Good Monday folks! Everyone have a fabulous weekend? Hope so!
My Saturday was pretty uneventful – the most entertaining conundrum of my day was me and Princess Flatmate trying to decide if we were still allowed to watch Armageddon on the telly box while turning the lights of for this Earth Hour lark. Sadly for the environment, the pull of Bruce Willis and Jason Isaacs in one movie was something we just couldn’t ignore.
But Sunday… ooo crikey, Sunday was a bit fabulous.
In the morning, I experienced that obligatory moment of panic that comes after the clocks go forward. Every single year, without fail, I wake up and look at my phone and have absolutely no idea if it has gone forward automatically or not. Thank goodness that my twitter followers are more astute than I and informed me pretty quickly that it was indeed only 8.30 and I could go back to sleep for a bit.
Later that day I dragged myself across London to Chalk Farm, where I met Irish and embarked upon a loverly morning/early afternoon in Primrose Hill. Is it just me, or are the dogs people walk in Primrose Hill especially tiny and cute compared to any other dogs in the world? The ratio of dogs I would steal to dogs I wouldn’t steal was a bit one sided. We wandered around the shops for a bit (and cried in front of estate agent windows) and then nipped into a lovely little cafe for a spot of Cream Tea. Oh gosh, how delightfully British we are.
While we sat there enjoying out calorific treat (diets don’t count on Sundays) we witnessed an evil act that should be banned from such a gorgeous place in Primrose Hill.
Across the road a parking space appeared (a car left it – there was no magic involved) and a little old couple driving down there road were just about to slip in when a big fat ugly bloke stood in their way and refused to let them get in it. The poor little old people were very confused, and it turned out the the big fat ugly bloke was saving the space of his big fat ugly friend in the car behind. The couple tried to argue that they were there first – which they were – but the heartless bastard was having none of it and sent them on their way, and then let his mate (who had one of those ‘I have a tiny penis so I’m over compensating for it with my big flash car’ kind of cars). Irish and I were rather distressed by this and employed our best glaring techniques and visualised some young chav coming along and keying the car. Alas, this was not South London, and for once there were no convenient chavs around. Darn.
We got over it (eventually) and spent a fabulous afternoon wandering around Primrose Hill, contemplating breaking into London Zoo and strolling through Regents Park until we hopped on the tube at Baker Street… walking past the Wethersoons were TVboy unceremoniously dumped me. Yes, that’s right; I, Ritzi Cortez, was dumped in a Wetherspoons. After my round. Oh the shame! Bastard. Anyway…
We hopped on the tube down to Covent Garden, and after a bit more shopping (in Accessorize – Sunglasses, Jubilee Market – antiquey vintage things, and Sass and Belle – OWL CUSHIONS) we popped into Cafe Theatre (where Michael Gambon and David Bradley hang out, don’t you know darling) for a jacket potato and a chat with the lovable Portuguese sandwich maker man and then headed over to a Cabaret Gig my friend was running in a little pub on Bedfordbury.
The Cabaret itself was some kind of insane karaoke based thing and despite the mic getting thrust in my face about seven times I managed to escape without embarrassing myself. Thank god. Anyway, Irish and I entertained ourselves for a while by buying some of the charity cocktails (that were so vile I accidentally dropped mine in the sink in the loos) because we didn’t know anyone there, until the door opened and one of my early bingo conquests walked in. We sort of dated for a little while when I was a dresser (well, I undressed him more than I dressed him but whatever) until I learned that he was shagging about five other women in the Drury Lane area. Nice. Anyway, we’re friends again now, so he came over and chatted away as we let him buy a vile cocktail masquerading as a dirty martini without mentioning that they were lethal. All was well until the door opened once again…
…and The Hobbit walked in.
So The Hobbit, spotting us, comes skipping over. It wasn’t awkward between us or anything, which totally validates my whole shagging around theory, but I was painfully aware that I was sandwiched between two men who’d both stuck their winkies in my lady place at some point while Irish silently killed herself with laughter in the corner. To make matters worse, Irish and I had to leave soon after and we left them in each other’s company. Knowing them and their egos as I do, I don’t think it would take long to get onto a certain subject…
Anyway, after that, Irish and I buggered off to East London and went on the Jack The Ripper Walk. OMG, it freaked me out. Seriously, I almost slept with the lights on that night. Should you give a crap, I reviewed it for The Blog Paper and you can go have a gander by following this helpful little link here.
And that was my Sunday. Cripes I could do with a foot rub right now.