Hello again, my dear,

Christmas is over, the goose is getting thin, who gives a penny for the old man’s sin. My Jan diet starts tomorrow, the 8th. It always takes a week or so of saying “cheers, Happy New Year, old thing!” with libation in hand before I can renounce the stuff for 4-6 weeks as I always at least attempt to do. 

I must say, though, my renown as an imbiber seems to be at risk. On Hogmanay Diane was working, but coming home early. As we left each other that morning I asked if she really thought we could wait up for champers at midnight? She had the truly genius idea of celebrating with a glass at 5pm (UK New Year for Joe and Hannah), then another at 6pm (French NY for Henry, Megan, and the kids). Trouble is, she got home at 7’ish, and we were in bed by 8:30/9:00, so the bottle of Roederer was had for breakfast with porridge on New Year’s Day. Should I be concerned?

On the evening of the 1st we were again in bed at an “ungodly” hour, I think it was 6:30/7:00pm. It really is enough to make one seriously question my credentials as a paid-up member of the boys-behave-badly club. Oh shit, is THIS what being an adult is like?

Our pre-Christmas get-together in Iceland was epic, as I suspect everything on THAT island generally is. On our first day there, having arrived from New York late, but in time for breakfast at our rented cabin at 10:30am, we went off in our hired SUV’s (with studded tyres, de rigeur) on a tour of the frigidly romantic countryside. Arriving back post-gloaming (ie approx 4.5 hours after sun-up) we looked at the track up to our beckoning residence, at the shiny new Volvo in the ditch, at the sinister black sheen on the surface of the volcanic ash roadway, and stopped gingerly. I opened the door to test the surface, which was a veritable ice-rink, an inch thick of ice with freezing rain falling. We very carefully reversed back to a children’s playground to park, resisting the urge to brake too hard, as this solicited immediate locking of wheels and ditchward slides.

Of course, with my 86 year-old parents-in-law with us from Minnesota, help was at hand. They withdrew 4 pairs of clip-on crampons from their carry-on bags (really, who would travel without them) which seriously saved us as we took it in turns to climb the 45 degree-inclined glacial sheet to the warmth of our cabin and its wrap-around deck, stunning views and, most importantly, the frizzing, fuzzing jacuzzi out on the fricking freezing terrace. We next ventured out 40 hours later, when we could actually walk the mile to the cars without risking life and limb. Many philosophical conversations were had, of which unfortunately the precise richness of detail and texture have slipped my mind, but they were definitely deep.

Home-made oatcakes and soda bread absolutely DEMAND slathers of butter, I beg to differ!

“Giving of pot plants” has taken on a slightly different flavour/flavor here in the USA these days. We had brunch with good Californian friends in late December. David is a successful doctor and acupuncturist, but now his principal income stream comes from growing primo weed. California laws surrounding this are famously complicated. He gets grow tags from the Town Hall for each plant, which he grows legally. However when he harvests the grass to take it into town, THAT’S illegal – go figure! All I can say is, since my passing gradually into adulthood, I cannot possibly smoke weed as these new strains just completely debilitate me. However, I have to say that the caramels made by his wife Jen produce a lovely, gentle, little froth of stoned-ness which, if correctly administered, induce a very sweet ripple as one drifts off to sleep.

2018 looks pretty fun from here – 2 of our kids getting married, a new grand-child in March thanks to Hannah, Joe’s new organic supplement business blossoming out from London, Calum graduating from McGill in Montreal and setting out to make that first million in the financial markets from which he has solemnly sworn to buy me a Porsche, and Diane and myself working out what exactly is the next crazy chapter of our storied lives together (for which I am eternally grateful).

You in Red Roof on Tiree!! I have to say, island to island, that the magic which is Manhattan still has an addictive charm for us, but Tiree, well, Tiree is where I would want to be if you said “final choice, mate”. More on that dichotomy ahead, no doubt….

Love as ever, dear Jules

J xxx