Locked out. And winter is here.

Spent two hours assisting the locksmith in trying to pick the seemingly impossible lock to my apartment with my French neighbour's expensive nailfile, a borrowed wire coathanger and an x-ray, in my hastily assembled 'burglar' kit. The locksmith meanwhile had a roll of the x-ray paper too, so not as bonkers as it sounds, along with an array of threatening looking metal implements, not to mention a very loud drill.

When I had left in the morning, my key had literally crumbled in the lock - broken in half. The joy. Guess what worked though? Yup, the coathanger through a hole to hook onto the inside bolt handle trick. Super low-tech and (whispers) my idea. The locksmith couldn't decide whether to be happy for me or not when it worked, since his pride had taken a bashing. 120 whole minutes though. With my kids high on chocolate jumping around in the lobby.

My friend whose husband is manager of a chic Paris hotel warned me that when I understood wine, I'd only be able to drink the 'good stuff' thereon. I scoffed at the idea of ever being that fussy about anything other than men. But here I am. As a celebratory toast to my return indoors, the Pinot Noir is screaming 'drink me!'  But it just ain't up to scratch.  I put the kettle on for an English Breakfast tea.