How Very Hampstead
Sundays are meant to be days of rest and comtemplation. Many times this theory has been put into practise mainly due to hangovers and just general apathy after a long week of working, socialising, library-ing and drinking.
Yesterday I woke up in the middle of the night, but it was actually closer to 5am. Given that I was already awake I decided to make various phonecalls to the Far East to talk to family and friends. By 7.30am I was ready for bed again and I fell into a listless sleep. 10.30am I was up again and comtemplated brunch.
Brunch is a funny affair. Its not quite breakfast and its not quite lunch, and so when you're faced with a menu that offers you Eggs Benedict and toast with a selection of conserves it gets mind boggling as to whether it is convention to have jam spread on the muffin before the poached egg is laid ontop and drowned in Hollandaise. The boggled mind is subject to even more of an assault when a gaggle of excited hungover women who are on a combination of speed and ritalin sit on the table right next to you and in excited voices that only bats can hear proceed to dissect the events of the evening before of who kissed who and who fancied Mark with the Red Jumper blah blah blah. Then in equally excitable tones they dissect the menu and then order the full Englishh Breakfast but please could they have scrambled eggs instead of fried eggs and could they swap the bacon for some artichokes and hold the sausage and instead of the hash brown could they have smoked salmon instead and would it be possible if I had some botox in my forehead while you're bringing my orange juuice and could make sure that the oranges were plucked by virgins at a full moon and squeezed using a diamond studded juicer.
I wanted to scream. Or at the very least lob bits of mushroom over their table to shut them up.
The highlight of the brunch affair when when I almost sprayed tea over other half who was desperately trying not to laugh when one of the specimens on the girls table waved over the waitress and proclaimed in whining bat frequency that the orange juice tasted like washing up liquid.
Later on we took a stroll over to the heath where some children were running around and dogs were bounding about.
'Oh Charles, Augustine. Do come back. What did daddy tell you about inappropriate behaviour?'
Other half looked at me and said 'How very Hampstead'
I was in fits of laughter.
Yesterday I woke up in the middle of the night, but it was actually closer to 5am. Given that I was already awake I decided to make various phonecalls to the Far East to talk to family and friends. By 7.30am I was ready for bed again and I fell into a listless sleep. 10.30am I was up again and comtemplated brunch.
Brunch is a funny affair. Its not quite breakfast and its not quite lunch, and so when you're faced with a menu that offers you Eggs Benedict and toast with a selection of conserves it gets mind boggling as to whether it is convention to have jam spread on the muffin before the poached egg is laid ontop and drowned in Hollandaise. The boggled mind is subject to even more of an assault when a gaggle of excited hungover women who are on a combination of speed and ritalin sit on the table right next to you and in excited voices that only bats can hear proceed to dissect the events of the evening before of who kissed who and who fancied Mark with the Red Jumper blah blah blah. Then in equally excitable tones they dissect the menu and then order the full Englishh Breakfast but please could they have scrambled eggs instead of fried eggs and could they swap the bacon for some artichokes and hold the sausage and instead of the hash brown could they have smoked salmon instead and would it be possible if I had some botox in my forehead while you're bringing my orange juuice and could make sure that the oranges were plucked by virgins at a full moon and squeezed using a diamond studded juicer.
I wanted to scream. Or at the very least lob bits of mushroom over their table to shut them up.
The highlight of the brunch affair when when I almost sprayed tea over other half who was desperately trying not to laugh when one of the specimens on the girls table waved over the waitress and proclaimed in whining bat frequency that the orange juice tasted like washing up liquid.
Later on we took a stroll over to the heath where some children were running around and dogs were bounding about.
'Oh Charles, Augustine. Do come back. What did daddy tell you about inappropriate behaviour?'
Other half looked at me and said 'How very Hampstead'
I was in fits of laughter.
posted by Marmoset at
3:03 pm
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