I’ve been a little slack on the updating over the last few days as my adventures have been slightly limited by rain and apartment hunting. Happily, it’s now stopped raining and we move into our new place mid this week. We’ll be heading further midtown, so expect lots of wandering around Central Park and museum mile over the next month.

You *might* be aware that the Olympics started at the weekend in my hometown. I remember huddling around a television in the office I was working at in London Bridge seven years ago, expectantly awaiting the announcement of who was going to get to host. New York City was actually in consideration at one point, but in the end it was down to London and Paris. I’ve never been especially interested in the Olympics, I’m not huge on national pride and I don’t love watching sport, so it’s just not really my bag. However, standing in a group of excited Londoners, anticipating a chance to get one over on the Parisians (in a purely jovial manner, of course) I got quite excited. I audibly squeed when we won, did a little jig and then promptly forgot about it. I’ve only paid it much attention in the years since when reading reports of how much it’s costing and how much we couldn’t afford it, so I was never especially concerned about being away from home when it happened.

Toward the end of last week though, the excitement started to build again. Not for the games, I still don’t like sport (except gymnastics, which is basically just cute little girls dancing*), but for the opening ceremony. Largely because I have a lot of love for Danny Boyle (who masterminded the whole thing) and a lot of hate for Mitt Romney, who gave a verbal side-eye to our ability to host. The ceremony was only being broadcast in edited highlights on US TV, but I spied an Irish pub that had a live satellite feed and so headed down on my tod to soak in the atmosphere. I was soon joined by some lovely American ladies and we proceeded to get very drunk. My little heart swelled with national pride at the bizarre, yet lovely (and timely, given what’s happening to it at the moment) NHS tribute. I learnt that Americans really, really like Mr. Bean and, sadly, don’t know who Dizzee Rascal is. The shot of Michael Fish (a British weather man who mislead us into thinking there wasn’t going to be a storm in the 80’s when there was) confused most everyone, including me, give the Fish a break, it was over twenty years ago… Seems we take our weather very seriously, us Brits. The whole thing was a little scatty and odd, but that’s what made it distinctly British and I felt proud of my city and country as I watched it. So proud, in fact, that we finished the night with all you can drink booze and karaoke, nothing says ‘I love my country’ like out of tune singing, eh? None of this would have happened if Paris had got the games, so I say yay, even if I’m already a bit bored of hearing about all the rest of it already. Though less bored than the queen, apparently.

I feel any blog post is improved by a brunch picture, so here is what we ate to cure our hangovers the next day. We went to the Bluebell Cafe on 3rd, as we’d had a delicious dinner there last week. It was pretty decent, though I think my standards have dropped following the dreadful, pricey Pastis last week. I had my usual combo (I really should start changing it up, but I do loves me some bacon, eggs and potatoes) while Mr me had crab cake benedict, which I neglected to photograph before he’d started tucking in. Mine was accompanied by an American ‘biscuit’, which is not an actual biscuit but a sweet bread roll, sadly.

*I’m being facetious. Don’t write in etc etc.

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