Several Small Things

I'll do this in list form, so you peasants can keep up.  Do try to comprehend what I say.  Part of the reason I no longer hang out with old Fi is 1, she kept insisting she wasn't watching what she ate, which, chuh; but also 2, she'd been stuck on level 23 of Candy Crush for like a week.  Level 23.  Darlings, I barely got through university, but even I'm on level 145. 

1.  I've had a few questions about why, when I recommend products to you peasants, I don't use affiliate links.  

     a.  They require you to post a certain amount per week or something, which, sod off, sponsors; don't tell me what to do.  and also, 

     b.  affiliate links are for the poor.  I don't request a commission every time someone buys a goddamn jumper from M&S because I don't need your meager coinage.  If you'd really like to do something for me, come see me when I'm out at the Box and buy me a whisky.  I'd go to Boujis but Fi's gross old boyfriend is the business manager or some such nonsense and they've barred me for life. 

2.  I plan to do a style post at some point in the future, but I'm running my ideas past my housekeeper to make sure I post things normal people can afford.  In a rare show of affection for you.  

3.  I may start an Instagram account at some point this year, but the plain truth is that the people I hang out with are far too good for you and sometimes like to be shielded from the prying eyes of the proletariat.  If you want to know what our lives are like, truly, I suggest you go view Rich Kids of Instagram, add about five years, and take away some of the bling because we're far classier than that. 

So terribly gauche, darling.  Though I do own most of these pieces.

4.  And lastly, if you want to turn your kitchen into the Swiss Alps, a recipe for macaroni and cheese won't do it, but six ounces of pharmaceutical "snow" certainly will.  You don't even have to misspell "envelop" to do it.  And you'll feel far more comforted without all those fucking calories. 

Added bonus:  Your old crone of a mother who unexpectedly shows up will think it's flour and  you
can laugh at her while high out of your mind as she tries to make cookies.

Ta, rustics.
J.