food fury

Had the girls from work over last night.

Was a little nervous, as I've been promising to have them over the moment we finish our flat.

We basically finished the decorating, bar all the serious renovation, months ago. Except for one small but pretty major thing.

Plates. For three months we had two plates.

I'm a happy housekepper. In that, my house has to be freaking perfect when I have guests around; the Brit is the same. Shit's gotta be perfect. Clean, swell and swoonworthy.

We take pride in our castle. Cripes, he was even nervous for me to have the work girls over.

Anyway, now we have plates. Which means we're booking ourselves up for dinner parties. Hiberantion now in full swing, I want to spend the slide into winter feasting, around our table with bottles of red wine.

So I had a girl's night Pizza and Prosecco night.

Cos I only drink bubbly, see. Thatcher made me do it.

And can I just say, I went fucking ballistic. I ate a family-size pizza, twenty amoretti biscuits and a handful of fucking chocolate-covered almonds.

I unleashed a fury most furious, and then ate everything in fucking sight.

Winter sugar cravings are not a fucking joke.

So I'm on the salad and dick weed for the rest of the week. After tonight. After we go to Shoreditch and eat canapes and drink mulled wine at a charity event.

Rah. Then I'll eat dick weed and air. To pay. To recompense. For biscuitgate.

PS: The girls loved our flat. Yay!