with Amore on the front, flat boots, my reading glasses, just mascara and sick hair. A cardinal sin for a Brit. To put it in perspective, it usually takes me three days, four hours and a few minutes to prepare for a night out with notice. That’s lady maintenence, toe-nails, fingernails, home spray tan buffing and body glitter. Most people think I possess diamond skin in the fashion of R-Patz in Twighlight. And when I say ‘sick’ hair, I don’t mean in a Dench, down-with-the-kids kind of ‘sick’, I mean sick as in ill as in ‘when I am sick, my hair gets sick’. True story, clubbing in my jumper AND my poorly hair.
An early doors dinner, pre-dinner drink and catch up rolled into arriving home at four am and attempting to construct a breadless sandwich involving Welsh mature cheddar cheese, turkey salchichón and mayo. Tasty. I think. I don’t remember too much after Pharrell Williams’ Happy and the weird pineapple mixer sans pineapple. Confused? I know I was.
My Ikea +1 is also my ‘random nights that start with good intentions, involve amAZing burgers and end up somewhere in Gracia talking to a
giant chicken Walter White’ +1.