"You Look Like Andy Warhol."

Another weekend.... another visit from the Blonde. What could possibly go wrong when I was taking an afternoon off work to meet her and go for a late (liquid) lunch?

It started off in Moro - for anyone who hasn't tried this restaurant, this genuinely is the best food I've ever had. Exquisite tapas and a great atmosphere and a wine list to die for. We promptly worked our way through a divine bottle of Txacoli and had a rather enjoyable little crawl round the drinking establishments of Exmouth Market. Medcalfs, the old butchers, is a nice place to chill out (we met The Greek there for one or two), as well as a brilliant spot for listening to Islington rah-rahs harp on loudly.

"Yah, I laaarve the names Poppy and Scarlet and Oscar, fwa?"

A twenty-something woman addressed her mum,

"Why didn't you give me a proper Spanish name Mummy?... Chloe is SO common now."

The Blonde and I just looked at each other and tried not to laugh out loud.

We presented the bar man in Cafe Kick the brief of: dry, vodka-based cocktail please thankyouverymuch. He came back with a Berry Martini fit for a Queen and we promptly had 3. What, we had to check for consistency?

By this point, The Blonde was fully in Camera Club mode, taking arty shots of light fittings and such. She'd just discovered turning the flash off for better night time photos. We asked a poor man sat at the next table to take a shot of the two of us, and she wasn't shy with direction.

"Put your elbows on the table so it's not blurry... PUT YOUR ELBOWS ON THE TABLE!"

Fully getting into the stride of a slightly boozy afternoon, we happened upon my wonderful local where we shared a cheeseboard at the bar. Somehow, The Blonde came back from the loo to find me fully engaged in conversation about the design industry with a rather attractive young man. I forgot about this until the end of the night, when The Blonde nicked a business card off me and thrust it upon him.

"Call her! She's a designer!"

Me, dying inside: "No, Blonde, I'm not a designer. I work in design."

"Anyway, she thinks you're nice, call her. Byeeeee!"

I scarpered shame-faced from the pub and we went home to dance and for The Blonde to eat a serious amount of cocktail sausages. I played her some tracks I'd been listening to. She couldn't get her head around the Scroobius Pip track Thou Shalt Always Kill.

"Who's this? Scrupulous Pigs?"

"Yes. Time for bed."

It's never fun on a Saturday morning when some twat decides that pre-9am is a brilliant time to do some extraordinarily loud drilling outside your window. We come round with brews and talk about the evening before. Since we're both trying not to eat too many carbs as well (shh, wine and martinis so don't count), we get onto the subject of food. The Blonde looks wistful and I know she's about to come out with one of her cracking interchangeable quotes.

"I LOVE [insert random thing]" This time, it was, yep you've guessed it - potatoes of course.

We make our way to Borough Market for some mooching and sampling and probably quite a bit of Camera Club, and for some reason end up talking about marriage and taking your husband's name.

The Blonde says earnestly, "I'm quite attached to my name." As one would be.

Borough Market is overwhelming in its delights and we kick off the weekend in the totally normal fashion at 12 noon - Prosecco! The Blonde gets unbelievably excited by a sign in the Spanish shop Brindisa advertising 'Ham School'. No, really. One of the interchangeable quotes from above occurred while tucking into a plate of antipasti.

"I love ham."

The next thing that has The Blonde squealing with excitement is a stall selling Drunk Cheese.

"That's got my name ALL over it!" I have photos of her proudly posing underneath the sign and sampling some.

Next stop, Spitalfields for more wandering and shopping. I cross over into full Shoreditch Wankdom and purchase some of those fake glasses that look like the sort of thing Deirdre from Coronation Street would turn down on account of them being a bit ugly. You know the kind. The Blonde persuaded me. They just make me look more like the geeky one from Scooby Doo. I kept them in my bag.

We wander round Brick Lane, meet Oxford for drinks and then make our way to Broadway. On the way we pass someone's post outside their house. I was going to say that I'd love to know what goes on inside The Blonde's head, but I do already know and it's just baffling.

"Oooooh, LOOK, the phone book's thin now isn't it?"

I don't know how to come back to that.

We sat in Off Broadway and admired the east end lot dressed in their war time get up, and the large number of seriously cool dogs that people had in there. We complimented a lady on her fine-looking cocktail and she let us try it. How kind.

The rest of the evening involved takeaway and inane discussions brought on by The Blonde forcing me to watch Britain's Got Talent. (Questionable.)

"I reckon Amanda Holden could be in our gang, you know."

Sunday brings crazy cheese-related dreams, and I make The Blonde try on my comedy fashion glasses. It's a revelation.

"You look like Andy Warhol!"

"I'm not sure I want to look like that."

On the way back to Spitalfields, The Blonde is lamenting her fading fake tan.

"It dries your skin out, so you moisturise - then you lose your bloody tan. Double edged sword mate, seriously. It's a tough life."

Spitalfields brings the longest cash point queue in the world, the tannoy asking about a million times for 'Staff 200' who was clearly having a fag and a brew round the back, and The Blonde directing me to get her picture but only if I can "get the anchor-print jumper in!"

Lunch at Giraffe was followed by a walk home through some less than charming estates where a massive guy carrying a suitcase on his head kept shouting, "Hey lady!" to The Blonde. When she ignored him, he qualified it with, "I'm from Spain, I a nice guy."

One, he didn't look or sound Spanish. Two, the Spanish thing doesn't negate the fact you're carrying a suitcase on your head in an east end estate.