Oliver was back from Rome yesterday and the poor guy was a broken version of himself (that extremely tired, slept 4 hours a night, might be the most accurate version of him though given how much he works all the time. Not even parties, which is usually my excuse for sleeping 4 hours a night, but solely work) but he managed to drag his tired body out for dinner and we had a really nice time at the local pub eating monkfish cheeks (I might have misunderstood that, do fish have cheeks?), cod and pork belly (belly, really? It is good but it’s still belly).
Once back at his place miracles do happen and we were in bed before 12. But before that Oliver and Tristan had time to laugh at (it’s a thin line to making fun of) my swedishness, or swedes in general. For some reason they thought putting feathers on sticks for Easter was weird, they felt bad for everyone at Boujis having to listen to Swedish music (maybe they just felt bad for everyone being at Boujis period) and spoke to me in gibberish (aka Swedish by an Englishman).
They are so just jealous!
|How can this ever be weird??|