Back in London, where the sun continues to shine. I have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, but this is because my beloved Arsenal are playing in the semi-final of the FA Cup today and I have a feeling that I am going to go and watch them and they are going to lose. Anyway, this isn't my first time at a semi final or my first time at the new Wembley, so I need to move on.
Instead let me tell you about yesterday. Yesterday, DH and I had the immense joy of going posh furniture shopping. The avid readers of this blog will know that DH are currently, rather rashly you might think, doing up an old Salvation Army hall and turning it into a house. A rather massive house. And we came to the realisation that we move back into it in 3 months time and our tiny furniture just isn't going to cut it. So off we headed to lots of posh furniture shops. It was like being in a parallel universe.
Let me explain: a typical Friday for me goes something like this: get George up, have battle over what George wants to wear today, apply make up with one hand whilst stopping George from diving out of the window, go to work, work hard, come home, go to the park with George, clean up Play-Doh mess in the kitchen, glass of wine, bed.
Yesterday was: Get dressed in designer frock. Attend expensive Italian designer furniture store. Spend two hours discussing sofas and beds and ottomans (yes, exactly), lights, fabrics, you name it with someone called Tristan and another Italian man who waved his hands a lot. Spend indecent sum of money. Go to Bibendum (for the first time, natch!) and eat fabulous steak au poivre. Go to Harrods and spend almost two hours discussing hideously expensive dressing table, love seat etc. Fall into taxi. Very big glass of wine. Bed. Lovely.
But weird as this day was, I am now the proud owner of the loveliest sofa in the world. Well, I will be, three months down the line when Tristan has managed to persuade the Italian man to place the order and get it sent here. The Charles, it's called. Couldn't have thought of a better Italian name myself.
Instead let me tell you about yesterday. Yesterday, DH and I had the immense joy of going posh furniture shopping. The avid readers of this blog will know that DH are currently, rather rashly you might think, doing up an old Salvation Army hall and turning it into a house. A rather massive house. And we came to the realisation that we move back into it in 3 months time and our tiny furniture just isn't going to cut it. So off we headed to lots of posh furniture shops. It was like being in a parallel universe.
Let me explain: a typical Friday for me goes something like this: get George up, have battle over what George wants to wear today, apply make up with one hand whilst stopping George from diving out of the window, go to work, work hard, come home, go to the park with George, clean up Play-Doh mess in the kitchen, glass of wine, bed.
Yesterday was: Get dressed in designer frock. Attend expensive Italian designer furniture store. Spend two hours discussing sofas and beds and ottomans (yes, exactly), lights, fabrics, you name it with someone called Tristan and another Italian man who waved his hands a lot. Spend indecent sum of money. Go to Bibendum (for the first time, natch!) and eat fabulous steak au poivre. Go to Harrods and spend almost two hours discussing hideously expensive dressing table, love seat etc. Fall into taxi. Very big glass of wine. Bed. Lovely.
But weird as this day was, I am now the proud owner of the loveliest sofa in the world. Well, I will be, three months down the line when Tristan has managed to persuade the Italian man to place the order and get it sent here. The Charles, it's called. Couldn't have thought of a better Italian name myself.
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