On Monday, I was finding life very difficult indeed. It had hardly taken its first baby step, and already I could hardly cope with myself. I had no idea where my house keys were. I'd forgotten my purse, and subsequently had no money. Security had to break into my locker at work. To top it all off, I was struggling to open doors. They were proving a real challenge.
If I had any common sense at all, I'd of just gone home , and cut my losses. Instead I went around saying odd and insulting things to people, and using the word 'awesome!!' with far too much emphasis.
Accountable for it all, is Saturday night's party. For which I was quite obviously, still suffering. Apparently you lose a few brain cells through drinking, but at some point, I've had a lobotomy.
I apparently led a class on how to assault your other half (if you must know: elbow to the face, other elbow to the face, and bring that knee up. You go girl!) We also started a choir in the kitchen, kicking off with 'Fresh Prince' and ending on Ring of Fire 'Johnny Cash. I agreed to open a textiles factory, and make nice pants. I brought a bit of Nottingham to the living room, which Ginger Beard found so appalling, he had to run away (in my defence I was only going down to the, down to the floor, and wind it back up, which we are educated to do in Primary School where I come from.)
When I'd decided that I'd had too much to drink, I was so disgusted with myself at being sensible, that I made a cocktail consisting of two ingredients, 1. Bacardi 2. Ice. Beauts.
I did manage to stay up to half 4, and only went to bed because I was so upset that I couldn't figure out how to get the duvet cover on the duvet.
I woke up at 8:30, and said a brief goodbye to everyone I loved, knowing I was firmly within my final moments on this earth. Then I got some juice. Then Ginger Beard sat on my side of the bed for the next two hours, where I dithered on the thin tightrope between life and death, informing me that he felt so sick he couldn't sleep, and thus, I had to get up to, because he was bored.
Now, I don't know how far love stretches for you, but for me, it's just not that far. I've told him to have a serious think about what he needs from me in this relationship, because it's unrealistic. If you would like to give him some pointers on how to man up, please do so on this 'ere blog.
Showing posts with label Drinking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Drinking. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Tall, Venti, or Grande?
Day 3 without coffee. Let's pretend it's for lent and not to prove I don't had a problem. My name's WriterAtLunch and I'm addicted to Starbucks.
It turns out, when coffee-free, I'm not at my optimum. My words trip over each other, like over-excited morons. my thoughts are slow and have to be dragged into being. At exactly 3pm every day, I experience an overwhelming crash. My bowling ball head longs to meet the desk. In the morning, I walk past the life giver itself, Starbucksium, and in the evening, force myself past once more.
Do you see how happy the people are inside? How awake they are? Each one of them coated in a golden glow, greddy fingers round those bright, white mugs, the sweet syrup inches from......
*passed out*
It's too hard! Give me coffee! Aarrggghhh!
ALSO
It turns out that if you bring your gym kit to work, and just leave it under your desk, it creates the illusion of fitness. I spot it every morning, a trainer poking out the bag, and think, 'Good for me, being all pro-active with exercise. At any moment, any moment at all, I could go to the gym'.
It's fabulous, you should try it.
Get to the end of the day, and ask yourself, 'Is today the day?'
Then say, 'No, but tomorrow will be.'
Repeat all week. Make it to the weekend, and feel so very sporty. You're one of those people, who can't stop thinking about going to the gym, and one day, you might actually make it there.
Anyhoo, I'm too busy at the mind gym, trying to construct a personality out of what God gave me. previously, half of myself was made from coffee beans, but I can't rely on that anymore. I'd like to apologise in advance if you run into my substandard self, I'm working on it.
It turns out, when coffee-free, I'm not at my optimum. My words trip over each other, like over-excited morons. my thoughts are slow and have to be dragged into being. At exactly 3pm every day, I experience an overwhelming crash. My bowling ball head longs to meet the desk. In the morning, I walk past the life giver itself, Starbucksium, and in the evening, force myself past once more.
