It's becoming increasingly clear that my nearest and dearest are using DOADR to keep up to date with what's happening in my life. Yes, it's sweet they take a vague interest, but dipping into an online diary on occasion does not exempt you from picking up the phone or dropping an email every once in a while. You know, keeping in touch- that thing that mates do. (David H, I'm talking to you).
So, this week, I am going on strike. No more blog until a little bit of lovin' comes my way. You have to make the effort, folks. I don't however, want to penalise those readers who do take their friendship duties seriously (greatly appreciate the hourly updates, Lils). For you lovely lot, here's a recap of my week:
- Began the Clapham flat hunt in earnest. Met agent with freakishly high barnet and pointy shoes, who promised us the world. We got a bedsit above a massage parlour. The search continues.
- Reviewed a cool restaurant in the City for my job on the side- Fluid Foundation
- Considered voting for the Tories in the next election.
- Made a royal tit out of myself, strutting through Croydon to Rod Stewart's version of "The way you look tonight" (made me think of my dad someday walking me down the ailsle. I started weeping outside Greggs, attracting concerned glances from passersby. Told them I'd a dodgy sausage roll for lunch).
- Dragged The Boyfriend to see 'Sister Act', the musical. He pretended not to like it as I'd booked us the cheap seats, forcing him to spend two hours with inebriated social deviants and the clinically obese. Caught him tapping his Burberry umbrella in appreciation of the soul, though.
- Changed my mind about voting for the Tories.
Eh, that's it really. Gripping stuff there. I am now officially on strike. Might go off on holidays with London's Royal Mail workers. I hear they've got a bit of time to kill.
Baci,
Annie x
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