Vacation Over: Officially time to return to knowing what day of the week it is!

Evening everyone, 

Crashing back down to earth I would sooner be writing to you all from the beach bar in sunny Marmaris, Orgasm in hand and cocktail menu not too far away than where I am now. But alas our "Up yours COVID" holiday had to come to an end soon and so I am here writing to you from a very dark, blackened Autumnal night with drizzly rain and cold weather that hamper my spirits. Now, where did I leave you all ...

So after booking some excursions and haggling down the price, we had indulged already in a traditional Turkish bath is otherwise known as a Hammam (again I urge you if you have yet to see some uncomfortable bathtime photos you should really head over to my social media, they're a right scream) and also sampled some of the best Turkey had to offer with a boat trip. However what was meant to be our wedding night had been messy, to say the least, not many cocktails consumed but nevertheless woke up with a sore head. 

You see it all started the previous evening when Mr Warehouse and I were trying to enjoy a nice steak dinner with each other at a time when we should have been dining on our wedding breakfast and dancing the night away with friends and family. As I have been doing throughout this holiday I was capturing our holiday and tonight was no different so as we grabbed our banana and strawberry daiquiris and posed for a selfie this strange man came out of nowhere and snatched my phone from out of my hands. Shocked I looked at him in absolute horror and disbelief as he placed the phone on the table and asked us to pose whilst he took a photo on his professional Canon. I was fuming and instantly it had ruined what was meant to be a happy moment in a bitter situation. 

Now it was more bitter than a lime that had been snubbed for an Oscar. The last few days have been wonderful and now this. Mr Warehouse was pissed and asked him what the fuck he was doing and to hand the phone back to me. He didn't. As Mr Warehouse, my knight in vest-tops and jean-shorts (not the hot pant kind don't worry), got up to grab my phone from just the other side of the table our Turkish answer to Annie Leibovitz snatched it back and attempted to take photos on it. This is when my Beau really lost his rag. He demanded that the blog give the phone back or he would knock him to the floor. I knew he meant it, despite being such a reserved character normally he could see it was upsetting me and obviously wanted to make things better. But it was too late, we were flat and done. As he shrugged his shoulders and walked off after handing back my phone I looked at Mr Warehouse. He was ready to walk out. We had full and overflowing frozen cocktails but he was millimetres from throwing in the towel and just walking off and I could see it. He was fuming. Seconds later the bread come out and we had to say something. 

The waiter apologized and explained it was a photographer from the strip that had nothing to do with the restaurant and was not affiliated. We explained the situation to both him and management and they seemed to take it seriously enough when we started we were seconds from walking out. Finishing our meal, however, we were brought a complimentary (although disgustingly toxic) shot of alcohol. Lord knows what the frick was in it, but it tasted like anti-freeze. And that's how we got talking to Mrs & Mrs Brave. 

Leaning over the Scottish wife and wife asked us if we knew what was in the virulent shot. We shook our heads but laughed along as we all swigged in unison. As we got up to leave they asked about what had happened and we gladly explained. Mrs & Mrs Brave explained that if we were looking for a good night out we should head over to "Talk of the Town" as they knew a lot of the locals and some of the lads in the show, one of the only one's still operating in the small tourist hotspot. And so on the authority of good advice from some lesbians, we had just met we headed on over and booked our tickets for the following night. 

And so following the football, Mr Warehouse and I spent the rest of the afternoon doing some more shopping (albeit stumbling around due to the intensity of said Orgasm cocktail) and hunting out fake goods at bargain prices was a breeze, including a Gucci scarf I am in love with for the upcoming season, a YSL glittery pink bag that screams "Clueless" or "Mean Girls" plus some cute Gucci sneakers a la Insta, Nike sliders for some poolside chic and a Gucci beach towel to make sure those Germans know we mean business with our sun loungers. Oh, did I say I liked Gucci? 

