20 December 2027
Monday. A week before Christmas, and I have read back through a year of this diary with a glass of something red.
Menus: fifty-two, one for every week, not one of them repeated. Aprons: more than I can justify. Seating plans redrawn: I stopped counting in March. Times I have been called a copycat: fewer than last year, which is either progress or the newspapers have run out of ink.
Times I have been home when my guests woke: none. Times I have been home when they left: none. I have made peace with this. A host who is always out is a host who is always talked about.
I note with pride that in a whole year of writing, I have not put down one word that would help a guest out of my locker. Not one. That is what the other diary is for. This one is for gravy.
I have also visited the people who built my kitchen, the craftspeople who made the freezers, the table and every hook, and I thanked them in my best copperplate. They said I was very welcome and asked me not to rearrange the props again. I made no promises.
— B., your host
