Le Jour J

Le Jour J is a French idiomatic expression which is equivalent to D-Day; however, in French it can also be used to mean "the big day." It is in this sense that I am using it - I do not plan to invade the beaches of France quite yet.

My cousin's wedding approaches; three o'clock is the hour. Incidentally, Jesus Christ was crucified at the third hour. I'm quite sure there are no similarities between the two events.

My father is still working on his speech. He is a very chilled out man; if he were any more laid back he'd fall off the face of the Earth. My mother and I, on the other hand, prefer to plan ahead - to have things at least rehearsed. You can imagine, then, the tension in our house as the hour draws closer and my father insists that the speech needs the bounce and the banter that comes from having bare bones notes. A large part of me has faith that he'll pull it off, and with panache, but that doesn't quite drown out the other part, which is imagining horrible scenarios in which he forgets everything and just stares goofily around the room.

My mother has made a cake for the wedding, and I'd like to share it with you. Perhaps it's because I'm related, but I think this cake looks - well, you tell me.

EDIT: My editor has told me that these photos are not to be made available to the general public until after the event. 

We apologise for this break in the usual programming. A description follows, for those with imagination.

The flowers on the top are individually hand made and edible. The cake itself is a fruit base with two sponge layers on top. The cake is dressed in lace, which is rolled out on a mould and fitted to the cake.

The box and the lace mould came from Cake Craft World in Sevenoaks, but the work is pretty much all down to my mother, with a little help from a friend who came over for a cup of tea and ended up adding icing pearls to this amazing cake.

Bear in mind that as she did this, she also cooked a lasagne for fix people.

The cake is incredibly heavy and has a seat to itself on the coach we've booked to take us to the wedding. It is the second most important guest of honour and at the moment is dressed a lot better than I am - no lace for me, just a charcoal three-piece.

Yesterday's riddle was a little easy, I suspect, especially for anyone who like Harry Potter. Mundungus is a lovely word that means stinky old tobacco. Interestingly he's also a Fletcher, which is an old word for someone who put the barbs on arrows.

Most of my lawyer student friends spend a lot of time in bars - probably too much. But they're also studying to be a bar-rister. What's the connection?

It looks like it's time to get ready. My darling sister is trying to convince me to have a haircut. I had one less than six months ago, I surely don't need another.

I'm on the road again

I have travelled back to the land of my fathers, where the place known as Hill Hill Hill can be found. Hill in Welsh is pen, and invaders who settled there called it Pen Hill, assuming pen to be the name of the hill. Before long, more invaders had arrived, and over time the hill in question had become Pendle. The same thing happened again, and Pendle Hill, or Hillhill Hill, can still be found in Lancashire.

I am back in these United Kingdoms until Monday and I'm really excited about the weekend ahead. Tonight my parents are making a lasagne, a treat without compare when you consider I have no access to oven facilities in my chic little studio apartment.

Before I left I finished all my work and actively sought out my supervisor to make sure she knew I was leaving - the last thing I need this weekend is a call about an urgent translation, especially as my phone is patchy at best here - and made some minor adjustments to the Student's Association's application for sponsorship to some local businesses.

We're off to a wedding tomorrow, and I've been requested to bring my camera - if I take any particularly good shots I'd love to share them here, but it means I shall have to avoid drinking myself under the table. Weddings strike me as an odd sort of affair, people being given away like presents and members of each party eying each other up in the hope of further strengthening ties between the two families - something that also apparently happens under the tables, so if I drink myself into a stupor at least I'll still have subjects.

I went into the local supermarket before I went home, as I've promised to bring my boss back some Marmite. At first she thought I said marmalade and turned her nose up; "Je n'aime pas des confitures," she said: I don't like jams. "Ah non", I said, "it's savoury, a British delicacy." So she agreed to try this spread, little suspecting that it is one of the foulest things we've ever invented. In any case, I went, I got in line, and after some light flirty banter with the cashier I made it home.

I like flirty banter, and I humbly suggest that more people do it in their day-to-day life.

I'm also going up to see an old school pal in Loughborough on Sunday, where I suspect I shall look entirely out of place amongst the über-fit and healthy students of the university. And then a swift journey back on Monday to London and then on to home and my oven-less studio apartment.

The scent of lasagne is calling me to the table, but before I leave, I ask:

Which character from the world of literature always smells like old, stinking tobacco?