Once we had shopped until we dropped, we headed back to the hotel for a few drinks and a chill by the pool before heading out. And tonight didn't seem to be faring much better in the way of drinking as we donned our glad rags for one of the only shows still in town. "Talk of the Town" has been one of the most hilarious shows in Marmaris which dates back to 1996 with a cabaret that guarantees a humorous evening out filled with outrageous antics and laughs all round. And Mrs & Mrs Brave did not disappoint. I had been to one or two drag shows and nights in the past but honestly one of the best nights I think I have had in my entire life. With the lad(ies) belting out hits such as Disney's Frozen; Let It Go and Titanic's OST My Heart Will Go On by Celine Dion I was sure that I was being left with no voice tomorrow. Heck, they even put on a performance of Baby Shark halfway through which was a right roaring success, clearly among adults escaping the kids for a week or two. 

Mrs & Mrs Brave seemed to enjoy it too whilst we shared their table and got to know them a bit more. I thought to myself as I sat talking to these married women, maybe fifteen or twenty-years my seniors, how similar they are to myself and my very own lover. Like chalk and cheese one of us was singing our lungs out whilst the other tapped their foot along in appreciation. Both quite short and portly, one with dark short hair and the other long and greying blonde they spoke fondly of their daughter back home and son and his new wife out in Australia whom they seemed to miss deeply. I couldn't help but think that maybe for a night or two, we were the replacement family - And they treated us as such, even inviting us on a specially arranged boat trip with a local friend for a couple of evening's time, just the four of us so as to celebrate a wedding that never happened and I suppose a holiday friendship. My god, is this how it starts! 

Walking off after the show I was high on cocktails and my cheeks hurt from laughing (even if it was interrupted slightly by a brawl between two-lassies and their mom's beefing it out because someone was dancing to close to their table and you know, 2-Metres and all). This was insane. Swapping numbers Mr Warehouse and I made out way back to the hotel, laughing at the fact that one day were eating out at a crumby restaurant with basic steaks, the next were drinking in the company of some amazing Scots-women and in the next couple of days, we could be sharing their chartered Yacht around the small secret islands off Marmaris.  

The alcohol soon wore off though and as we awoke early the following morning, promises of not getting too drunk that night we slipped into our swimming gear for our Jeep Safari. Looking for some sheer adventure during our Marmaris holiday, Mr Warehouse had really run out of steam by the time our adventure awaited in the form of a Marmaris Jeep Safari. The day started off well enough with us shunning the fried breakfast offered by the pitstop and instead opting to hunt out a local corner shop for something fresher, an apple it was decided and a bottle of water. As we continued our journey, exploring the terrain around the countryside among the stunning Bozburun Peninsula and the Marmaris National Park all in military designed jeeps (ours was aqua coloured!) As the convoy of jeeps bombed it down the highway at full throttle we soon reached the well-beaten tracks that we struck at full force! 

As sold to us we were soaked by the time we came to our second stop of the morning, a small family-run resort, seemingly someone's home come pool, come shop, come cafe where we met the most adorable Akita pup, still teething and quite bitey at only a handful of weeks old. It took every ounce of Mr Warehouse and I not to smuggle him into said jeep and take him home with us. Heading to our next stop was Jesus Beach, jam-packing it in so you could walk the famous lake where the water was so shallow you could look like Jesus walking on water (although unfortunately thy hallowed had not been a visitor before) all before whizzing off for a basic yet tasty chicken and pasta salad lunch in a dusty layby hideout seeming for locals and probably home for them too. No rest for the wicked though as we were all frog-marched into the Jeep's for our next and final stop before home to the hotels - A beautiful natural spring pool and waterfalls, Turgut Falls, set deep in the forests outside of İçmeler to the west of Marmaris. 

