The Blonde woke me up by trilling "brew?" across the lounge. I think my response was "that would be lovely in theory but I'm a little worse for wear and that might not go down too well at this current moment in time." Well, that's how it sounded in my head but in reality I think I just made the sort of noise an animal does as it dies in tremendous pain.
The Blonde made me drink some tea as I wondered what the hell had happened last night and why there were bits of broken glass on the floor. She went off to get ready (weirdly chirpy considering the events of the previous evening) and left me with some toast on the sofa. I promptly put my foot in said jammy toast, whimpered a bit and announced that "I needed a little lie down."
After being forced to shower I had that amazing hangover euphoria where the glorious hot water tricks you into thinking that you're fine. The novelty of not feeling rotten anymore makes you thankful to be alive and you feel like you could take on the world. I swept into the kitchen in full make up and a cloud of Jo Malone and announced to The Blonde, "I'm baaaack! Let's go to Broadway market!"
We go and join the beautiful and cool hipsters of east London and wander round the market stalls selling over-priced handmade and vintage things and amazing food. We're both fully consumed by hangover shopping; The Blonde buys a brooch with a sausage dog on, and I spy my perfect piece of jewelry.
"Blonde, there's a necklace with a horse on. A HORSE. I fucking need it in my life." They also had gorgeous handmade teacups on necklaces which I very nearly spent a fortune on, but then thought better of. Next time I'm hungover.
We were both also charmed by the Scrabble piece rings from this gorgeous boutique full of delightful designs, and fifty quid lighter we flounced off with our rather lovely new purchases.
Randomly we bumped into Terry outside a shop on Broadway, and made the usual "eeek, I was SO drunk last night" noises. We asked what he was doing with the rest of his Saturday.
"I think I'm going to go home and read this article in The Times on child abuse." I do love a cheerful Saturday. The Blonde and Terry then discussed their performance of Erasure the evening before. I admitted that I absolutely did not recall that happening, and they both burst into song again in the middle of the packed market. I was both embarrassed and impressed.
After a little walk and some fresh air, and not quite enough water, we were starting to feel a bit grim again. So naturally, we decide that the best possible plan would be to go to The Dove (one of London's best pubs) to have lunch. And beer. I think some sort of post-hangover hysteria set in, as that one long lunch resulted in the The Blonde muttering the immortal phrases,
"She's not warm... or endearing... OH JUST PUT SOME FUCKING CONCEALER ON, LOVE!"
"You know when you're at home on your own? Well I love spinning around in the kitchen. And sometimes I skip to the bathroom."
"Puffin, drink your beer! And eat your meat! You'll feel better."
"I can't imagine her in a wedding dress... you can't polish a turd, can you?"
I can't quite manage my springbok sausages and mash, but start to feel more human again after a pint. The Blonde is fully back in the game and we decide to venture to another pub. The Cat & Mutton on Broadway was the lucky recipient of our vaguely hysterical presence, and we were delighted to see the bloke who plays double bass around the markets outside. He worked his way through some tunes by The Specials and suddenly an east end Mod turned up and joined in.
"'Ere mate, play King of the Swingers!" He then proceeded to give us a brilliant performance of that, only stopping to shout to his bald mate,
"'Ere, Dave! Dave! Come over 'ere with your big shiny face!"
Between songs he bantered with the crowd, coming out with priceless lines such as,
"I'm a national fackin' 'ero I am, you'll be seeing my face on teatowels in the future! This is a once in a lifetime experience!" Then he leapt off a bollard as The Blonde took photos.
We wandered back down the market and stumbled across Off Broadway, a lovely cocktail bar with a Frida Kahlo - lookalike landlady and vintage music, as well as an epic cocktail menu. We sampled the Amaretto Sours and a very good lychee Daiquiri. The beautiful people on the table next to us had a very cute, tiny baby in tow. Neither of us are particularly maternal but we did agree that it was dead sweet. The Blonde considered this, then glanced at her miltary-styled top with tassle detail on the shoulders, and asked earnestly,
"Baby vomit though. I mean, how would you get that out of military tassles? Have you SEEN this chainwork? It'd never come out."
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