I’m writing this in my home office while tucking into a breakfast of leftovers from last night. It’s spicy rice, spinach and flame-grilled chicken.
I can see you turning up your pretentious bourgeois nose. I don’t care. And, in case you thought I was suffering from a hangover, I’m not. I would have told you. Alcohol and I are loyal to each other. We don’t deny each other in public.