I’m roasting a chicken. I don’t really want a chicken, but I have all these vintage pyrexes now and a cute apron and what else am I going to do? Yes, well. It’s in the oven now and it smells delicious.
There were a couple of eventful weekends. Several bottles of tequila disappeared inside a rabbit and I visited some bars and made some very fast friends. Entertaining, but brief. It’s cute when drunk people tell you they want to keep in touch with you. Even if you tell them to their face that you know this is not going to happen, they’re so damned sure… so sure. I made a date, too. But it fell through. There are flowers in a vase on a little table with some birds on it. The pub around the corner houses a robin’s nest now, they’ve placed some old menus against a wall to protect the brooding birdy from hungry fox and kitty cats. The table with the flowers on it, I found that in the street. It’s got robins and tits and metal legs. It looks like something my grandmother would have had.
It’s getting to be time to have a picnic. I’d love a good reason to buy a cute picnic basket and blanket from Selfridge’s. Also a good reason to spend days corning beefs, and boiling eggs and making cucumber sandwiches.
Well I’d better go baste. Good luck.