I just picked up my new cellie--I did some googling and voila, the shop was just one tube station away. But I took a taxi instead. I'm determined to spend my way to the poorhouse--I want to fall out of the middle class in comfort.
So the man who sold it to me had, I think, bigger boobs than I do. He wasn't overweight--really just kind of a bit chunky. I didn't mean to stare. Honestly, if he'd lived 200 years ago and put on a dress, he could have gotten work as a wetnurse.
The fact that I'm talking about this means I still have crazy jetlag, and, that I really need to talk to human beings.
Luckily, I actually know two or three people in this city. Someone from university. A former co-worker. Someone from my old running club who, I know from Facebook, likes Madmen as much as I do. It's pretty tenuous though. I'm seeing Former Co-Worker, aka Emma, in a couple hours for drinks. I hope to drink too much. Because I don't have to go to work tomorrow.
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Hi Monica!
ReplyDeleteGlad to see you're surviving so far. I ran into you-know-who last weekend, but was evasive when he asked about you. I could tell he wanted more information so it was funny to hold out. Mean? Probably. Miss you!
Liz
Liz, you're the best. He's such a jackass. Listen, Cally might hop the puddle and come to London. You should join us!
ReplyDeleteI know what you mean about big-breasted wet-nurse men. The top heavy man is the emblem of our day; I think they want to nurse themselves. Lovely shots of Devon, where I spent a week pretending to walk the moors (we just parked our rental car, ran up a hill, took a picture, and drove off)
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