimes I even manage to get the whole pool to myself. Just me, a 90 metre pool and a swift cuppa at the end of proceedings.

All would be glorious if it wasn't such a shock getting into the sub-7 degrees of Celsius water. 'Scolding' my feet in the water, two or three times before getting in, seems to limit the pain. Only, never really quite enough.

He was fantastic at communicating the hedonistic joy of food. I still enjoy his recipe for Chicken cous cous, on a regular basis. The Floyd On France book remains a favourite.

Good luck, Keith.

One thing that I find back pain is very good for though is focussing the mind.

Today is a day I knew, in my heart of hearts, was coming. Dawn of the Facebook cull. The time when basic realities of life have to be faced. So, it's goodbye vaguely familiar people and those I could well do without. Farewell to those who block any of my cursory attempts at positivity and adios to the extras from my 'good old' school days. Specifically, those who seem to spend their lives in some misty eyed, rose tinted nostalgia trip, yearning for times that never actually existed.

One of the tragedies of adulthood is that the bullies of your childhood are no longer around to arrange to have assassinated. They are, of course, now all grown-up with families of there own. I have no quarrel with these adults, only their child selves.

My resounding memory of childhood is having seven bells knocked out of me by the resident thugs. The reason being was that I was (and am) not well coordinated physically and overweight. A prime target as a punch bag, you might say.

What I really hate about having had the living daylights beaten out of my younger self on a regular basis is the fact that it made me very defensive. You get so used to having to get into fight/flight mode in order to survive that the brain translates everyday trials and tribulations as personal threats. It's only really since being with K. that I have fully recognised this trait. My apologies to anyone who had to put up with me as a teenager.

Thanks to me not being as strict as is advisable with accepting new 'Facebook friends', I have found myself in danger of being vicariously connected to people whose names and faces my subconscious has spent the last 22 years trying to erase.

If there is some space between denial and wallowing in the shit from the past then maybe it's worth staking a claim for.

But enough of that. Let us head upstream...

Almost the last of the wedding vintage (2006) wines arrived yesterday. Domaine Gauby Muntada. The Gaubster is the king of Roussillon wine and I was once proud to meet him with my dad, S. and her friend, Ma.

Seeing Mr Gauby at his domaine in Calce, you could not fail to notice an incredible sense of conviction coming from him when he was talking about his wines. What a guy. What a winemaker: elegant, rich wines that are not burdened with overripeness and the consequent alcoholic, blockbuster style.

Now then; temporary remedies for backache...

College ended with the last exam on 26 May. Being BPP, their end of exams party seemed to be a stratospherically expensive affair. My classmates and I celebrated in suitable style and did not have to wear dinner jackets. Just as well really, as it was a barbecue in a friend's backgarden.

The elections for the European Parliament came and went without too much of a hoo-hah. Now I know that the Parliament has comparatively little power, the BNP are a bunch of neo-Nazis run by some kind of deluded, smug, slime ball. However, what really stood out for me from the election was the ludicrously enormous ballot paper.

Normally, an election gives voters the opportunity to vote, not vote or spoil their ballot. The EuroParl election offered a third option, it seemed to me: use the ballot form as a biodegradable scarf.

Gordon Brown continues to rumble on as Prime Minister. That the robotic, Hazel Blears has escaped from the Cabinet is, perhaps the only silver lining. Although... one time-Tory leader, William Hague seems to be having a rare old time in his role as House of Commons Music Hall comic. My only regret is that he never seems to finish his act on a song.

Incidentally, I never cease to be amazed by just how much of English Music Hall was utter trash amongst all the greats. For total tediousness and an act that is as likely to set the audience alight as sodden newspaper, I heartily recommend Mr Jack Warner (yes, he of Dixon of Dock Green fame). With a catchphrase like "Mind my bike!", he was hardly going to be on to a winner.

The approaching end of the British asparagus season is always a bit sad. Still, we gave it a good send off tonight. Soft boiled Legbar eggs with butter and cider vinegar (yup, saw it on the telly) with a crispy chicken leg plus a side of Jersey Royals. It was the best part of an unexpectedly depressing day.

Spending your time overrun by regret seems to be a waste of anyone's time. Is it as big a waste, professing to regret nothing? Perhaps. I must admit that those types of people always make me kind of suspicious. Maybe what they actually mean is that they're happy with their personal life and wouldn't want to jeopardise it in a spate of ill advised experiments in time travel.

It's tempting to draw a connection between talent and self-destruction, though. Last night, Bruce Weber's 'Let's get lost', the documentary on the magnificent, Chet Baker, was on television. I wanted so badly for Chet to talk about his inspirations; maybe recall a few funny episodes involving other jazz legends, etc. You understand what I'm getting at.

What the interviews with the 57 year old version of Baker actually gave us was the low-down on what makes a good 'speedball.' Not too much cocaine apparently. It gives the whole drug cocktail too much of a rush.

The only real state of perfection is probably our last. Chet reached it a short while after the film was made. If there's an afterlife then I wish him well.

O. and P. flew back to Vancouver today. 'sad to see them go, although if they hadn't then I guess they'd never be able to come back and visit.

It's ten hours flying non-stop, apparently. 'sure hope their arms don't get too tired.