As Mr Warehouse and I headed back to our plush and less dusty hotel for a shower and freshen up before dinner, we thought it a good idea to decline the invitation from Mrs & Mrs Brave. In the joyousness of the evening, I had instead taken their number and them not mine, therefore meaning unless we reached out we would be nothing more than a tale to tell. One of the reasons I couldn't fathom a private chartered sunset cruise on a Yacht was that it did simply seem too good to be true. We had only just met these people and as red flags go, not knowing their actual surnames is probably one of them. Now I am sure it would have been fine, however I have watched enough serial killer docu-films and read enough crime books on murder and homicide to know that this has "press conference to find our missing family members" all over it. Now I am almost certain as I write this that our Scottish lesbian holiday friends were just looking for some simple company to share their boat trip, celebrating a wedding that should have been and welcoming in a new friendship soley exisisting over social media with the odd Christmas card thrown in. But I just couldn't shake the feeling that Mr Warehouse and I knew nothing of them, barely where they were from or what their lives were like, and being on a boat in the middle of the ocean with no phone signal and no internets connection just screamed Channel 5 documentary with a grizzly end. 

Suffice to say the rest of our holiday was spent lazing by the pool, splashing around, drinking cocktails, reading a good book and of course some last minute spending, haggling (or at least Mr. Warehouse was, I seemingly, had lost my touch and couldn't haggle my way out of a paper bag) on hoodies and handbags we definatly didn't need. Leaving our luxe surroundings and comfortable hotel, our journey back home was not as eventful as the journey we started with however within moments of Mr Warehouse and I grabbed a bite to eat in the airport we had located out friends, brick-shit-house-Stormzy otherwise known now as BSS, Regina George and some other face from the Airport scrap that nearly happened on the way into our holiday. However, a couple of noted faces were missing including the someone impersonating Post Malone and the white portly gentleman resembling something from the Human-Centipede-2. We chose to believe that the threat about "meeting outside the airport" was true and it had all ended in hideous bloodshed and we would hear all about it when we got home, which of course, never actually happened. Landing on a darkened and drizzly Thursday morning at 1am I was ready for bed and excited to be soon at home with our fur babies - Oh and our Fourteen-day self-isolation to begin!!! 

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

Stuck in the Mud!

Evening one and all,

Following on from the festivities I have quite some to share with you all. Apologies for the absent nature, unfortunately with writing once a week, there would have come a time when the dates would have lay on a Christmas and New Years eve, both of which were spent drinking alcohol and eating copious amounts of chocolate and calorific foods that will probably lead me to death sooner or later. Nevertheless I have had a wonderful new years and Christmas, hope that yours also was pleasant? Mine was eventful, as it always is, lots of presents and gifts, family and friends to see and mingle with. Oh and my Dad got engaged to his girlfriend of eight years. How I feel about it? Lets just say I am taking a rain check and will be back with you soon ... 

The first few days of the New Year and my Christmas break from work have been heavily occupied with Wedding Planning (and not of my Dads'). Finally we have booked a venue, a beautiful 'T-shaped' converted old school
in a small village (smaller than the one I live in now) near to the Church we plan to marry, Mr. Warehouse's family church that everyone in his family all bar a handful have declared they're vows. In all fairness it would have been nice to have it in my family church, you know since I am the one christened and all, however with Mr. Warehouse referring to it as "The Asylum" and its less than perfect track record of my parents divorce, I struggled to find its importance to have it there, especially with the 1970's styled outside - See here! 

Now we have booked the venue the most important things come next. The Bar - Booked and we have even been able to book a free drink for everyone on arrival and even better; No charge for hiring! I suppose Mr. Warehouse and I now need to clothe ourselves, feed our guests and give them something to dance too! 

With still so much left to plan and organise, Mr. Warehouse thought we would kick off the New Year in style and after meeting with old family friend Miss Bride about her hopefully securing us a beautiful and tasty wedding cake, my fiance and I hopped in the car and headed for a wedding fair we were given free tickets too at the very grand and beautiful Knebworth House. However with the invites and tickets being about as clear as mud (we'll get onto that later) Mr. Warehouse and I drove around for ages trying to look for this place. Gate after gate after gate after frigging access gate we got too was all shut up and closed off. Searching in vain for an alternative route just lead us to another closed off access through road and with one final go of it I was determined to find this fucking place! 

