As far as lundis go, yesterday was très d’accord.
Getting to sleep from the night before may’ve been somewhat postponed, to 4am. Long gone 4am. It was a worthwhile cause that kept me up though, as I rekindled Britain’s international relations with the Argentines (via the political platform that is omegle).
This may’ve slightly impacted the time I rose, to 11am. Though after muchos alarmos, briefly after 9am, I did manage to open an eyelid, to perform the function of diverting the office phone to my mobile, just in case anyone was feeling that Monday morning keenness to get in touch.
After the post-bed fundamental functions, I departed la maison á approximo (“environ” for those hoping to learn any French from this) just gone 1pm. Of all places, I met Caroline in a furniture shop. She had this to show me: http://www.27bslash6.com/overdue.html.
On the business front, today was another one of those days which proved the delights of working for oneself. I returned home just after 5pm, continued working for a while, and just prior to leaving again, constructively placed a bottle of (product placement alert!) Schweppes lemonade in the freezer. This mystery will later be uncovered in our story.
I reverse bay parked upon my arrival to karate. This was not the reason why I was late. Training was rather intense, and I believe I lost my thumb when punching a black belt. To clarify, I do mean a fellow karateka wearing a black belt (in that he has achieved the black belt grade in karate), and not just a sporadic belt that I happened to encounter and have a desire to attack. The showers were as generous with their water, as a camel is with its tricks on a trampoline. I’m talking about an average camel here, not one of those trampoline specialist camels.
My journey continued to la supermarché (I assume it’s la, not for sexist reasons, but simply because the word is quite feminine sounding; even a butch man couldn’t pull off saying “supermarché” without losing an element of his manhoodity (which is a word). I got things, and après gave my tyres a bit of extra air, whilst casually consuming une stick de ice (ice cream, it was orange flavoured, I think). That was not an innuendo.
I returned home (again), and attempted to resurrect my missing thumb with a bag of frozen chips. This didn’t work, so *enter aforementioned lemonade*. This proved, delightfully refreshing, as I drunk from my Rupert-gifted-Guinness-glass. However it was good old orange juice that accompanied my spaghetti carbonara.
C’est tout! Bon!
