I have a batch of gingerbread dough in the fridge chilling, and a saucepan of chunked cooking apple on the stove, waiting to be turned into delicous apple sauce to accompany tonight’s roast pork. It’s a little domesticated, but since domesticated is a hat I can wear well, that’s okay by me.
Last night was Anna’s last in Cornwall for the time being, bringing my friends total down to a measly two (or losing 33% if you like to be maths geek about it), so we sent her off in traditional fashion of playing one of the weird board games in the local pub. We ended up playing scruples, with questions such are “you are having an affair, and don’t feel like going to work. Do you call in sick?” and “you are in a night-club [sic] and see a handsome young man, dressed to the “nines”. His shirt tail is sticking out, do you tell him?”
Some of the questions were beyond hilarious (I wasn’t drinking but I can imagine the pints of beer that Jeff and Anna consumed only helped to heighten the sense of what the fuckedness about the whole thing.)
I’m sad to see her go, and not just because it brings my friend quotient down so drastically. At least I can console myself with that fact that London is around the corner, timeline if not distance wise, and I’ll soon be able to hang out whenever I damn well please. I can’t wait.