Honestly, is there a better way to spend a Saturday afternoon than asserting one's right to the top of the food chain, both proverbially and quite literally?
|For only $500 American, these declare, "I can afford to buy things that look previously worn."|
Saturday morning we all headed out to the countryside to pay homage to pre-1950s gender roles. The men all swaggered and guffawed and acted manly and wandered off to get absolutely pissed, and the women got dinner together in the hunting lodge. Which naturally means we lounged about looking glamorous and horsey, sipping champers while the servants catered the affair and set the table with middle-class checked tablecloths.
After lunch, we all went back out into the countryside, as this is the point where the women are supposed to join in and assert their own dominance over God's creatures, or whatever. I took the opportunity to duck into a potting shed with Winston Covingston-Bishop and Sir Harold Mincepie-Doddingsley. Sir Harold is getting on a bit in years, but a girl's got to compromise as best she can when she's on a trip with nearly all family. Particularly since apparently Cousin Niles is off limits. (At least for now. I've a plan for Twelfth Night that involves a cat o'nine tails and Rohypnol.)
One of my uncles tried to lure me into the back of his vintage Daimler by showing me a puppy, but thankfully I was able to dodge him and grab the dog, which I then spent all afternoon hogging, despite the begging, whining children at my feet. Ugh. Who would think to bring children to a family party? I mean, honestly.
In short, country shoots are delicious darling; just don't forget to bring a blanket for the potting shed.
|Cashmere blanket I used is from here.|