Whoosh. Glad that long, awkward silence is over.
There's just only so much fun a girl can have before she needs to rest. For me, that means spending the night alone, curled up on the couch, updating my blog, and thinking up excuses for why I was actively watching CSI Miami, lest someone catch me in the act. Sunday could very well be that night. In the interim, I'm throwing something up on my blog during the hours when I should be working, just for continuity's sake.
Instead of vegging out in my home, I've been ludicrously on the run. I haven't seen the upstair's couch for ages. The TV is off, but on the same channel it was left weeks ago. And the book I'm supposed to be reading has remained expectantly creased by the side of my bed, seemingly for forever.
During the whirlwind interim since my last post, I've been a lady who lunches at Browns, the girl who tottered off to the Ascot races in heels, who doubled down at the Double Club and got a little crazy at Cow, who sang heartily thrice at the Troubadour and succumbed to her arty side at Shunt (this is a lie, I went there - true - only to find I have no arty-side). But best of all, I've tipsily giggled my way through many a fabulous garden party, champagne in one hand and fairy cakes in the other.
If only I had a dog to run around the park with and cuddle with me on the couch when I finally make it there, life would be very, very good. Until then, no more complaining about London, I promise.
London is dead, long live London.