british joke & garlic

Went round to Mademoiselle's house for dinner and a catch up last night.

I love Mademoiselle. She's my French friend who loves garlic as much as I do. Perhaps I shall rename to She Who Also Loves Garlic. ("Eeff I deedn't lov garleec Lawreeuhn, I would automatique lose my nationalitee." Straight face.)

I was genuinely surprised though, after half an hour underground across town, as I emerged from the Central Line, I found it to be fucking raining.

In all seriousness, this is the most surprised I have been about rain since living in the UK.
It's been two weeks of daffodils and sunshine. There are literally yellow flowers everywhere. I forgot I owned a brolly. Rain was a distant lie that was used in previous times to fend off over-zealous tourists.

Well. I've been told that that was summer. They say this every year.

"So that was summer, mate. The rest of the year will be shit."

If I am to believe these claims, I might as well just fill up a bath tub full of pies and eat myself dead. (I figure death by pie would be the best way to go. Morbid? Or awesome?)

I refuse to believe that that was summer. No it fucking wasn't; that was spring. It's that demented British humour coming through, laughing at misery, and being happiest when you are bonding over bad weather patterns. (Schadenfreude much? You people are as bad as the Germans).

Anyway, so I arrived at Elle Qui Aussi Aime Garlic's, feeling like the wet end of a drowned rat's testicle sack.
My coat was put on the heating panel, was wrapped in a warm blankey, and we tucked into some Lebanese food. The real way. By scooping it up with giant flat breads and shoving it into our faces.

Dude. Who knew Lebanese food was so good? What a sheltered life I doth lead. It was healthy, hummussy and I was dry at the end.

So that was nice.