Do you see how happy the people are inside? How awake they are? Each one of them coated in a golden glow, greddy fingers round those bright, white mugs, the sweet syrup inches from......
*passed out*
It's too hard! Give me coffee! Aarrggghhh!
ALSO
It turns out that if you bring your gym kit to work, and just leave it under your desk, it creates the illusion of fitness. I spot it every morning, a trainer poking out the bag, and think, 'Good for me, being all pro-active with exercise. At any moment, any moment at all, I could go to the gym'.
It's fabulous, you should try it.
Get to the end of the day, and ask yourself, 'Is today the day?'
Then say, 'No, but tomorrow will be.'
Repeat all week. Make it to the weekend, and feel so very sporty. You're one of those people, who can't stop thinking about going to the gym, and one day, you might actually make it there.
Anyhoo, I'm too busy at the mind gym, trying to construct a personality out of what God gave me. previously, half of myself was made from coffee beans, but I can't rely on that anymore. I'd like to apologise in advance if you run into my substandard self, I'm working on it.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Into the Wilderness
I think my mental health is pretty apparent. I've just spent twenty minutes searching for the after sun. I gave up, and returned to my nest on the lounge sofa, where I discovered the after sun. Turned out my previous task (I'm operating like a Sim, with actions lined up in the top right hand corner of my brain) was to find the after sun. Chances are, that in five minutes, I'll decide to go search for the after sun.
No people, this is not the consequence of recreational drugs, this is the aftermath of an Oxford-based festival, and ridiculous amounts of driving. Also, my RSI is being a whiny little bitch. But I'm typing regardless, because I serve the desire of the people, not my own never-ending, excruciating pain.
(Break to destroy flat in hope of Ibuprofen, and also to find out how to spell said drug).
Do not find ibuprofen, do find that the massive bag of food we'd brought back is now full of squashed blackberries and purple juice. Very glad that Ginger decided to put the tupperware box my mother gave us in here. Remember to thank him when he comes home. But for the time being, set all ruined food out in kitchen, and have a nice chuckle to self; he thinks I'm at home cleaning. When really I'm still in my dressing gown, listening to the top 40 hits, nestled within a comfy pile of socks.
Anyhoooooo, Ginger and I, in an obviously desperate attempt to like, totally live a little and experience life outside of Blockbuster's five DVD's for a fiver offer (which by the way is fabulous), headed to The Wilderness Festival. With the postcode in the Sat Nav, we calmly set off, the car weighted down with cosmetics, tangerines, and baby wipes. You can imagine how chuffed I was to be told by the patronising female voice that I had arrived at my destination. No one was here yet! We were the first! I was ecstatic. It was then we noticed, that even the festival had not arrived. I smacked the Sat Nav, and we went off to find the festival, like two pissed teenagers, fingers outstretched in the dark.
Hurrah! Festival! Sit in car for an hour behind other cars. Feel such an extrovert. Am perched on the cusp of adventure. Am wearing a bright vest, and looking forward to character building experience of disgusting toilets and promised grime. No one knows what's going on, or how long we'll have to wait. I frantically battle my control freak tendencies and full bladder. We're at the gate, and branded like cows, with our festival bands. Informed by security that if we have alcohol, we have to bring it in now. Horrendous! Send Ginger to car to decant rose into squash bottles. Walk with all my stuff, his stuff, and lovely, heavy tent. Do not get far. Fall to floor. Throw poles and pegs at tent. Wait for Ginger to arrive and do man thing with tent.
Because of my quick thinking, we are very close to the exit, but very far away from the festival. We will get a lot of exercise, what a bonus! Once in the action, we sit on a haystack and ponder our options. Nothing is really ready yet. The band we are expecting to watch, have not turned up, and men on stilts and bunny ears tell us to go back. I think their message is correct, but they do not understand that we cannot get a refund at this venture. The majority of those in attendance are painfully fashionable posh girls, who address the staff as 'Cider boy', and 'Beer man', and desperately suck on cigarettes, eccentrics who have waited their whole lives for an opportunity to explode with oddness, and people like Ginger and I, somewhat dazed, disappointed in our comparative plainness, in non-descript cardigans.
