The Last Song

Alas, for the horror that struck London, Kris and I were not able to go to the galleries. So we inflicted ourselves on Wimbledon. And inflict we did.

Girly as we are, we went to see A Lot Like Love. And it seemed to be A Lot Like A Good Film. It was close, anyway. Pretty darn close. Kris and I were INSPIRED by this film. INSPIRED, I tell you. The rest of the afternoon that followed was spent taking not one, not two, but 706 photos. Of everything, of anything and of everybody on Wimbledon station. Were you there at 18:00 on Friday evening? Then we have a photo of you. In fact, we probably have at least six photos of you. Unfortunately, I have not been sent these photos yet, as computers are not always very nice to me.

I babysat in the evening. Now I am rich. I am also a liar. Well, not a liar about the babysitting malarky, I mean I lied about being rich. Shut up, Cassie. But, I have SOME money. Which is better than none. But not as good as lots. And it will soon diminish, due to the fact that I have a million and three things to buy. Like, about thirty hundred (as Kris would say) presents to buy.

Saturday was yesterday. On this day, Kris visited, with Mikkal, to drop off my phone, and to hide from the Brentosaurus. Git. We got me credit (yes, you read it right. I - that's me - have credit for once. Amazing, non? Finally, I can text back!)and then we, er, popped in to Poppins, where we discussed such riveting things as Mike's ugly farm, where Mike is an ugly farmer, with ugly animals, which have ugly crops (nb: I realise that animals do not have crops, regardless of their beauty. This faux pas was made on behalf of Kris). The conversation progressed onto whether anyone would actually buy ugly milk from Mike's ugly farm. I, for one, would. But only if the cartons had an ugly picture of ugly farmer Mike on them.

During pancakes, Emma arrived. Which was nice. She was wearing a skirt. How enthralling. It then emerged that Kris was supposed to be going to Oli Grale Grandma's sister's barbeque. To which the rest of us had not been invited. How rude is that? So we decided that we'd gatecrash anyway.

Buses were caught, and we decided that instead of doing the expected, and catch another bus, we'd walk from Hampton Court to Oli's house. Now, I realise that to normal people, walking to Oli's from there would take, what, fifteen minutes at the very most. Well, not if you are us. We took about an hour, stoping at every available opportunity to take photos of random shit. Well, not shit, literally.

Oli was not home, so many a day (three minutes) was spent aboard a pirate ship (ferry) as we sailed across the deep, wide, mysterious ocean (river). We clambered up on land, to that foreign country, so far, far away (the basketball court). Oli was there, uh, playing basketball. As you do, on a basketball court. Surprising, non?

We returned to Oliver's, where we were greeted (not without a certain sense of surprise at the amount of people who had just entered the house) and proceeded to eat, drink and be merry.

Much of the evening was spent playing intruments (no, all you sick minded people out there, musical instruments), sitting on the roof, meeting scary older universitified people, and getting drunken phone calls from an oh-so-slightly inebriated Stalker.

Today has been mostly sunbathing, Beetlejuice watching, and sleeping. And being spoken to in Norweigian. Yeh.