Yes, that is a bowl of christmas pudding and ice cream.
And yes, I am eating it at 2.30 in the afternoon.
And no, I don’t care that Christmas was months ago. There is enough alcohol in this thing to kill any lingering Christmas nasties.
I have resorted to such a desperate sugar treat, because the need was so great, I couldn’t even wait the 4.5 minutes it takes to make my famous chocolate brownie.
It has been quite a week.
The sale of the restaurant only just went through about an hour ago because (including but not limited to):
• one lawyer going overseas
• one party making a claim against another
• another lawyer never being available and leaving the office by 4.30 every day
• massive, utter, complete communication breakdowns which we were powerless to fix
• people getting the wrong dates on their calendars
• one party refuting claims made against them
• chinese whispers being a really ineffective method of transmitting information
• people are nuts
• and dodgy
• and sneaky
• and mean.
In short, we were the meat between two pieces of stale, crusty, thick-cut, doughy bread and there was absolutely nothing we could do about it.
But now it is done, and we are (we think) the official owners of a restaurant.
The refit has begun (ten days late) and somehow we’re hoping to still open on the original date intended.
(I’ve been in touch with the night elves and they reckon they can work their magic over a few nights if I leave out enough magic dust).
What’s done is done.
We’ve got a restaurant to open.