red pashleys

This is my pub. It's a secret, not many people know about it.

My new friend - who has since convinced me to be a Tory - this may change - came over on Saturday, and therein:

1) Put slankets on (blankets with sleeves)
2) Drank champagne
3) Watched The Bodyguard.

In all fairness, we are the only two people in the world, in 2011, watching such an immense load of merde (but you should see the brick cellphones and crimpolene!), but fuck it was good.

We were then joined by another friend and headed to my new and tucked-away little local, the Bellevue pub down the Battersea Road.

It smelt like shit (blocked pipe?), but hell they do a great shisha outside on the patio.

And now, I sit in blazor and tights at my desk, sweating. The blinds have been pulled down the office windows (Erm...I've been waiting for brutal sunlight for 6 months, roll those goddamn things up fuckers!)

But generally, it's hot in here. Dare I say it, but I can ditch the woolen tights now and Arctic coat.

I'd better buy that bike.

This one, which I've had my eye on for 6 months:

This is a Pashley. Vivienne Westwood rides one.

She would, that foxy minx.

It's a farking nice bike. It comes with sleek leather seat on which to cradle my bottom, a basket for my guinea pigs when I take them to the park, and it's new and new and shiny.

No one wants a bike that isn't 'red and new and shiny' do they?

I'll buy two locks for it, simply because bikes get nicked in London like BMWs get nicked in South Africa.

Imagine! I can ride to work in my red wellies and red bike! It's overkill and amazing!