The high point of my Dream Weekend (Isle of Wight whisky grins, a golden 57% straight from the cask, tastings by the sea, ginger ale and whisky cocktails on a catamaran, free umbrellas/scarves/hip flasks/radio ear pieces, stolen whisky glasses, quail eggs thrown from canapes, a perfect firework display launched from a barge only metres away, hot toddies with cloves, mugs of tea and crosswords after midnight, cake straight from the oven for guests no matter what the time, wandering along Keats Avenue and past Rivendell where Tolkien wrote his trilogy, sea winds, Kevin Spacey being all kingly and captivating, hokey-pokey ice cream in little tubs, Lebanese food in Marylebone, bites of baklava, Sunday morning flower markets and chai tea lattes while walking through the park) was a Friday night drive from the harbour to his home. Roof down, blanket on my knees, dark night, over 80 mph, hair flying and knotted, head back and eyes watering, looking up to the stars and shouting loudly along to John's '8os Mega Mix'. Power ballads at the top of our lungs.
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