Bunkering down in Berlin

Sir S and I flew our little red plane over Berlin and crashlanded sausage-side, where we parachuted into the cosy digs of one St John Nottlesby with the last of our chocolate rations intact.

As to be expected, Notts was a super guide. Having gone native, the fellow nattered on in the local lingo with ease, took us out to some glorious cafes and restaurants, including a charming Russian Jewish restaurant of esteemed crepes, and a sunny delightful beer garden. 

Evening decadence too was overindulged upon in Weimar Berlin style. We stepped the Charleston in the sauciest of dark dance halls and flirted with fine company in the sexiest of speakeasies, and it being Easter, we downed the most gruesome and potent of nectars ("Mashed Chick", wherein the strawberry liqueur mush was rather worrying) and had a brush with a delightful polar bear (but thankfully did not fall into the pit like one poor fraulein). 

A grand weekend!