Whilst taking down the details of a young couple that were wanting to join our mailing list at work, I was told that the name of their street was ‘Sandwich Grove’ (which is hilarious because a grove is like a woody area where you grow shit, so… it’s where you grow sandwiches?). I laughed to […]
So as many of you know (or I suppose, as none of you know, because I’ve been neglecting this poor, poor blog, like some unwanted child that failed to live up to a parent’s expectation), Becky and I were invited to attend a faraway birthday party for some idiot with whom I used to live (sorry Nick, you may be Prince Nicholai in Romania, but you’re still the idiot with whom I used to live to me). It was a very fancy event at the Royal Palace (or a royal palace, I don’t know, there were a lot of palaces involved), and it was preceded by a delightful tour of some of the sights that Romania had to offer (including the inside of a bus, the views outside the bus from inside a bus, and the view of the outside of a bus from outside a bus).
… and of course we took a bunch of photos, because we’re piece of shit millennials.
I assume you do, but just in case, here are a couple of pictures of Rebecca and me looking ludicrously amazing at a recent wedding that we attended. http://instagram.com/p/tTDQlSNlD3/ http://instagram.com/p/tTFh5NtlHZ/
I’d spent the day in hospital at my ladyfriend’s bedside, but had to leave to catch the last train home. As I reached the platform, it pulled up and I realised that I was stood next to the ‘First Class’ carriage. I stared down the platform for a moment, to wonder if I could even […]
Because I can’t pull off ‘legitimately cool’, but I can totally pull off ‘quirky, pretentious idiot who probably finds it therapeutic to count things’. http://instagram.com/p/sm7ImStlET/
… and it was agonisingly awkward.
There was a girl in my shop with (presumably) her parents. She was maybe 18-24, I’m useless with guessing ages, and had bright blue hair (and for the record, I am quite a fan of bright, dyed hair). Anyway, she sort of shot me a few smiles, and I shot a few back in that customer/shop assistant kind of way, and after a very small chat with the lady I assumed to be her mother that she sort of joined in with, they left.
Cut to two hours later, and the phone rings.
Manager (female): I’ve put the new girl on the bar with you tonight, so no distracting her. Me: What do you mean ‘distracting’? Manager: You just… have a way of distracting the female staff. Me: Do I? Manager: You do. Me: How? Manager: You just… do. So don’t. Me: Well, how can I not do […]
… because, let’s face it, it’s pretty fucking awesome.
Okay, let’s break this down a little. It’s mostly a blur of endlessly discussing which body of water, be it pool, beach, other pool, or other beach, to lie beside; but I shall try to jot down a loose itinerary of my two weeks in St Lucia. One thing that you can take as a given on each and every day is that several Rastafarians would demand that we fist bump them (and then offer us drugs), and several over-enthusiastic bartenders would satiate us with an inexhaustible supply of rum punches that were slightly stronger than pure gasoline. The endless photos will be around soon (mostly of topless people who probably shouldn’t be topless), but until then, here’s the gist of what we got up to.