However what I did not realised was that the postal code Mr. Warehouse had taken down from a sign nearby to the venue was literally in the middle of fucking no-where! going from a tarmac road with markings to a concrete  with potholes for days. Following this and our "trusted" technology lead us to a a gravelly farm track with lumps and digs I thought the car would fall into. Poor Viv had more to contend with though as soon dirt lanes turned to barely-able-to-squeeze-through boggy tracks. With the middle of the road (if you can even call it that at this stage) high enough for me to feel the car scrapping its insides as we slowly pushed through the grassy mud, I could feel the car slipping and sliding, barely able to keep a grip on the boggy track. I thought at one stage we will be sat in the car, middle of feckin' no-where, teetering on a tractor made verge in the middle of the road. 

After making a forty-point turn and scratching the paintwork no end, we ignored the blasted GoogleMaps Shite and headed towards civilisation, not before passing walkers with strange looks as we continued and squeezed down lumpy mud tracks with dips and ducks aplenty. 

Arriving at the posh concreted road, winding through the beautiful countryside estate we had just been fucking around in for the last two hours we were certainly glad to arrive and was looking forward to the free champagne and cake tasting on offer. However on arrival there was barely enough time to even look at suppliers let alone get some much needed information from them before the fashion show started. 

Sitting down and enjoying the show was lovely and with a Fanta in hand and Mr. Warehouse by my side I couldn't be happier and realised that this would soon just turn into another anecdote about that time we nearly got stuck in a field. Lots of white dresses and formal wear later we left the show to be greeted by most of the suppliers shutting up shop or stall and going home. Ha Ha gutted and disappointed were not even the words. And because of all of the fiasco earlier both Mr. Warehouse and my phones had died and so we had to try and navigate our way home and cancel the plans to pick up some much needed wedding essentials. Oh the drama, but maybe something to add to the grooms speech. 

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx 

The Deep Joys Of Dreamboys!

Morning One and all, 

Racing out of work I had battled the Friday afternoon traffic, picked up milk and bread and even posted a couple of items before heading back home to an eager Mr. Warehouse. But oh no, it wasn't him I was buzzing round like a headless fly for, no, no. My best friends, Miss Tweedle-Dee and Miss Tweedle-Dumb were coming over. Not only that but we were heading out. Although much to my dismay not for a messy night out on the tiles. Nope, tonight was the last little dribble of my birthday surprises ... Tickets to see Dreamboys Live! Now if you don't know what or who Dreamboys are I urge you to head and check them out as I am terrible at explaining what theyre job description is. I tried to explain to my dear Nanna the other day that I was going to the theatre and after asking what acclaimed performance I was planning to watch I had to explain to her that these men barely kept any clothes on let alone bagged a Tony award. The same went for the poor shopkeeper on the way back to my flat after the show when he asked what our plans were we sheepishly answered that we had been in the company of the Dreamboys that evening and then ensued a conversation and explanation as to what the Dreamboys were.  I think by the end of the whole Charade that people just asked us so we would squirm and wonder what we should tell them we had been up to that evening. 

Nevertheless it was a wonderful evening beginning with the staple trip to the local Spoons (AKA Wetherspoons Pub) for a few bevvies and some dinner before the real show. Heading out into the cold Autumn air I pulled my coat around me, thankful that I wasn't spending a lonely night in with Jonathan Ross or Graham Norton on a Friday Night. But as we arrived closer to the venue I suddenly didn't look so out of place, dressed up in my heels and nude dress whilst my friends donned a more casual wear of Converse and Jeans which far more comfortable than what some of the other audience members were wearing. Finishing our cigarettes we sneaked in and found our seats. The venue, Bedford Corn Exchange, whilst being in the town centre was surprisingly comfortable to hold a show of this calibre and size I thought. Whilst not the biggest show on earth, the hall was packed out and as this was my first time visiting since being a very small child with my father accompanying him to a military 'do', I found the place beautiful and made me want to explore its beauty even more after the chairs, bleachers and stage were all gone. 

