Under the influence...

Urgh. They say never to drink and dial. My theory is not to drink and blog.

My head is swimming, it seems that after one day of work the philosophy of working hard and playing hard veers strongly to the philosophy of playing hard.

"It won't be a late one..." I say to the Gorgeous as I'm walking out the door to meet the Nurse for a cocktail Friday night, "I have a date tomorrow morning."
Coffee with the Belgian Accountant.

Unfortunately, my best intentions found me at 2am in the company of rugby players downing Jager bombs at the bar while The Nurse flirted outrageously with the Hot Doctor. As it started to get light, I made my way down Broadway, extracting myself from the cab and quietly sneaking into the house.

Last night, however, was the Gorgeous' fault. Mountgay before we left the house, ordering shots of black sambucca as soon as we got to the bar. She was on a mission, I was just her wingwoman, smiling at the waitress and nodding the order back. Spying a young man in cowboy boots and a hat across the bar, a displaced Texan in Vancouver, I couldn't help but flirt and smile, accept a date to go horse backriding one weekend. A cheeky smile and a little drawl sending me on my way out into the darkened streets of Granville with The Gorgeous, in search for our dancing feet.

So this morning, I am staying curled up in bed trying to soothe my aching body, gather my thoughts back together. Reply to emails, catching up on blogs and watching the rain fall outside...

Anna tells me Mimi is apparently creating havoc in me old abode in London. God rest that kettle, it was time for a replacement anyway.