two evenings, same outcome

Well. We drank nine bottles of bubbly between six of us on Saturday, clothes and all sorts a-strewn about our lounge.

Swishing was fantastic.

There was a load of detritus left over from what can only be described as girlie Hammer Time, was almost embarrassed carrying the bottles down to the communal recycling bin in our building.


Old ladies judge.

Anyway, we swapped clothes and I came away with a pair of shoes, three scarves (two which have never been worn), a cardie, a blouse and a shirt.

That's not bad going, considering all my clothes were snapped up too.

All my eats were devoured, and despite the driving rain and shit pissing down outside, we laughed at some points until we cried.

It felt good to laugh so hard that I thought my diaphragm would fall out of my asshole.

You know that crazy laughing where you wonder if you're going to throw up from exhaustion. Tears of mirth, and I wore my spectacles, which made me feel like a drunk librarian all day, which was extra fun.

Ended up in the pub next door, and then after six hours of solid drinking and clothes swapping, called it a day.

Jolly good. You should try one of these at home. You're welcome.

Weirdly enough, I had drinks in parliament on Friday. In the House of Commons. Inside. In the pub they have there. (Arguably the roughest boozer in Westminster. You heard it here.)

I know people who know people. Who got me in.

Chewed the fat with a bunch of politicians, drinking scotch, in tweed.

Two very different evenings, the outcome the same. Face down, in my bed, hours later.

The Brit gets back tonight. Hoorah!