More. With shopping. Obvs..
Remained safely on the champagne horse on Saturday.
Before I introduce you formally to my alter-ego (I've schizophrenically spoken about her here before I think. But talking about a non-existent extension of yourself, in the third person, is always great.)
She Who Hates Socialists suggested a few of us meet at Europe's longest champagne bar.
To bitch and natter.
So my alter-ego, Peas On Toast-Fairfax, (how do you do?) loves a bit of champagne. She totes has a double-barrel surname (obvs).
She's a bit of a lash hero, is Fairfax. She gets on the lash and she fucking enjoys it. Always manages to stay posh, and wear fur too. Which is outrageous, but then it's not me, it's my alter ego.
Are you keeping up?
So she comes out to play, at apt times, like at Europe's longest champagne bar. Nestles between the Eurostar tracks at St Pancras International.
I'd imagine many a group has cancelled the rest of their weekend plans in London because they got fucked at the champagne bar and ended up on a train to Paris.
The spantaneity! The reckless abandon! Of just jumping afoot a high-speed train, lashed on champers, to be in the French capital 3 hours later!
Well we nearly fucking did it. If it weren't for L not being able to fit in She Who Hates Socialists' ginormous handbag, (she is sans visa), we would've spent the rest of 'le weekend' <----you like that? in Paree. In a champagne haze. ("How did we get here again?")
Fuck it, I was game. I might've even suggested to my friend without the bastard visa that we chop her legs off and stuff her upper body only in the handbag. But I think that was the champagne/Fairfax talking.
Schengen's do take the piss out of spontaneity don't they. My two year Schengen expires in April next year. Which means, I'll be stuck, trapped, fucking forced to holiday in America instead (gasp! Animals! Les animaux!)
Shudder. Package holidays to Florida? Fairfax is all over the bottle of Zanax at the mention of it.
Anyway, so after the Paris-le-weekend idea was quashed, Peas On Toast-Fairfax got on the wrong train.
The usual train home, I don't know what the fuck happened, but next thing, me and Fairfax - the two-one of us - were not in Zone 2 anymore.
Now in a full blown champagne haze, she took herself off to fucking east Croydon instead.
Which is a very very bad, Labour government, unFairfax-like ghetto in south London.
Well. When Fairfax realised we weren't stopping at Clapham Junction, and headed instead to East Croydon, she went fucking ballistic.
Champagne train came to a grinding halt. Weren't we meant to be in Paris? Why the fuck are we in Croydon? Why is this happening to her? She was so scared.
This is Croydon. East side.
She had to take her trembling body under the underpass, up to platform 3, dodging gangsters and women in outfits from Footlocker. She stealthily waited on the platform for the right train.
Sobering up like a motherfucker.
And then Fairfax left the building, and Peas went home.
PS: I'm not schizophrenic, because I know (or one of us knows between me and Fairfax) that Fairfax is a made up alter ego.