As my faithful pussycats slumber by my side I thought I’d take the time to regale you all with the tale of our recent trip in Milan. The purpose of the Valentine’s weekend getaway was to give Antoine’s sister, Laurence, away to the highest bidder…sorry, I mean to see her get married to the marvellous Maximiliano.
The happy couple looked radiant in their stylish wedding apparel, as they became legally bound to one another, in the town hall by the historic Duomo Cathedral. Given the mixed nationalities of the couple, the ceremony itself was thoughtfully presented in first Italian and then French. I must say that the stereotype of Italians talking with their hands was well and truly reinforced by the lovely lady who officiated, as there seemed to be a constant flurry of movement throughout the proceedings.
From there it was a rather short stroll to the reception where a five-hour-long lunch was held to help celebrate the joyous union. Dear gods the food! So much delicious, stomach bloating food! Not to mention the seemingly endless champagne and magically refilling glasses of wine. Thankfully, we were only staying a few blocks away and were able to waddle back home for a brief nap before dutifully reporting back for cocktails and nibblies later that evening. How I managed to eat anything at all after the thoroughly stuffing lunch remains a mystery. Fortunately, we then retired earlyish for some much needed sleep and digestion ahead of the next round of celebrations.
The following morning saw us heading to Armani, where we indulged in a spot of shopping before ascending into the skies to enjoy a heavenly brunch on the 7th floor of the Armani Hotel…the chicory and truffle crepes were absolutely divine, I tell you. The place was exactly as one would expect; minimalist décor, trim and attractive staff dressed in tasteful black outfits – I particularly liked the cropped jackets of the waiters – and Armani branding right down to the water and sugar cubes. The brunch was in a buffet format and came in model-sized portions with tiny versions of club sandwiches, Milanesas and the like. I should note, however, that the serving size was easily overcome with multiple trips back to the buffet, despite the completely unjustified judgemental looks from some members of our own party.
After bidding adieu to the newlyweds, who were off to enjoy their honeymoon in Barbados, we practically needed to be rolled back to the airport. Of course, now that we’re back in gay Paris there is a strict diet of bread and water – by which I obviously mean brioche and champagne. Speaking of which, my glass is empty and I can’t possibly be expected to get any work done without an inspiring alcoholic buzz.