It is me week off work and I'm avin a ball. I've been writing, working out and generally being fab. Workin in the bookies 10-2 is killin me off. No, that's not really my job, I'm not telling you what it is. But what I will say is I work in Soho. No, no, nothing dodgy or anythin.
Anyway, when I first moved here, I pictured spending my days off work waltzing about the Southbank, popping to Portobello Market for me bits and waving to the studios where they do This Morning while Holly and Pip interview a woman who's vagina collapsed into itself. But alas, being a grown up means otherwise. I've been the gym, sure. But that is not enough to write home about. Unless you count all the fit fellas that I perv at.
When I go the gym I'm surrounded by gorgeous girls, tanned skin, dark hair, they make everything they do look sexy. I am a completely different kettle of fish. Gingers go red when they run. And no matter what sports bra I wear, the girls always bounce up and down. I get perved at by small Algerian men in Lonsdale, who stare at me while they do chin ups. Can't complain tho ay? A fanbase is a fanbase afterall.
Easter is approaching, which means it's perfectly acceptable to eat an Easter Egg, all to yaself on the Central Line. Just not the additional chocolate bars as well, save them for later with a brew when nobody can laugh at ya. It also means a 4 day weekend. Tubes will be delayed, cancelled and we will be hit with "Rail Replacement Buses". Gorj. Sundays are boring in London as it is, we don't need 2 more added on. Oh well, Good Friday means fish & chips and I'm just gona get dead fat all weekend.
I can't keep up with what bleedin coat to wear either. I've got 5 and can never get it right.
All this aside, believe it or not, Summer is on it's way. I even wore me maxi dress to Sainsbury's recently. My Italian flatmate is having a mare. All his mates back home are on the beach, drinkin Amaretto, eatin ice cream havin an absolute ball. I love Italians. They're like Scousers. They hear a fellow Italian in the street, and that's it. Bezzy mates. They will stand there for ages just talking about Italy. Oh, and just so ya'no, I asked him if Italy has seen the missing plane, and it seems they can't find it either. I'm sure it will all come out in the wash. Last night I was having a "fat day". One of them days where ya haven't gained a considerable amount of weight, but you feel like ya 'ave. And no matter what outfit you put on, you're STILL fat. I informed my Italian flatmate of this, as I solemnly passed him in the kitchenette. He comforted me by saying "In Italy we don't like Skinny Girl. When you hug them it feel like you hug a rock." Little babe.
I need to go the gym again. And wash that lads hoodie. Remember him? From a previous blog? He bailed, fannied out, then came back. I'm seeing him tomorrow. You might think that's too soft, but I want to hear what he has to say for swerving a little prin like me. Plus, free Nandos init? Let's hope he doesn't see this blog ay? And if he does, lets hope it was taken in the spirit it was intended.....
