I went to Fork on Long Street last night for dinner. I'm still dreaming about the tiny golden fried balls of goat's cheese euphoria that were served to me on little sundried tomato crackers with an onion marmalade. Orgasmic to say the least. Before I realised it, I was hugging the waiter and thanking him for changing my life. They're not so attractive to eat however, since biting into the delicacy means melted goat's cheese oozes out the sides of your mouth. But it's okay - lovely boyfriend is sick and has stuff oozing out of his nose. So he was unable to pass judgement.
So I got my nautical-themed dress at the ready, have undergone the various necessary waxing procedures/torture, and am ready to bubbly and bikini it up for a cruisin' afternoon in the jacuzzi, the wind flowing through my mouse-coloured tresses. If I don't have a cold by tomorrow I'll be gobsmacked since I've spent all week in close proximity to sickly boyfriend (although I insisted he remain at arm's lenght), plus I spotted one or two eskimos tottering around my office earlier this week. Despite the searing heat outside, arctic temperatures in here mean I'm frost-bound to my keyboard and drinking tea for Africa. But I seem to be the only one who can feel it...?
So afraid of getting sick that I actually ran away from my flatmate this morning when she sneezed. She wasn't impressed.
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