There's a centipede trapped under a mug in our kitchen. How long will it take to die? I could do with my mug back.
What's funnier that Ginger Beard being slightly stressed? Ginger Beard being really stressed becuase I'm in charge of the phone Sat Nav, and I've incorrectly directed him onto the busy motor way. Funnier still? His abusive languge when we're on a massive roundabout, and my mum calls me, cancelling the sat nav. "Where the FUCK are we going? GEMMA, GEMMA, what the FUCK is happening?"
I had a great time.
Did you?
A few of us went to Harvester on Sunday morning to try and recover from our fish hangovers (we'd been to Loch Fyne). But it turns out they don't do breakfast, so at 11am we were helping ourselves to the salad cart. What an adventure, salad before noon.
I tried an oyster for the very first time. So did Dave. I think Dave is still being sick. I enquired into his health last night but heard nothing. Maybe he's dead. Death by oyster, it's not very manly Dave is it?
Also, the waitress had a personality, which I wasn't initially bothered about (having one is pretty common place). It's her decision to show it that was offensive. She was trying to be funnier than us. I don't go to restaurants to be outwitted. They also took the piss out of me, by charging £11 for scampi, but serving it in newspaper. Luckily, the newspaper article was about fifteen people dying in a horrendous accident. Every eaten chip revelaed another grotesque detail.
The table next to us, consisting of three middle age women, were fascinated. They all moved over and stopped talking, in order to devote themesleves to us entirely. It was very 'The only way is Essex', with slightly paler girls, with slightly smaller boobs, who despire their numerous qualifications, still appeared to be incredibley gullable and dippy. We decided to discuss where we would hide the body. Then we talked about dogging. Then I invited them to my Pants Party.
Fishy love to you all,
WriterAtLunch
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