I've nothing to say

And that makes me a little sad. Or maybe it makes me a little light hearted, or maybe it's because I'm light hearted that I have little to say, or maybe it's because I'm a Londoner. Let's go with that.

I was born South of the river, which makes me one of Those Londoners, the best type, I believe, though I moved North of the river when I was about four. So although my accent is more Enfield than Balham (pre-trend), I'm still South London at heart. And on the subject of accents: more than once, I've been told I sound "posh. As if you ride horses."

I also, unaccountably, look Russian, though only to Cypriots. Have I blathered on about this before? Who cares, I'm warming up, so I might as well allow it all to spill forth. Whenever I've been to Cyprus, bar staff have always spoken to me in Russian. Or in something that I don't understand. When I do the English thing ("Oh, I'm terribly sorry, I don't understand what you said at all", as if I'm auditioning for a Noel Coward piece), they reply "Oh! I'm sorry, I thought you were Russian."

Or maybe, whenever I approach a bar, I mis-hear, mis-understand, and mis-remember everything. That's more likely, I should imagine.

In other news: I've got a lovely sunburn, a perfect red square on my chest. You can imagine what a beautifully cut top I was wearing to create such a sunburn. It was black, with white polka dots. Lovely, it was. But yes; now I have Moscow sunburn. And at the weekend I'm expected to appear in public wearing very little. Will I tell you all about that? Perhaps I shall, after the event.

What a tease I am. How will you drag yourselves through the remainder of the week whilst trying to deal with the excitement that's no doubt coursing through you?

You'll cope, I'm sure. Friday's coming, and it brings with it the promise of after-work drinks.

Chin chin, special friends!

Love, as always,

Aunty
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