Pete is nearly 33. It’s been said that this is not an easy time to be. I arranged a trip to London, in all the humidity, and he may or may not have already figured it what we’re doing tomorrow.
Meanwhile, Bernard is enjoying the company of his auntie, and I forgot to bring any smart clothes for either me or Pete. We have a cheap room at the Park Lane Sheraton, and have been for a steak. It was one of those places where you cook your own steak on a hot stone at the table. I think that’s fun. Pete, who never cooks, found it stressful. I burnt my tongue.
The very middle bit of London is heaving with touristlife, and we have taken refuge in a whisky bar with an illegible name. Pete is drinking the 5*chilli version of some scotch, apparently it’s a big deal. I have a nice glass of something nice. When I went to the loo, the soap dispenser came all over my dress.
Follow the fun on #ebe.