You know how, usually I spend my weeks crouched in the squalor of our back room in front of an overheating laptop? With only forty three bags of chocolate buttons and a sad eyed weepette for company? Well not this week.
In the last week, I have been Meeting The Internet. This is the first in an occasional series when I try to exit my hermitage and communicate other than through a series of wordless grunts. Very occasional. My face is hurting from all the actual words I have been forced to form using muscles in it. Also, I can't imagine it can have been very edifying for the internet (sorry, internet).
Let me summarise thus far.
The victim: M
The location: Various sites, Paris
Consumed: every cake in Paris, noodles, stolen truffles (E: Ooh are these all for us? M: Er, no dude E: Oh well, too late now), a cocktail made out of liquidised Mr Kipling cakes.
"Ugh, that white dread is slithering down the street after you! Imagine it crawling into your eye socket!"
"It's gone up your nose and INTO YOUR BRAIN. Cockstump"
The victim: Lydia
The location: The Parc d'Egmont, Brussels
Consumed: Chocolat chaud
"So are you SURE I can't do the wielding of giant mechanical arms and hitting people with dried herrings at the leper festival?"
"Quite sure. Now how will I obtain a Chartreux potato cat when I speak no French?"
The victims: Mrs Trefusis, The Artichoke Queen
Location: Tinis, Walton Street, London
Consumed: Cocktails, various. Sushi, mountains.
"I can't feel my head anymore"
[Apologies, I have only a hazy recollection of this. Think cackling harridans and the kind of thing that cackling harridans talk about. Only Mrs Trefusis is far too elegant to cackle.]
The victim: Lucy with a Y
Location: South Bank
Consumed: Noodles, a "Canadian margarita" [Ed's note: not wholeheartedly recommended. Vanilla tequila, lime, maple syrup, cinammon sugar, Beavers, Lumberjacks. Smelt like a cheap Christmas candle, tasted of 1950s cough syrup before they realised so much alcohol might not be good for babies]
"So I said to her 'There is no way I am taking delivery of a box of ferrets until I know precisely why he wants them'"
The victim: Robbie
Location: Patisserie Valerie
Consumed: A shitty cappucino (Pat Val! What happened?)
"A greek chorus of blog commenters? With funny glasses?"
"Show me the live Great Dane board game again"
And more tomorrow. Beware, internet. I have left my grotto! I am attempting to socialise! It will end verrrry verrrry badly.