At the banquet, we were fortunate enough to sit opposite one of the directors and her best friend, who were high on their own 'success'. Due to her ear piece, it was much like having dinner with someone who can't get off the phone. And as everyone visited them, sat on their laps, and was fed food from their plates to try, it was like staring through the window at a really good party. No, you are not invited. Luckily, they did manage to start a fight with another guest and his wife, over who would have the last edible flower. Unluckily, they were running the whole shebang, but getting drunk on red wine. Cue feelings of optimism and faith.
We're off to a party in the woods! Security get mighty offended when you stray somewhere off limits in search of it, but that's okay, because it's in a secret location, and thus is your fault. They shined many a torch light at our wrists and proclaimed us 'wrong'. At one point, we thought we really had found it; the trees were lit up, there were flotations, but wait, no, it's just a sect of club 18-30, fresh off the ferry.
Back to the tent we went, tired, disheartened, nauseous on apple cider. I thought we'd have a good old sleep and be fresh faced for what tomorrow had in store for us! Sadly Raf, the drug dealer next to us, was off his face on MDMA, and so were all his friends! Surely at some point they'll need sleep, or at least set aside some time for breathing between words? NO, NEVER ACTUALLY.
Day two, a few hours sleep, crouching in the tent naked, just below the flies and spiders who have decided to join us, baby wiping the depression away. Off we go again! Thankfully we find some old, wooden boats, and due to the lack of any health and safety procedures, we can just jump into them and fuck off. So we do. I make Ginger hunt swans, until they hiss at us, and Ginger whispers, 'Oh My God, we have to get away. They are going to kill us.' I have photographic evidence of this melt down, which continued for some time. Highlight numero one.
Other highlights:
- Ginger pushing ahead in the queue for sweets out of frustration, and paying for the other peoples sweets as an apology.
-Queuing for half an hour for a macchiato, which is in fact, just a shot of coffee.
-The camp site erupting in ten minutes of shouting 'Alan?!'
-Laura Marling, which made me so serenely happy. The best singer-songwriter I have ever heard.
-Jumping to Gogol Bordello's 'Start Wearing Purple'.
-Putting make-up on Ginger for the masked ball (a surprising allowance, becuase last time I made him look 'like a whore').
-A shower on the third day! We queued for an hour and had to listen to thin women talk about how desperate they were to make it in time for morning yoga.
-Coconuts, which a guy took a machete to, so you could carry it around drinking the milk. We were one of the first groups to catch onto this craze, and it was the only time we experienced any form of popularity/jealousy.
-Philosophers on stage debating the merits of cannibalism and pornography.
Tragedies:
-The masked ball was held in a massive tent, where despite the flammability of the whole thing, smokers turned up in their hundreds. We walked in, we walked out.
- Every other stall being a bar.
-Insects, which although an integral part of camping, were rife, and we have the bites to prove it.
-The toilets. The main problem being that they're already disgusting when they arrive on site. Ginger developed a compulsive addiction to hand sanitiser.
-The pot luck talent of the acts.
In summary, we became rather drab in the face of so many outgoing people. It is definately one for groups, where your sole purpose is to get battered. We all make mistakes, but they're normally not quite so expensive. Having said that, I would do it all again just to see Laura Marling, who thankfully sang the mob into a a respectful, swaying bunch. Next year, I think we'll give it a miss. I'll just put my ipod on, play with a spider, pointlessly carry an anorak around for three days, queue for things I don't really want, sit on deer poo, stick a feather in my hair, refuse to fall asleep, and hand you a £200 cheque for the pleasure.
No people, this is not the consequence of recreational drugs, this is the aftermath of an Oxford-based festival, and ridiculous amounts of driving. Also, my RSI is being a whiny little bitch. But I'm typing regardless, because I serve the desire of the people, not my own never-ending, excruciating pain.
