A sense of inherited wealth while I piss

I’ve been reselling a bunch of clothes online, suffocating them into sad bubble wrap envelopes for the low-bid vultures on eBay and Vinted. This newspaper and higgledy-piggledy tape format would have inspired me to make more effort with my joy-sparking bargains if I wasn’t so lazy.

London is too fucking hot and it’s impossible to remain cordial. I’ve been spending the apertures between meetings roaming the chiller aisles in Waitrose to maintain my internal temperature. I have a real problem with men showing their feet in the city, something about it is very extra in the Birdcage. Here’s Annie Hall in head-to-toe black and green jelly shoes—a frosty douche in this prickly heat.

My husband has a shirt like this, but it doesn’t have tit vents for hot air to escape. (Have I mentioned the heat in London?). Obvisoly the semi-nude rodeo connotations are sexy, too.

Do you ever feel like a sad stone cat in front of a pink curtain? (This pink is the shade cherry cola should be, by the way). I want this granite pussy above my loo to give me a sense of inherited wealth while I piss.

London’s slightly-overhyped-and-overdone institution, Le Relais de Venise, has opened a naughty little takeaway steak and frites baguette outlet. The white dough and blood probably hit your stomach like a brick… and yet, AND YET.