Pizza My Heart

So, Nelson Mandela's head.  It's where S and K and I always meet.  Unless we are going to Borough Market to spend inflated amounts on fancy bread and cheese and sloe gin.  We linked arms and walked three abreast singing and laughing.  Really annoying, I should imagine, but who cares.  Went to Pizza Express, where I pointed out the pretty Terence Trent D'Arby-on-steroids waiter.  Then K wanted to buy Christmas lights made out of leaf skeletons.

After this she drew S and I to the river's edge, for a moment.  To have a moment.  I said it was fucking cold.  K asked if anyone was going to say something profound.  I said it was a bit Richard Curtis, told them I loved them, and then we all concluded it was fucking cold and went to the bar. 

Unfortunately, our favourite bar was full of goddamn people all over our sofas drinking our drinks.  So we went somewhere S said was a bit musty and we would definitely get a seat.  It had a marvellous view of the 77 bus in repose.

Oh I forgot the bit where they bought me loads of fudge.  And then we did not say goodbye to each other because that just wouldn't be right.