I might be milking it a little bit here but what’s the point in going under the knife if you aren’t going to go down in style?
As previously mentioned I will be having surgery next week to remove a load of intestine, part of my colon and some other random parts I got the impression had something to do with my bottom end…unless the surgeon was indirectly calling me an asshole? Which wouldn’t surprise me because I take after my mother when it comes to chewing peoples ear off with random friendly crap. Either way, last weekend, because I will be out of action for a while now (Chilling in my paper pants that have the hole in the back so you don’t have to pull them down to shit with the looney’s again) we decided to have a little ‘drink as many fancy cocktails as possible’ day out. Also to celebrate my mom’s birthday as I will be in hospital then so her gift from me is having to look after high off morphine, vomming from every hole possible Chloe (sorry that was a little too graphic).
We started off with dad being moody for not understanding the concept of having to take a nice photo pre-drinking when my eyebrows will still be on my head and my foundation not dripping halfway down my neck. So tried to do a little ootd but it’s difficult when you’re balancing around dog shit with a back drop of chicken wire to keep the dogs from the grass. (Feel like I’ve talked about shit too much already in this post – I did warn you in my very first post). Anyway, inserting a failed ootd below….
The moody arse train driver closed the doors after me and john so my mom and dad got left behind, which after dad’s nagging I was feeling pretty smarmy about
until I realised that meant we had to order the drinks in for them. So we went to fizz bar seen as it’s so
beautifully half-made by my other half and enjoyed people watching and drinking our first cocktails waiting for mom and dad.
After that we stopped off at Tom’s Kitchen, which does THE most amazing lime daquiri ever and quite literally the tastiest olives I’ve ever eaten since my obsession began. Might just make a whole blog post on olives as I feel like a connoisseur of the olive tree now – it is a tree? Vine? Bush thing? Anyway… Tom’s kitchen was absolutely incredible, owned and run by the master Tom Aiken himself, it showed off gorgeous marble interiors, a beautiful chesterfield sofa me and john have finally agreed Is going to be the sofa we are having made and luxury cocktails and food. (And fit staff but I’m not gonna go into that). Next we went to Aluna which is currently my favourite bar but dad clearly didn’t get the memo because he got kicked out for wearing trainers and apparently the security guard wasn’t taking “These are £100 Innov8’s” as a justifiable reason to be let in. So, next we took a little detour to a surprise location.
Down Gas street we found our secret location disguised as a laundrette, complete with hanging clothes, boxes of Persil and washing machines. When walking up the stairs we gave each other the look of ‘oh shit what am I walking into’ thinking we are about to enter the secret lair of a major drugs cartel but when we opened the door the red lights and ‘that’ smell hit us. By that smell I mean that godly scent of sticky floor, half cleaned vomit, left out beer and sweat, the beautiful aroma that is snobs – but it was better than snobs. IT HAD SADDLES! I ordered a delicious cocktail called “Netflix and Chill” which is a touchy subject to say the least cause it’s been all Netflix and to john’s disgust not a whole lotta chill so with a grumpy look on his face I devoured my popcorn and caramel cocktail whilst riding on my saddle (again insert a grumpy comment from the other half). Tell you what, all bars should have saddles, they are so comfy and not to mention completely fulfils the childhood dream of being jessie the cowgirl. In reality, the last time I was on saddle was in the welsh mountains, in the rain, on a horrible horse that butted the others out the way and shat constantly, so again a refreshing change.
Moving on we went to The Pickled Piglet, where we had the most unbelievable tapas that was presented so beautiful and better than my entire GCSE Art coursework (Wasn’t hard though) and drank gin from a teapot and teacup with pinkies out in true pinky fashion (Tough guy people will understand that, the rest of you, it’ll just solidify the idea I’m a raging lunatic).
This is where the night gets a little fuzzy because I don’t actually know which cocktail bar we went to next but I remember having a meltdown because there was a homeless man and a dog in the rain. Completely ruined my cold-hearted persona and I dunno what came over me really, I just couldn’t stop crying for the poor dog (oh and the man obvs) to be fair he probably has more money than me right now. Anyway, the next place I can deffo remember was Miller and Carter and then finally to end the day we ate food at Carluccio’s (again). Eating had to be the last thing on the list because I literally fall asleep after food but in true crohnie fashion, I stuffed my face with pasta and then proceeded to have the urge to vom it all back up again.
To further the now sobering up mood and full stomach tiredness, Dad and John decided to have a pretend fight,
almost getting themselves run over and me stropping off like a sassy poodle (my hair was now super frizzy) and a group of guys decided to dedicate their own rendition of queen to my dad on the train, which was nice.
Then finally, to tackle the spinning room, contemplate why I ever let myself get this drunk and fearing the almighty headache in the morning, it was bedtime. I can finally say I fucked up my stomach one last time before half gets taken away from me. Success!