This weekend I headed south of the River (Thames) into what is commonly referred to as South London. It was probably the first time I managed to go down south without freaking out. But that maybe (definately) had something to do with the Jack we polished off on the train there. Nothing symbolises fuck you like drinking on the Underground. IN fact since Boris' ban I'm sure there's been an increase in public train drinking. We brits love saying fuck you without actually having to say you know fuck you.
In my defence I only freak out when I'm going down in a car. Super play of words there. It's not until I can see the lights of the City and Docklands from a car to the north of me that I start worring how ever will this North East dweller ever manage to survive not knowing there is a 55, 8, 25, 5, 149, 243, 115 etc within easy walking.
So lessons this crazy weekend, where I didn't bathe until this morning and wore the same party clothes for close to 36hrs, have taught me.
A toothbrush in your handbag is a handy old thing for every girl to posess, being a pervert is only acceptable if you are hot or dangerous, junk food is boring but so the only way to go when your culinary budget is circa £1.99, a Blackberry holder does not constitute as a wallet (even if all your ID, cards and money are live here) and finally in terms of men FRENCH > English.