I don't want to know...

...how many kidneys a lamb has.

Because if they're are anything like us – and I’m fairly sure they are, at least in this respect - I may have eaten my way through four little guys. With a side of bacon.

I wish I could say:

a. That it was four in the morning, and I was drunk.

(I wasn't. It was a sober dinner.)

b. That I misunderstood the menu description.

(I didn't. It said "Lamb kidneys with bacon." I got lamb kidneys with bacon.)

c. That my reason for choosing the restaurant - it was the favourite haunt of Viggo Mortensen - was ultimately justified; that my prolonged deliberations over "should I eat kidney number-that-shall-not-be-named?" were interrupted by the cast of the Hobbit mirthfully parading in and regaling me with tales over many a pint and unshod tabletop jigs.

(They didn't. But isn't that a great offal-OD-induced hallucination?)

No, none of the above happened. I just ate a ridiculous amount of lamb kidneys. I told myself that this, along with other slightly shameful Kiwi dining experiences, has been a lesson in how the other half eats. But in this case that would only be true if "the other half" meant Johan and Eddy. And even that's a stretch. They have standards and limits.

On the way home I bought spinach and a carrot as some sort of pathetic attempt to atone for yet another sin of gluttony.

In fact my greater shame is that this is my first post from New Zealand, where I have been visiting wineries, working the harvest, chasing hobbits, discovering the glories of the Kiwi Pilsner, and eating an awful lot of offal. (Sorry, it had to happen.) Now that I've left the internet desert of Central Otago - and only have the minor distraction of writing my thesis - I'll write a bit more about exactly what I have been doing here. Of course I'll have to figure that out, first.