{Robin Askwith}

Farkin Staffed Meself, Didn' I?

{/Robin Askwith}
Spent the evening of the 22nd drinking copious quantities of champagne (the original plan had been to get pissed at 10am, but DH puking with a migraine and the need to be vaguely sober for a 4pm scissor-attack had delayed this - that and the fact that I get up at one in the afternoon these days).

I can appreciate the egregious wrongs that have been perpetrated over time in the name of "a really good time", but the 23rd was the day for lunch with the glorious JATB. I decided to be late, so I could spend 30 minutes sitting in Limehouse Lidl's car park, staring at the pikeys first. It's an unpleasant hobby, but it's better I take the strain, so you don't have to.
DH came with me to meet JATB at Somerset House, and we worked out her boss was away for the afternoon, so we were free to do a four hour drunken lunch -- WA-HEYY!
This meant we could jump in a cab to Cornhill, where a few dodgy turns down dodgy alleys lead you to my favourite lunch spot in the universe, the George and Vulture. It's such a cool place to lunch that JATB and I spent the first ten minutes just giggling at the naughtiness of it all. It's where Dickens wrote the Pickwick Papers, is very old and panelled, and full of City boys who do four hour boozy lunches. The real appeal is the food, though - there's little choice, as it's all entirely public school dinners, in huuuuuuuuuuuuuge portions. It takes hours and much stomach to get through it all, you emerge extremely drunk, and then most of the clientele go back out to work. Sigh. Ideal lifestyle.
Afterwards, we walked drunkenly down through the City to the wobbly bridge, and JATB tottered back off to her workplace, and I got a riverbus with the DH. I don't remember a lot after that, [I do recall someone whom I don't have permission to name shrieking "ere! I wet meself" in a