I've been away for far too long to play catch-up. The Downton Abbey flower show at Kew Gardens was hilariously bonkers; that's the Dowager and Mrs Crawley taking tea (rather disappointing that one - but you should have seen Thomas the Footman imprisoned in vines and poisonous skullduggery). The Royal Ballet adaptation of Like Water for Chocolate was entrancing, even from from my cheap(ish) ticket up in the gods, especially as I hadn't been to the Royal Opera House since my lavish-spending days pre-retirement (sob). HMS Pinafore at the Coliseum seemed like a jolly festive idea but was far too carry-on and pantomime for me, and starred the ghastly Mel whatshername from Bakeoff; yes, my fault I didn't read the blurb properly, but at least there were some good tunes. And if that seems a lot of going-out, well I have been away for three months.

But at least I have one up-to-date recommendation because The Tale of Silyan only opened a few days ago. (We saw it at the ICA which, despite its swanky address on the Mall, is possibly the shabbiest venue in London once you get inside.)It is a Macedonian documentary - I know, that doesn't scream 'rush to buy a ticket' - about a struggling farmer, whose family has been forced to emigrate, who adopts a stork with a broken wing. The cinema was packed with that lovely feeling that the whole audience was riveted by the true story. The bonus was a Q&A session afterwards with the young filmmakers. It only seems to be on at a handful of cinemas but if you can catch it, it's well worth it.

Maybe I should rebrand myself as Mrs Miniver's Quarterly - but here I am back again wth the usual good intentions, spurred on by a nice comment from Pam who is kind enough to miss me. But tonight I can't claim I'm 'too busy' as I'm home alone on a Saturday night - and yes, there is still a bit of me that feels that's social disaster, even at my age! I suppose I could have made a bit more effort but dinner was half a bottle of red and a whole tub of Pringles (and I don't mean one of the mini tubs!). Lips are burning and yes, it serves me right. And then I watched Christmas in Connecticut - about a food writer who can't cook - to assuage my post-UPF regret. I'll have you know that I spent last weekend baking 17th century mince pies from a long-lost recipe; much faffing and guessing quantities and in all honesty, they weren't as nice as the pies I usually make.

I can't say I'm feeling Christmassy yet, though most of the presents have been bought - which is entirely out of character for me - and there have been several outings that brought a chance to admire the London lights. Possibly best seen from a bus as the crowds are something else this year, or maybe I'm just getting old. Best outing by far was the hilarious David Copperfield at the tiny Jermyn Street Theatre, performed by an energetic cast of three; sitting on the end of the front row, I was worried that Mr Murdstone might trip over my feet and land on my lap. I also went to a matinée of the RSC's Wendy and Peter Pan - bizarrely on a rare sunny day when it was warm enough to sit on the Barbican terrace without a coat. The set was amazing and the flying scenes were stunning but shrill feminist Wendy was totally charmless, jokes that made school parties laugh went over my head (oh lord, I've turned into my mother!) and it went on far too long for me and I nodded off. Anyway, it has ended now, long before Christmas and the school hols which seems odd.