(Break to destroy flat in hope of Ibuprofen, and also to find out how to spell said drug).
Do not find ibuprofen, do find that the massive bag of food we'd brought back is now full of squashed blackberries and purple juice. Very glad that Ginger decided to put the tupperware box my mother gave us in here. Remember to thank him when he comes home. But for the time being, set all ruined food out in kitchen, and have a nice chuckle to self; he thinks I'm at home cleaning. When really I'm still in my dressing gown, listening to the top 40 hits, nestled within a comfy pile of socks.
Anyhoooooo, Ginger and I, in an obviously desperate attempt to like, totally live a little and experience life outside of Blockbuster's five DVD's for a fiver offer (which by the way is fabulous), headed to The Wilderness Festival. With the postcode in the Sat Nav, we calmly set off, the car weighted down with cosmetics, tangerines, and baby wipes. You can imagine how chuffed I was to be told by the patronising female voice that I had arrived at my destination. No one was here yet! We were the first! I was ecstatic. It was then we noticed, that even the festival had not arrived. I smacked the Sat Nav, and we went off to find the festival, like two pissed teenagers, fingers outstretched in the dark.
Hurrah! Festival! Sit in car for an hour behind other cars. Feel such an extrovert. Am perched on the cusp of adventure. Am wearing a bright vest, and looking forward to character building experience of disgusting toilets and promised grime. No one knows what's going on, or how long we'll have to wait. I frantically battle my control freak tendencies and full bladder. We're at the gate, and branded like cows, with our festival bands. Informed by security that if we have alcohol, we have to bring it in now. Horrendous! Send Ginger to car to decant rose into squash bottles. Walk with all my stuff, his stuff, and lovely, heavy tent. Do not get far. Fall to floor. Throw poles and pegs at tent. Wait for Ginger to arrive and do man thing with tent.
Because of my quick thinking, we are very close to the exit, but very far away from the festival. We will get a lot of exercise, what a bonus! Once in the action, we sit on a haystack and ponder our options. Nothing is really ready yet. The band we are expecting to watch, have not turned up, and men on stilts and bunny ears tell us to go back. I think their message is correct, but they do not understand that we cannot get a refund at this venture. The majority of those in attendance are painfully fashionable posh girls, who address the staff as 'Cider boy', and 'Beer man', and desperately suck on cigarettes, eccentrics who have waited their whole lives for an opportunity to explode with oddness, and people like Ginger and I, somewhat dazed, disappointed in our comparative plainness, in non-descript cardigans.
At the banquet, we were fortunate enough to sit opposite one of the directors and her best friend, who were high on their own 'success'. Due to her ear piece, it was much like having dinner with someone who can't get off the phone. And as everyone visited them, sat on their laps, and was fed food from their plates to try, it was like staring through the window at a really good party. No, you are not invited. Luckily, they did manage to start a fight with another guest and his wife, over who would have the last edible flower. Unluckily, they were running the whole shebang, but getting drunk on red wine. Cue feelings of optimism and faith.
We're off to a party in the woods! Security get mighty offended when you stray somewhere off limits in search of it, but that's okay, because it's in a secret location, and thus is your fault. They shined many a torch light at our wrists and proclaimed us 'wrong'. At one point, we thought we really had found it; the trees were lit up, there were flotations, but wait, no, it's just a sect of club 18-30, fresh off the ferry.
Back to the tent we went, tired, disheartened, nauseous on apple cider. I thought we'd have a good old sleep and be fresh faced for what tomorrow had in store for us! Sadly Raf, the drug dealer next to us, was off his face on MDMA, and so were all his friends! Surely at some point they'll need sleep, or at least set aside some time for breathing between words? NO, NEVER ACTUALLY.
