I don’t want to be home after Paul’s stag do

Paul had his birthday party at Project Orange in Clapham on Friday night. Many of his male friends came sans WAGs and made the mistake of wandering off for half an hour to talk to some other guests. When I came back I got a relatively good impression of the level of drunkenness that might take place at Paul’s stag do. I will not be going into details about the shenanigans that happened but I think I’d rather be watching Made In Chelsea on the sofa than dealing with the aftermath. I also realised that chilli beer and patron are not for the faint of heart.

Never again

South West London is a hotbed of inbreeding

On Saturday Paul and I went to “give notice to marry” at the Wandsworth Town Hall where we are getting married. Despite Paul’s intense hangover he proved to be dedicated to the cause and faithfully trundled along in the horrendous weather.

It was an interesting experience. The registrar is obviously supposed to be the first boundary to dodgy marriages and interviewed us separately asking questions like “when is your partner’s birthday?” and “what is their job? The question that initially surprised me though was, “are you related to each other in any way by blood or adoption?”  I laughed and said, “oh I’m sure no one says yes to that!” She suddenly got serious and told me that a surprising number of people who come to give notice of their marriage are related to each other. Ah inbreeding, not just for the Deep South then.

Weather is no deterrent to a picnic if you are determined

On Sunday Dominic hosted a picnic for his birthday in Hampstead Heath. Those of you who live in London will know that it rained rather spectacularly on Sunday. Despite the deluge we were not willing to give up without a fight and in true British style we ended up sitting on the grass in a circle with our brollies up. The downside was a series of middle class problems and I do remember someone shouting, “Quick, the paté is getting wet!”

I say Tabitha, I think the champagne is taking on water!

There is a fine line between determined and deranged

Around about the second major precipitation incident my South African sensibilities kicked in and I threw a little strop, which got everyone off the grass into the pub. I am not sure this is what Dominic wanted so if it wasn’t, I apologise retrospectively but the pub was surprisingly laid back about us eating our picnic food at their tables.

Nothing beats a good Sunday dinner

Using nothing but my wits and what I could scavenge from our fridge we had a Sunday night dinner of veggie sausages, mash, roast carrots and mini Yorkshire puddings, followed by Eton Mess. It was delicious. And we went to bed happy and content after what proved to be a very active weekend.

Food of the gods!