February 17: Kick me baby, one more time

There’s a cosy restaurant up in the mountains that has become a firm family favourite. It's in a tiny village, at the top of very very steep steps. Each time we've been, like a faithful dog, there's been a man sat at the bar who wears a fur hat. He laughs as we pant our way through the door. In pigeon English, the best he’s come up with is, ‘Ha, this is not Mount Everest, you know’ which is quite funny, considering the language barrier. Then there's the staff, who give away free shots at the bar, should you want one. But, the best bit, without doubt, is the food. Honestly, if it’s a choice of Gordon Ramsey’s or this, I’d be sorely tempted.
Tonight, I had my favourite; a huge bowl of avocado and spinach salad with a warm sundried tomato, walnut, honey and balsamic dressing (and a side of chips). Muy bien!
The coat remained on (I’m still freezing) but half way through, Bump began kicking the hell out of me. I wolfed it down. He kicked some more, big bootylicious kicks exploding in all directions. He kicked all evening, all the way down the twisty windy mountain road, all that night as I lay still in the dark with my hat on.
I think he must have liked it. He has never, ever, ever kicked so much. He seemed to be saying, ‘Yes, yes, this is what babies are meant to eat. Feed me more of this healthy, nutritious, green-leafed iron-filled fooder and I will grow into a beautiful handsome Adonis.’
Perhaps my diet over the past month hasn’t been much to write home about. All we’ve eaten largely – given the state of the moving-house operation and everyone’s general state of exhaustion – has been egg and chips, beans on toast, pasta splodge….
I write down the salad ingredients on the memo-pad of my phone, in a bid to replicate it when I get home. I’ll try harder, Bump, I think. I’ll try.