Cheers! I can still mix my cocktails with Ramadan

AS YOU read this, if all goes to plan, I should be lounging in a beautiful Moroccan garden. It’s been a long, gloomy winter. Some southern sun and different tastes and smells will be so welcome. However, I hadn’t realised that we would be arriving as Ramadan was in full swing.

Across Morocco, many places are always alcohol-free, though usually it is possible to drink in the hotels and a few restaurants.

But Ramadan is an exception. Would that mean that a lunchtime glass of wine, such a treat on holiday, wouldn’t be available, nor pre-dinner cocktails, something I never have at home?

Such was my conflicted emotions that I didn’t immediately do the obvious and call the hotel in advance to check out the position. I feared that would make me sound completely craven.

No. I started to sketch out Plan B. How much alcohol could I stuff into my carry-on at Gatwick and sneak into the hotel?

Even thinking this way made me feel like a complete alcoholic.

Of course, the good fairy on my shoulder was saying I would be fine – a dry week would do me nothing but good.

But the bad elf, who is a more honest reflection of my character, was warning me that if I didn’t find a way of getting some drink, I was going to be a real misery-guts on the holiday. (Incidentally, my partner

David doesn’t drink.)

Luckily, in the end, I plucked up courage to phone the hotel and ask what the situation would be.

I felt a bit embarrassed at asking, but what a relief. The drinks will flow and my carry-on can remain a vodka-free zone.

Six bins sounds like a really rubbish idea

SPRING is springing and, as ever, along comes some primeval urge to get the house in shape. But oh for the good old days when you could just toss everything into a roll of bin bags regardless of what it might be.

Now you can’t chuck anything away without first having to consider how it should be recycled.

Broken chargers, torn sheets, almost-at-an-end lipsticks, chipped mugs, the wrong type of suntan lotion. I want them all out of my life but know that I can’t just chuck them in the bin which will end up in landfill.

And where, by the way, is the correct place to dispose of rubber bands?

In theory, I welcome the new plans to introduce uniformity to the country’s recycling programmes, which currently differ between areas. For example, there’s one system for our house in Labourled Brent and quite another for my mother’s flat in Labour-controlled Westminster.

But I’m definitely not so keen on the idea of six different bins, which are part of the new proposal.

Who on earth has got room for all of those? Such complexity would work as the opposite of the nudge technique of change whereby we are slowly encouraged into new practices.

Instead, six bins would be more of a hefty shove and make some people, already borderline refuseniks, stop bothering at all.

All change: ID cards make perfect sense

IT’S rare that I am in agreement with Tony Blair and William Hague (and probably quite rare they are in agreement themselves), but their recent joint proposal for everyone in the UK to have digital ID cards makes complete sense.

A few weeks ago, I travelled from London to Switzerland by train, involving several changes of station. At each one I panicked about losing my passport during the transfer. This is not an irrational fear, since I have managed to lose my passport more frequently than anyone might think possible.

The British consulates of Rome, Athens, Ibiza have all made my acquaintance.

How much easier it would be if we didn’t have to carry around a physical passport and could just have our ID checked electronically.

It’s utterly insane that we are still reliant on a little booklet to allow us access to other countries, lovely as it may be to look nostalgically at all the countries and dates that have been franked into the pages.

Dinner with friends … the Sunday best

SUNDAY evenings have been coming in for a lot of flak recently. Certainly, they can become bogged down making to-do lists and be a rather dispiriting waiting room for Monday.

But last weekend we were invited to a highly enjoyable Sunday dinner with friends. I’m now a big fan. Sunday evening dinners are an excellent way to flip the mind. Rather than being a drab ending to the week, Sunday evenings can be a springboard to get the following week off to a good start.

How Nigella caused a stir in the kitchen

SPEAKING of supper, though I say it myself, I made a delicious fish pie the other night. The recipe came from Nigella Lawson’s first cookbook, How To Eat. Truthfully, the quantities were a little out of whack for my taste. I needed a bit more liquid for the sauce, but even so it was a triumph, as almost all the recipes from Nigella’s book have proven to be.

However, there was a point, somewhere between making the roux, skinning the fish, the endless stirring of the sauce and the mashing of the potato where I said to myself: ‘Next time you decide to cook fish pie, don’t! Remember this moment. It’s such a blinding chore.’

Of course, all was forgotten and forgiven as soon as we tucked into the golden saffron-scented dish.

Getting a buzz out of chunky bones

I’VE got to an age where the weirdest things give me pleasure. For instance, the results of a bone density scan last week which I passed with flying colours. I hadn’t ever considered bone density before. My bones feel pretty solid to me and, indeed, I often blame my weight on having such chunky bones. But I was advised to have them checked.

It used to be magazine awards and scoops that gave me a selfcongratulatory buzz, but times change. Now the condition of my bones are a source of immense pride – hence the fact that I’m boastfully sharing the information with you.