Day two, a few hours sleep, crouching in the tent naked, just below the flies and spiders who have decided to join us, baby wiping the depression away. Off we go again! Thankfully we find some old, wooden boats, and due to the lack of any health and safety procedures, we can just jump into them and fuck off. So we do. I make Ginger hunt swans, until they hiss at us, and Ginger whispers, 'Oh My God, we have to get away. They are going to kill us.' I have photographic evidence of this melt down, which continued for some time. Highlight numero one.
Other highlights:
- Ginger pushing ahead in the queue for sweets out of frustration, and paying for the other peoples sweets as an apology.
-Queuing for half an hour for a macchiato, which is in fact, just a shot of coffee.
-The camp site erupting in ten minutes of shouting 'Alan?!'
-Laura Marling, which made me so serenely happy. The best singer-songwriter I have ever heard.
-Jumping to Gogol Bordello's 'Start Wearing Purple'.
-Putting make-up on Ginger for the masked ball (a surprising allowance, becuase last time I made him look 'like a whore').
-A shower on the third day! We queued for an hour and had to listen to thin women talk about how desperate they were to make it in time for morning yoga.
-Coconuts, which a guy took a machete to, so you could carry it around drinking the milk. We were one of the first groups to catch onto this craze, and it was the only time we experienced any form of popularity/jealousy.
-Philosophers on stage debating the merits of cannibalism and pornography.
Tragedies:
-The masked ball was held in a massive tent, where despite the flammability of the whole thing, smokers turned up in their hundreds. We walked in, we walked out.
- Every other stall being a bar.
-Insects, which although an integral part of camping, were rife, and we have the bites to prove it.
-The toilets. The main problem being that they're already disgusting when they arrive on site. Ginger developed a compulsive addiction to hand sanitiser.
-The pot luck talent of the acts.
In summary, we became rather drab in the face of so many outgoing people. It is definately one for groups, where your sole purpose is to get battered. We all make mistakes, but they're normally not quite so expensive. Having said that, I would do it all again just to see Laura Marling, who thankfully sang the mob into a a respectful, swaying bunch. Next year, I think we'll give it a miss. I'll just put my ipod on, play with a spider, pointlessly carry an anorak around for three days, queue for things I don't really want, sit on deer poo, stick a feather in my hair, refuse to fall asleep, and hand you a £200 cheque for the pleasure.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
You were working as a waitress at a cocktail bar.
Wasn’t drinking great at eighteen? Acquiring foreign and fascinating bruises, non too troubled about your fractured memory, consuming and gorging on a buffet of bottles, and the only real consequence – hugging the toilet for a few minutes before running for the bus.
*Sigh* those were the days. Cue twenty-three; it’s 9am, you’re up and you feel dandy. Many routine tasks cause inane giggling. Hugely smug at lack of hangover. Convince self look great with last nights make-up as your new face. I could go out like this. I could keep this on. I look like the smouldering girl in an Maybelline advert. Awesome. You eat some cereal and your stomach thanks you. That 4am McDonalds was a great idea. It’s okay that you haven’t eaten fast food for two years because you’ve read about what they do to the chicken.
Ginger Beard suggests that you go get new tyres for the car. Excellent suggestion! Am giddy on life, and desperate to share it! Arrive at garage, am so confident and blurry eyed. Is lovely. Happy to spend anything on tyres. Must be safe. Drink some Ribena. Why don’t I drink Ribena all the time? So thirsty, so unbelievably thirsty. Have developed a dreamy new walk. See all children as threatening. Decide to go shopping. Unable to get a hold on judgement skills. Words are difficult to master. 3pm. Asleep. Woken by Ginger Beard. He’s concerned that if I sleep much longer then I won’t sleep tonight. Beg for takeaway. Manage some of takeaway after fetching it in Pajamas. Only have enough energy to watch two films. Sleep until mid-day Sunday. Headache. Look in mirror, horrific reflection. I hate the world. The world hates me. Look at txts sent on Friday night, not remotely English.
And yes, you managed to find a weirdo. You, who has been managing to find weirdos your entire life. Ones who sit next to you on the bus, cat call you in the street, fix their bulging eyes on you on the dance floor, make you bloody mix tapes, and find you at the house party. It must be something I give off. Well this one, this one in with a sweat band, and greasy black hair in a thin ponytail was the cherry on the weirdo cake.
