Phoned The Dove:
Dove: Hi tart.
Peas: Whatcha doing?
Dove: Buying shoes.
Peas: Oh, why?
Dove: I’ve run out.
Peas: Can you buy some ice cream too?
Dove: What for?
Peas: I’ve run out.
Dove: OK I’ll bring some over.
Peas: Cool. Can we eat it straight out the tub? I would offer you a bowl and spoon, but all the dishes are in the sink.
Dove: No problem.
My mother insists I still look thin. And she doesn't lie, my mother. She told me on my gap year, on picking her up at a French airport, that my ass looked like the back-end of a bus. I cried for an hour while continuing to smash my face with industrial portions of camembert and fois gras smeared on baguettes. So I trust her.
Which is good, since I intend to, and am preparing to look like an angel dropped from heaven on Saturday evening. I want his eyes to start watering when I float into the room. Not that I actually care or anything, but you know. I want him to be unable to tear his eyes off me during the main course so that I can turn around, on devouring the fillet that C is bringing up from her farm, and say: "Um, why you staring at me?"
Shit. I need to book a hair appointment with The Best Hairdresser on Earth. Not only will I walk out with a perfect crowning glory that everyone wants, but he'll entertain me by telling me gory details about his latest lover and feed me champagne whilst doing so.