BUT I did drink my bodyweight in gin while dressed in a fuchsia shift dress and dark denim shirt and Docs (to honour my birth decade, obviously), then go out to flail around to Nicki and Katy and Lily. The latter activity of which my teenage self would have slapped me upside the head for, because she only liked Morrissey, 1930s Delta blues and Swedish lo-fi. Thinking about it, I'm sure my taste has actually declined as I've aged.
Anyway. My goblin-y London friends also goblined up to the north pole to come and pay homage to my birth, and Oldest BFF EVAR EVAR (OBFFEE) bought me the INSANEST present. We named him Hamish. Behold;
CRAZY. I cannot wait to be sitting in my 40-years-time house underneath this with her, in my huge Chesterfield armchair, drinking whiskey and wondering where the years went. She also made me a monstrously giant snack box full of nostalgic treats - because we are nothing if not food-oriented - featuring gems such as marshmallows on sticks (brownie camps), Club bars (primary school packed lunches), scones (afternoon teas on Portobello) and Irn Bru & pot noodle (current foul Scottish student living). What a babe.
It was an ace weekend, even if 13 people crammed into an obscenely small 3-person flat was maybe a teensy bit snug. Lots of beach walks and fry ups and box wine and queasy amounts of cocktails.
|Don't we look wholesome and Seurat-esque!|
Also don't go and see the new Andrea Arnold adaptation of Wuthering Heights when you're horrendously sleep deprived and dying of said cocktails, as it is visually beautiful and stunning and everything, but also has no dialogue and is mostly 2 and a half hours of close-ups of grass and dead animals. I thought all the linen and stone and rain and emotional repression and so on would cleanse my soul, but apparently not.
Oh and I'm using Hamish as an excuse to post some Go-Betweens;