Tuesday, June 28, 2011
the manor house
I've only just recovered.
20 glasses of champagne in the baking heat will do that to ya.
My mates, who got married in South Africa, came back to the UK for another wedding party for people who missed out the first time.
It was beautiful. My mate grew up in a manor house, set in Surrey. With gardens that have been attended to for over 20 years by three gardeners.
The champagne was flowing; the roses were climbing the walls. It was so ridiculously pretty.
It was the quintessential English play area for the Tory party.
I made the colossal error of wearing a dress that was waaaay too short for the occasion.
I felt like Bridget Jones in the scene where she doesn't get the memo about the party not being about Pimps & Vicars anymore, and she pitches up wearing a bunny outfit.
I do stupid shit like this. Wear the wrong thing to the wrong place. We walked around the gorgeous gardens, drifting around on champagne clouds and generally having a jolly old time.
If a traditional summer party is anything to go by, in a manor house, in Surrey, then this was it.
I passed out on the train on the way home, where, judging by the pictures my mate and boyfriend took, didn't look helluva flattering.
In other news, I'm going back to California in October for a work trip. And on the back of that, since I've done San Francisco now, I want to fly somewhere else in America.
I'm literally going to print out a giant map of America. Then I'm going to paste it to a wall. Blindfold myself. Turn around 3 times and then throw 5 darts at the map.
Wherever the darts shall land will be my shortlist for a weekend trip.
Except if its Indiana and Texas.
I've been told, under no circumstances, that I need to visit those two places.
I'm hoping the darts land in the deep south. Seriously.
Like New Orleans or Savannah.
Or somewhere weird like Kentucky.
Fun game eh?