Awaiting the men on stage I took a look at the level of attractiveness this room possessed against myself. There were girls, mostly young, but a few not so, but almost all of them that were young and I suppose in a sense sharing the same age category of myself being late-teens and early twenties (Shhh, I can still try to get away with it!) all skinny size 10's with long hair, manicured nails and cracking dress sense. But it made me wonder how many of them actually had a man at home like I did. Sure they may be young and pretty, but they can't be the actual face of Rimmel all the time and at some point those fake eyelashes and biscuit tan have to come off. Would a guy still fancy them if they were dressed a little more normal in a pub? Maybe? (I know that in my defence when on a night out men feel or at least I feel that they are less threatened by me as I am probably more normal looking and closer to the-morning-after-result that Little Miss Twinkle-Tits over there swigging her sixth Smirnoff Ice) Would a Dreamboy give them a second look? And there you have it. The crux of the issue is that most girls think that to be with a Ken you need to be a Barbie and I suppose yes, but for how long before a Cindy or a Shelly comes into the picture. This got me thinking and yes, whilst I was about to watch an mirage of godly men on the stage in front of my very eyes, like porn, Santa and those Nigerian-Uncle emails they were all fake. 
Real men aren't like that. Real men are hairy and burp and fart ... And then laugh about it. Real men buy their girlfriends Haribo when they least expect it just because 'they were in the shop and knew that you liked them'. Real men can cry at Disney films and have absolutely no qualms attempting to squeeze into a Little Red Riding Hood Costume for Halloween. I love real men.

As the lights went down and the show began I looked to my two best friends and asked what we were all about to encounter. Curtains opened and screams filled the room as the act began to swish and turn in provocative move that would make even the Vicar blush. But as I hooted, whistled and screeched at all the scantily clad men on stage during their 'performances' I couldn't help but wonder what we were all doing here. Why had every person in that room purchased a ticket and why was the general population of those tickets bought by women? Well who else other than a few errant gay guys would want to see naked men on a pedestal of sorts, flashing their genitalia and creaming themselves up for another lucky lady, or man in some instances. I pondered across the ideas that whilst the media slams men for gawking at Page 3 (which is now sadly no longer with us due to a boring-arse feminist campaign to ban it) and now women are shunning men even holding doors open for them or having a friendly wolf-whistle in the street, it is somehow widely accepted that women are allowed freely and with little or no confrontation to go about acting the same way towards men straight out of a Diet Coke Advert. 

Now I am not trying to get everyone's back up but this seriously crossed my mind as I enjoyed the show on Friday night which believe you me, I enjoyed one hell of a lot. So much so I am thinking about going next year. But I just couldn't shake the fact that if the roles were reversed and it was hordes of men sat here with Victoria Secret-esk models on stage would it still have the lack of Media attention?! The truth is no. Why? I don't know. But what I do know is that if you are prepared to have the conversation about media portraying women in such a sexualised and revealing way then you must be prepared to say the same for the way that women can be just as animalistic and hungry when on the hunt for a man dressed and painted in the same seedy, sexual light as Page 3. 

