Until you're resting here with me...
This weekend was quite manic, and aaaaall about the standing! It started on Thursday, when we went to see Madonna! At Wembley Stadium, no less. Huge, impressive, got my boogie on, had a generally good time. Many screens. Many paparazzi. Saw Kate Hudson, Fergie and Gwyneth Paltrow (who we loved). Had a mare getting home because the show overran by some ridiculous amount of time, then we did a "time-saving" train manoeveur that backfired on us and missed the last train home... but worth it. Foot level: sore.
Me, Logan and Harriet outside Wembley, looking
very serious for some reason.
Blurry Madge.
Blurry stage.
They were photographing us, not the celebrities
behind us. Honest.
Friday night, after deciding we hadn't had enough standing, Jarrod, Logan and I went to the second-to-last-night of the Proms at the Royal Albert Hall. Not quite the last night, but we did our best. Getting there involved getting lost in the rain for a while and then sitting in a queue against a wall on the street for ages, but I was feeling the solidarity with my 16th-century brothers and sisters and had quite the plebian vibe going down. The orchestra (BBC London Philharmonic) and choir were suitably impressive, playing an eerie modern piece for the victims of Hiroshima before a rousing rendition of Beethoven's 9th (causing me to have bloody Ode to Joy in my head for the rest of the night). Well worthwhile, and cultural, too! Foot level: excruciating. Lower back not much better.
Saturday was spent reclining, by necessity, and then in the evening the boys came round for dinner, champagne that Debbi left behind and Christmas planning (we're going to Slovenia, randomly). Had some incredibly... interesting conversations about, well, let's call it anatomy, ate and drank lots, eventually collapsed in the early hours of the morning.
Sunday morning was spent watching Roswell with Jarrod and Logan, then they went home and I had a nap. Thought my feet hadn't quite had enough for one weekend, so later on I wandered over to have dinner with Logan, then we headed into the city for the last night of the Thames Festival. Struck it really bad on the bus front and left poor Jarrod sitting by himself on Milliennium Bridge for quite some time in the process.
Joyous on the 26... or something.
The festival was festivally (festive, even), with stalls and food and people and smells. We parked ourselves in the middle of Blackfriars Bridge for the culmunitive fireworks display, which was well worth the 20 more minutes standing (foot level... ah, don't even ask). Tube home, blessed, blessed bed.
Looking towards Westminster from Millennium Bridge.
St Pauls from the South Bank.
Looking towards the Tate Modern from Blackfriars Bridge.
The sore-foot gang.
Jarrod is purple!