There is no milk in the house. Not a single drop.
In a cruel twist of fate, I am supposed to be having a lie in to recover from an exhausting week – culminating in a tremendous party to celebrate 10 years of living in Los Angeles – and yet here I am after 4 hours of sleep, BING! Wide awake and staring forlornly at a cup of watery tea, wondering if I should attempt substituting ice cream for milk
And that there folks, is the full extent of my problems in life…. It’s okay, go ahead and give me a mental slap in the face, it’ll feel good.
Soooo yarss, yesterday, August 12th, marked my 10 year anniversary of moving to Los Angeles. I celebrate this anniversary with the same level of dedication that Wil E. Coyote has for trying to have Road Runner over for dinner.
At last night’s glorious shindig (I’ve no room for modesty in my life any more – it was an awesome party: drinks, music, food, arty farty tea lights in mason jars strung from trees, and lots of laughing ) there was a mix of friends old and new, gathered from the past 10 years of my life. To the casual observer it was a random mix of a guests. Family; friends from former jobs; solid drinking buddies; friends met whilst setting fire to a BBQ; friends I met dressed in drag (as one does); acquaintances of other friends that I’ve stealthily sneaked into my life; friends I’ve known for more than 10 years; friends I met a mere 10 weeks ago.
But to me they all fall into one clear category: these are the people who, when you go to a wedding, you cross your fingers and offer up a silent prayer, “Oh please, please, please, pleeeeeeease let them be on my table!”
Cheers to being on the most fun table.