Tuesday, February 3, 2015

Brunch of a Brunchness


It's been a while, I know, and I'm sure you've all just been pining for me, really.  I've been far too busy exploiting friendships, selling my soul and going back through old posts to add links so you too can buy useless shite (and I can get a cut, sweetie; cocaine doesn't buy itself, you know). 

Yesterday we went to brunch.  Brunch isn't worth it unless you truly splash out, and plus, if you go early enough, you can jot back to your flat and spend the rest of the day on the treadmill to negate all the calories you couldn't hork back up afterwards.  It gives you a full day to mend your gluttonous ways, you podgy slag relax and catch up with a good book.

For brunch this week, we went to an absolutely darling little hole-in-the-wall place in Lewisham, which truly isn't so bad as you are automatically the thinnest person there the moment you arrive.  I'm sure they all appreciate our attempts to gentrify such a dump of a borough.  

Anyhoo, the place was called Fats, and our spread was utterly delish.  I simply cannot illustrate how totally outlandishly luxe it was, so a pic will have to do. 

Our group simply devoured the entire spread, and then we even had pudding for breakfast!  I mean, if you're going to binge God, you obese whale indulge, you may as well go all in, yes? 

Pudding was a hectare of ice cream.  My boyfriend TJ took all the photos today, but I wouldn't allow him in the frame.  I've given him a stand-in.  TJ is delightful to have someone to take me to excellent restaurants and he's a pal at taking photos of me and not remarking on obvious thigh Photoshopping, but I fear his sweaters are simply not up to snuff, and thus I have assigned him a secret double I can use whenever we go out.  This way TJ gets to Jesus, hide that terrible face preserve his privacy, and I can have photos of a handsome, finally couple.  

TJ doesn't mind.  He says he doesn't want anyone knowing he's seeing me.  Silly.  I can only assume it's because of my blog fame.  Right? 

Not TJ
Ta, darlings.  The old bat is ringing and cripes, Mum, DO something about those silver wings already.  You look insane.  Also, I do not care in the least that the Wellesley has changed their Earl Grey blend.  I know fuck all about actual tea.   God, would she just die already?


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