The Ritz at Green Park.
Living in London, you seldom get a chance to really experience it. That might sound absurd, but when you're going to and from work in an underground tunnel and you realised you haven't been outside for about 3 months, you really might as well be anywhere. When it's winter and you're a mole, who knows what goes on in the outside world.
You only know you're in London by the types of people you share a tube carriage with. Similarly grumpy, unconfrontational, eye-contact averting pasty people.
So. Now that the sun is rising earlier and setting later (Thank fuck! I might even not die!), we thought we'd spend the day in central London (read: Zone 1), eating, drinking and attending to things like wedding ruches and wedding rings.
Ruches are a kind of fancy, silk tie thing that grooms and their minions wear.
Someone at work: "You're not going for the thing that looks like a donkey's cock are you?"
As a matter of fact that's exactly what I'm going for.
Which means, when I walk down the aisle, smiling and staring at my almost-husband wearing his little ruche, I'll now only be thinking of a donkey's cock.
Quite a thought that. Of all the things going through my mind as I am about to get married, I never thought it would involve the skin-flute of an ass.
Anyway. Where was I. Donkey dicks and wedmin. We wandered around Knightsbridge, Chelsea and Green Park, which was actually even pleasant. Because we were out of tourist prime time. The out-of-towners tend to hit these parts hard on the weekends or after hours. So it was actually pleasant.*
We got our wedding bands, and had a moment where the Brit couldn't get his back off his finger. We both started to panic and had to coat his finger in Vaseline to get the dang thing off again. It's a cosy fit. And I'll need to push that thing onto his finger using brute force and a tube of lube.
They're beautiful though and have to say we're rather happy with our wedding-related jewellery!
I also fell off the wagon this weekend. I ate a whole bunch of really naughty, naughty shit. The Quiet American came over, armed with cheese from the La Fromagerie.
La Fromagerie, off Baker Street, is the caviar of French cheese shops in this city. The scene very rapidly henceforth resulted in cheese massacre most foul.
It was a cheese crime scene. Premeditated. Schedule 6. No bail.
Truffle-infused goats cheese, a stinky blue, a creamy Camembert and a sharp cheddar.
But this is the very example of what my diet depicts, so I'm glad it happened. I always said I'd remove dairy from my mainstream diet, as I feel better for it.
However. In the extremely rare occasion a man arrives on my doorstep armed with organic, fresh French cheeses, then I'll indulge.
This only ever happens on the rarest of occasions, so I'll give myself that.
Now back to the leaves and fish. And one helluva treadmill appointment.
* Most Londoners won't go to central London unless they work there/are being dragged there by foreign friends. Because it's where tourists go and they clog up the Piccadilly line and the pavements with their touristy selves and their Harrods bags. Most Londoners stay far away from the 'classic' London places where possible. For their mental sanity.