I was going to post something random about the French today, but I'll save it for a later stage.
I'd like to hand you over to my spokesperson, for wont of explanation:
Peas On Toast extends a warm hello to all those in the blogosphere this morning.
She is currently going through something that she prefers to keep private at this such point. She apologises in advance for the lack of enthusiasm and vigour in her daily posts, as well as the need to remain private and tight-lipped about what is going on at this current time. To answer some of the questions she has recieved via email and in the comments-roll, it involves an intensely personal part of her life in the way of an event. She is generally coping and getting along, but the need to remain cryptic regarding this information unfortunately is paramount. - Mr Shit Hot Spokesperson.
That said, I spent a formidable amount of time staring at the trees this weekend. First at my man Suave's picnic at Zoo Lake, then yesterday in the serene tranquility of leafy Parkview, in E2's back garden on a blanket.
It's so easy to just grab a blankie and lie under the trees and clouds. I just don't do this enough. E2 was a saviour yesterday. We lay there in silence for hours, barring the pinkie-swear we made over if either of us ever had halitosis, we'd always tell each other no matter what.
Saturday was spent over a chick dinner with C at Bellini's. That was also fantastic. Over Chicken Suzette and Salmon Stuffed Into A Giant Baked Potato, not to mention two bottles of wine, we all chatted about what women always chat about over dinner and fermented grapes: