Greg arrived Saturday. But while we waited on the balcony to spot his cab, we saw some MAJOR mommythong.
It was officially the most beautiful day that London might ever see, so we laughed in the face of Greg’s jet lag, and went drinking outside and lounging in Regent’s Park.
After a night out in Soho, we had to do some late-night dancing at The Moose (well, I danced. B & G flicked me off a lot).
Sunday was for friends- brunch at Le Fromagerie and their famous cheese room followed by an afternoon of our own empty pub crawl. Then burgertime in Mayfair.
You know what Monday means… no, not work. Gym and laziness and then Greg’s wedding present to us: an outrageously good dinner at the Michelin-rated Pied A Terre. Then more pub. Glug glug glug.
Tuesday I was the tour director for our South Bank experience- some bridges, a walk along the Thames, and an afternoon at The Tate Modern. Saw the Duchamp, Man Ray, Picabia exhibit. Good stuff, all of it. But we still stared longest at the Monet. Yeah, I said it. I like Monet. I kept saying we were going to Indian for dinner, but I have been told it’s “we went for a curry” at Rasa. More drinking.
Wednesday we decided we had not eaten enough cheese so far this week, or ingested enough alcohol. So we remedied both travesties and had a friend over for happy hour. Then we found our new most-favorite-bar-of-all-time 10 feet from our flat.
Now it is Thursday. And these two boys have left today for Majorca. I told them to have boytime. I have a long weekend ahead to ponder the universe. And also to catch up on Oprah.