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.

Interesting. night.