Mei and I were seated at a long table with a whole host of interesting people from a variety of countries. There were a couple of other smaller tables too and couple of foodbloggers I recognised – Magnus and Beth.

The attention to detail was stunning, with each napkin made of a different material, bottles of tapwater and bowls of buttery, chilli popcorn to nibble on. The table was not so much clothed as wrapped in brown parcel paper and had the menu and little notes written all over it, encouraging us to interact with our neighbours to find out what we’d be eating.

We started with a dish I recognised from Ashburton cookery school: homemade tortelli filled with goats cheese and orange pepper, with a fresh pesto sauce and topped with a deep fried basil leaf. This was followed by lamb loin with creamy dauphinoise potatoes, crunchy green beans, mushrooms and a heavenly madeira sauce. We were also served with an amuse-bouche of lemongrass and coconut sorbet served in a spoon.

A trio of desserts was brought out with a flourish and plenty of ‘ooohs’ and ‘ahhhhhs’ from fellow diners. The Turkish delight cheesecake was a recipe from Marcus Wareing’s new book Nutmeg & Custard, but Lex had put her own twist on it, creating a topping of pomegranate floss from her local Turkish grocer. It was so good I nearly fell off my chair.

We were served with pink bubbly to start and Australian muscat plus coffee or tea to finish. All in all, a truly satisfying meal in stylish surroundings, hosted with real care and attention. Looking forward to your Banjo Patterson night ladies!

In March I got excited by and involved in promoting the Big Lunch, but not quite as involved as art student Stephanie above, who is wearing a cabbage as a hat.

And went to a very strange party populated by green people, lions  and long pepper at the Lord of Bath’s house.

I also followed a trail of flowers and cryptic clues to The Sea Flower, an ultra-secret Dalston supper club at the home of marvellous mixologist Grant. He ran it for three consecutive nights each week, each time featuring a different cuisine. This week was a vegetarian Indian feast, which had been cooked by an Indian family and then trolleyed across London on the overground.

The room had been transformed into an Indian tent; the walls and ceiling were hung with silk and we sat like sultans on piles of cushions at low, white tables, palm trees sprouting from the centre of each one.

I spent much of the night discussing life-changing plans with my friend Tam, some international photography students and a large tiger.

Among the dishes served were bowls of crispy, yoghurty, fresh, spicy goodness, which were passed around the table. The meal was finished off with little parcels of paan, as well as hookahs and apple tobacco. Wine was shared and the most delicious cocktails were mixed. Each person donated what they thought the meal was worth into a large music box, complete with twirling ballerina.

I came home from work on Tuesday 31st March with the sinking realisation that not only did I not want to have dinner the next day with seventeen lawyers, but that I never wanted to speak to another lawyer ever again. (That was, of course, an exaggeration. I’ve spoken to lawyers since – many of the more interesting ones have been to Rambling Restaurant and I have some lovely lawyer friends! The ones I was primarily fed up with were, for example, those that insisted on holding conference calls in the car on the way to their best friend’s funeral or those that revelled in their success in evicting small tribes from rainforests and acting for large retailers in child labour cases…)

April 1st was not only April Fools day but the day of the G20 London Summit. There were protests scheduled at Bank, where I was due to have dinner, and I was having visions of being suited and booted in a restaurant with a fat cat clientele and suitably patriarchal name, coming face-to-face with surprised acquantainces protesting outside the window. It wasn’t just that: it’s incredibly frustating being presented with a plate of beautifully cooked food, but having to battle with pen, notebook and some sort of constructive legal conversation while your dish goes cold and sad before your very eyes. What a waste!

So I spent the night talking with my sister, flatmate and oldest friend (all three legends) and drew up a pros and cons list for quitting my job. The cons list was pretty short and mainly consisted of variations on the theme of “it’s a bad idea to quit a good job during a recession”. But when is a good time to quit? Five and half years of desk jobbing was enough. There were many many items on the pros side and the list just keeps on growing.