Saturday with Madame Bovary

I both love and despise Flaubert's first novel, Madame Bovary.

I loathe  Emma for her spendthrift displaced misery and sappy   daydreaming and yet I recognise myself in her unadulterated lust for the beautiful, the transcendent which makes the grind of provincial housewifery just that bit more bearable.

Perhaps she is my Jungian shadow figure. But enough of that psychobabble tosh, look at my beautiful new edition. Does it not remind you of...

Yes, there may be more of Emma in myself than I care to acknowledge. Though God forbid I ever become  a Barbara Cartland reading shopaholic.

I had a meeting at the Corinthian whose interior I love. It looks like the Central Perk for  holy choirs of cherubim and seraphim. Though don't even think that their rosy cheeked bottoms are allowed anywhere near the cobra hooded Louis chairs, those are reserved for the high posteriors of the archangels. 

BUMP.

What's that noise? Ah yes that was me back at home, polishing off baked beans on toast - lashings of butter on the scorched  bread please. This humble repast would have set Madame Bovary off on an adulterous frenzy with the nearest banker but Curator, Claire and I  kicked off a culinary satyricon as we salivated over a baked beans on toast orgy  last week. Do you know that over  90% of tinned baked beans are consumed by Brits? It's a bit weird isn't it?

Do note that most of the sauce must be drained off prior to heating to ensure optimal butteriness to soak through.

In the evening, having at last whittled off my 5lbs Christmas excess, I dressed in fine lace for a night at the opera, Emma would have liked that; however the dress is 15 years old, Emma would not have liked that. 

I indulged in a glass of Veuve, a much more cheery tipple than Emma's choice of cocktail - arsenic on the rocks. Some women just don't know how to handle their drink.