(no subject)
I blame Hilary Swank. There I was, unexpectedly staying in on a Friday evening - quelle horreur! - so I watched a DVD that I really don't remember ordering. It was some dire and faintly racist romcom set in New York and rural Ireland and shouldn't have made any emotional impact on me at all - in fact in my normal mood I don't think I would have got to the end - but I ended up being a slightly crumpled and lonely mess and headed for bed still lightly sniffling. I swear the Tunisian has some psychic link to when I am feeling like this, and sure enough the late night texts began. He was finishing dinner at some friends' pad in Mayfair and goaded me into inviting him round despite the fact I was sitting in bed with no makeup and no booze in the house.'Oh well' I mused, 'if he can cope with me *au natural* and doesn't bolt for the hills then he must actually be a bit into me'. So he came round, hit his head on the low-flying hall light as per, and joined me in bed for a low-key slumber party. He rolled huge joints and explained the Tunisian economy to me whilst I lay back and chuckled away at how strangely bonkers he is. It was actually very sweet. And no he didn't baulk at the sight of my unpainted face and vest 'n' pant combo.
I had to kick him out early the next day as I was meeting the Eark and the Countess to go shopping and lunching. He wasn't best pleased - how come boys sleep so much? He actually said he was going back to his (handily a mere ten minute walk) to get back into bed - what a waste of a weekend! I gave him the Coldplay album that Stef had given me, he was ridiculously grateful. And as long as he stays looking like Ronaldo (sadly without the sculpted abs) I think I will keep a side of the bed free.
Went out on Saturday night with S to the Albion to meet G, K, and R - we chilled in the beer garden whilst all the girls fussed over Archie who was tying himself and all the furniture up in knots. 'Mickey from Eastenders' was there with a gang of gakked up shouty mates who were actually standing IN the doorway so that there was no escaping them. The former has perfected his 'yes it IS me!' nod, it was making us scream. We got in the car and went round the block when I realised my card was still behind the bar. We screeched back to the pub and they told me I wasn't up to the card limit so I stood there on my own doing vodka shots until the appropriate total was reached. 'I KNEW that would happen' was K's retort as I staggered back into the back seat.
We then decamped to G's garden with a bottle of vodka and two portions of chips and had a good old blether, barely noticing that K had had a few too many mez-ures and was now talking in tongues. Then her fella turned up to try and take her home and we all got a chance to vet him whilst she was burbling away t herself in the background - it was a very funny night and I felt quite rough the next day.
I rallied in time to have lunch at Shoreditch House with Slack, her mum and Firg which was rather jolly. S was there too on a separate lunchdate. Straight after eating F stripped down to a bikini and sailors hat and jumped in the pool - I followed suit (sans headgear) only vaguely alarmed by those apocryphal warnings about not swimming straight after eating. We had the pool to ourselves and supped rose wine from plastic glasses in the shallow end between bouts of juicy gossip - no nicer way to spend a Sunday really.
I've just been swimming at the rather more humble council baths - I had to share a lane with a horrible fat beardy bloke in tight Speedos. The man in the next lane that I see every week was laughing at me as I couldn't help but psychically recoil every time beardy did a tumble turn in the shallow end and stuck his hairy arse above water. Boke doesn't cover it.
Packed weekend ahead. Tomorrow night there's some party at the C to commemorate Muriel Belcher's birthday that might be worth a look, especially now the 'Save the Col' campaign has turned into two warring factions (with the same aim) and people are being barred/kicking off right left and centre. Then on Friday night it's an evening chez the Bourne with Jimmy and Bengo which promises to be a hoot. The next day I have a morning to pack my hanky on a stick in preparation for Wakestock. Yes! A festival! We've bagged a brace of free VIP passes and M is going to drive us up to Blenheim Palace on a roadtrip that promises to be 'eventful'. We're not camping of course - the novelty wore off around the age of 14 - we are staying in some mega cheap Alan Partridge-style travel tavern, three to a room. The glamma!
I had to kick him out early the next day as I was meeting the Eark and the Countess to go shopping and lunching. He wasn't best pleased - how come boys sleep so much? He actually said he was going back to his (handily a mere ten minute walk) to get back into bed - what a waste of a weekend! I gave him the Coldplay album that Stef had given me, he was ridiculously grateful. And as long as he stays looking like Ronaldo (sadly without the sculpted abs) I think I will keep a side of the bed free.
Went out on Saturday night with S to the Albion to meet G, K, and R - we chilled in the beer garden whilst all the girls fussed over Archie who was tying himself and all the furniture up in knots. 'Mickey from Eastenders' was there with a gang of gakked up shouty mates who were actually standing IN the doorway so that there was no escaping them. The former has perfected his 'yes it IS me!' nod, it was making us scream. We got in the car and went round the block when I realised my card was still behind the bar. We screeched back to the pub and they told me I wasn't up to the card limit so I stood there on my own doing vodka shots until the appropriate total was reached. 'I KNEW that would happen' was K's retort as I staggered back into the back seat.
We then decamped to G's garden with a bottle of vodka and two portions of chips and had a good old blether, barely noticing that K had had a few too many mez-ures and was now talking in tongues. Then her fella turned up to try and take her home and we all got a chance to vet him whilst she was burbling away t herself in the background - it was a very funny night and I felt quite rough the next day.
I rallied in time to have lunch at Shoreditch House with Slack, her mum and Firg which was rather jolly. S was there too on a separate lunchdate. Straight after eating F stripped down to a bikini and sailors hat and jumped in the pool - I followed suit (sans headgear) only vaguely alarmed by those apocryphal warnings about not swimming straight after eating. We had the pool to ourselves and supped rose wine from plastic glasses in the shallow end between bouts of juicy gossip - no nicer way to spend a Sunday really.
I've just been swimming at the rather more humble council baths - I had to share a lane with a horrible fat beardy bloke in tight Speedos. The man in the next lane that I see every week was laughing at me as I couldn't help but psychically recoil every time beardy did a tumble turn in the shallow end and stuck his hairy arse above water. Boke doesn't cover it.
Packed weekend ahead. Tomorrow night there's some party at the C to commemorate Muriel Belcher's birthday that might be worth a look, especially now the 'Save the Col' campaign has turned into two warring factions (with the same aim) and people are being barred/kicking off right left and centre. Then on Friday night it's an evening chez the Bourne with Jimmy and Bengo which promises to be a hoot. The next day I have a morning to pack my hanky on a stick in preparation for Wakestock. Yes! A festival! We've bagged a brace of free VIP passes and M is going to drive us up to Blenheim Palace on a roadtrip that promises to be 'eventful'. We're not camping of course - the novelty wore off around the age of 14 - we are staying in some mega cheap Alan Partridge-style travel tavern, three to a room. The glamma!