We went to Canary Wharf for a drink (Canary Wharf, for non-English/London readers, is where our newspaper/banking industries have relocated to, a big steel-and-glass metropolis slap bang in the middle of the poorest part of East London, where the old docklands used to be with their tobacco warehouses.) The clientele is suited and booted, Jess and I feel like mole people in our trainers and jeans, but this matters not to the men in suits, it's like walking into a wall of testosterone.
Two girls come up to us. You work hard, goes their sales pitch. You need to relax at the end of the week. Would you care for a 10 minute back massage? You can pay us what you like.
Yes indeed. And for 10 minutes in the middle of the smokey noisy pub, they give us both a back massage. It is total bliss, and the only massage I've received whilst smoking a cigarette. I bet they do a good business with lager-ed up city boys, though the three quid I had left in my wallet would probably not keep them in lip gloss for a week.
Onto more important mattetrs. What I have eaten today:
A KitKat (from shop in the station for breakfast)
A tuna sandwich
2 glass of wine and 500 cigarettes.
I need a personal chef.
About Courbet (yet again)
18 hours ago
5 comments:
That's the Bridget Jones diet, isn't it? ;)
Have an apple, will you? (ok, turning off "Mom" mode now!)
Yeah, there were girls doing that in Ibiza. I call it pricing by guilt. I tend to pay more if they have a cute accent. :-)
Drink lots of water :-)
Maybe you'll find a cute, single guy who can cook at the Canary Wharf.
huuummmm... massage...
Oh, starving yourself, are you?
In that that case you don't need massage, send those girls south, please.
You're right Natalie. That's the last thing I want. Memo to self: must not turn into Bridget Jones.
GG, yup, a househusband. Beginning to understand the appeal of someone waiting at home for you with food all ready...
Adrian and Dcver, I should have got their cards for you...
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