"Odd night, like, such a peculiar night. Don't you think? There are just such bad vibes in here. My name's Roland. (Hugs me here, too sudden for me to escape, smells like socks, hugs me like toddler wanting his mum to love him.) "What's really odd is that alllllll of my friends were coming out tonight, and then like, none of them came."
I don't think that's odd. I think that's predictable.
"Speaking of friends", I masterfully interject, "I'm going to find mine."
"Oh," he says, gleefully, "I'll come."
And thus begins my dive into the mosh pit, the very pit I'd run away from. Into the young bodied, sweaty, pissed-up teenagers throwing themselves around, fitting and screaming, and chucking beer. But anything, ANYTHING was better than my new best friend Roland.
I'm glad that I was never rude, but I regret that he touched me, shared my airspace, or exists. I'm a passive bully. I'll only do it behind your back, relax.
I'll never get a nice, normal, clear-skinned, sane man walking up to me, unless he needs to know the time. Ginger Beard doesn't count. He's a scientist.
*Sigh* those were the days. Cue twenty-three; it’s 9am, you’re up and you feel dandy. Many routine tasks cause inane giggling. Hugely smug at lack of hangover. Convince self look great with last nights make-up as your new face. I could go out like this. I could keep this on. I look like the smouldering girl in an Maybelline advert. Awesome. You eat some cereal and your stomach thanks you. That 4am McDonalds was a great idea. It’s okay that you haven’t eaten fast food for two years because you’ve read about what they do to the chicken.
Ginger Beard suggests that you go get new tyres for the car. Excellent suggestion! Am giddy on life, and desperate to share it! Arrive at garage, am so confident and blurry eyed. Is lovely. Happy to spend anything on tyres. Must be safe. Drink some Ribena. Why don’t I drink Ribena all the time? So thirsty, so unbelievably thirsty. Have developed a dreamy new walk. See all children as threatening. Decide to go shopping. Unable to get a hold on judgement skills. Words are difficult to master. 3pm. Asleep. Woken by Ginger Beard. He’s concerned that if I sleep much longer then I won’t sleep tonight. Beg for takeaway. Manage some of takeaway after fetching it in Pajamas. Only have enough energy to watch two films. Sleep until mid-day Sunday. Headache. Look in mirror, horrific reflection. I hate the world. The world hates me. Look at txts sent on Friday night, not remotely English.
And yes, you managed to find a weirdo. You, who has been managing to find weirdos your entire life. Ones who sit next to you on the bus, cat call you in the street, fix their bulging eyes on you on the dance floor, make you bloody mix tapes, and find you at the house party. It must be something I give off. Well this one, this one in with a sweat band, and greasy black hair in a thin ponytail was the cherry on the weirdo cake.
"Odd night, like, such a peculiar night. Don't you think? There are just such bad vibes in here. My name's Roland. (Hugs me here, too sudden for me to escape, smells like socks, hugs me like toddler wanting his mum to love him.) "What's really odd is that alllllll of my friends were coming out tonight, and then like, none of them came."
I don't think that's odd. I think that's predictable.
"Speaking of friends", I masterfully interject, "I'm going to find mine."
"Oh," he says, gleefully, "I'll come."
And thus begins my dive into the mosh pit, the very pit I'd run away from. Into the young bodied, sweaty, pissed-up teenagers throwing themselves around, fitting and screaming, and chucking beer. But anything, ANYTHING was better than my new best friend Roland.
I'm glad that I was never rude, but I regret that he touched me, shared my airspace, or exists. I'm a passive bully. I'll only do it behind your back, relax.
I'll never get a nice, normal, clear-skinned, sane man walking up to me, unless he needs to know the time. Ginger Beard doesn't count. He's a scientist.
Monday, April 04, 2011
Does something smell fishy to you?
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
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)