This morning, dragon breath leaking from my lips, I walked hand-in-hand with my Lady Love along the canal. Wood smoke from our neighbours on the cut kissed the air, frost teased the cobbles. This might all sound somewhat chocolate box, but it qualifies as standard for this time of year in the Three Bridge Kingdom.
However, it has to be said that whist it is common to wend our rosey-cheeked way along the towpath as the city begins to wake, I do not usually do it wearing full black tie. The blame for such out of place ostentation lies in last night. Last night was an awards ceremony. This meant a Mayfair hotel, Dara Ó Briain, champagne, sea bass with a Pernod sauce, aerial silk showgirls and 10-foot tall porcelain androids wearing Venetian carnival masks.
Generally, I do not like award ceremonies. The constant forced mentions of corporate sponsors makes you ache for the blade, the table talk tends towards mind-crushingly dull and I never win. Yet surrounded by good Yorkshire company and with the Grosvenor House threatening to tumble into an episode of Doctor Who, enjoying myself was easy – despite the fact it looked as if the volto might have had laser weapons built into their black opal eye sockets.