Honestly, I don't see the problem with it. I thoroughly enjoyed the show and all that were involved with it but that was just it. It was a show. Something make-believe and pretend. The normal likes of me and you would probably never end up with a man like one of those oiled up for all female eyes to see. And besides would you really want to when you can see, barely when stripped to the nude, just how much athletics and hard work goes into a man of that build. The same with the women in the audience, crying out to be next in line for a dance. They make such an effort staying slim, constantly re-applying make-up and even considering going under the knife all for the title of Beautiful. I suppose if that night taught me anything at all (apart from some cracking sexy dance moves) that we all have our own body insecurities, both Men and Women - All of us seen in the media as unrealistic, airbrushed, new and improved versions of ourselves. Yes. We all want to be beautiful and gorgeous, but it is about perspective and learning who you are and loving who you are, inside and out. Because whilst I enjoyed the show in all its glory and splendour, I knew that I was going home that night to my very manly, very real Dreamboy. 

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

The Magician's Assistant: A Master of Surprise's and Loosing Things!

Hello one and all, 

As my phone rang I was pleased my friends had made it, even if they were a couple of hours late. Answering the door and greeting them from their car Miss Tweedle-Dee and Miss Tweedle-Dumb waddled over with their stuff for our sleepover, and standing my communal porch outside my flat sparking up a cigarette before the dreaded three-flights of stairs to my loft apartment. I smiled to myself as I knew that this would probably be the last time we had to brave those steps. 

"Why are all your lights off?" Miss Tweedle-Dee asked curiously. 
"I don't know? Just haven't put them on since I got in from work. The TV is on though, cant you see the light?" I answered swiftly as to throw them off the scent with a cool yet panicked response. Changing the subject quickly we spoke about work and the weather and general niceties before stubbing out our fags. Welcoming them in I muttered about having to muster the courage to go up the stairs again. As my friends took to the steps I braced myself for what was to come. 

"Guys. I have something to tell you!?" I said, face splitting into a smile that I quickly erased before they had a chance to look round. 
"Oh my god, what is it now?" Miss Tweedle-Dee asked, shocked. 
"Are you pregnant?" Miss Tweedle-Dumb asked frantic to know. No. I was not. 
"Are you engaged?" She asked again desperate to discover my little lie. Nope. I am still happily a girlfriend to Mr. Warehouse. Suddenly the lights timed out as my bewildered bestie's stood wondering together in the darkness. 
"OK well at least turn on the lights, I need to see your face when you tell me this." Miss Tweedle-Dee said reaching out for the switch. 
"I have a confession to make and its something I have been hiding for a while" I noted, building up suspense. "I don't actually live here any-more!" 

Confused I smiled mysteriously and as I was met by a barrage of abuse, questions and general foul language of confusion and non-comprehension I casually descended the stairs for the last time. Wiggling the key into the ground floor flat I turned and welcomed my best friends, Miss Tweedle-Dee and Miss Tweedle-Dumb, into my new home. 

Shrieks and squeals came from both of them as they ran around, exploring and searching everywhere shouting and whooping all along. "Oh my goodness you have a garden. Oh wow a really big kitchen. Look at those twinkle lights. Amazing princess canopy bed! New wardrobe! How much more space we have for fun and games! Look at all the room!" and asking as many questions their little mouths could talk - How much is this more? Has Mr. Warehouse moved in with you? What is the bills like? Have you got a bath now rather than a car-wash of a shower? Are you getting a dog?!

After about half-hour of running round, being noisy and rambunctious, Miss Tweedle-Dee and Miss Tweedle-Dumb settled down and we talked for most the evening about my big reveal and the biggest surprise I have ever pulled on them. Laughing and giggling along I am glad that they were not mad, just overly excited and happy that I had moved into a 'big girls house'. And so that was Friday night. Soon we all headed to bed and awoke the next morning ready for some holiday shopping and coffee with cakes soon to be joined by a joyful Mr. Warehouse. But the joy was not to be had for long. Oh no ... 

---

Sunday I had planned a day out for Mr. Warehouse's birthday which was just last month. I had it all figured out and it would be a wonderful sparkling day with no hiccups! Sadly this was not true. Boarding the not-so-fast-train to London we struggled to find seats so settled in a walk-through-corridor with two flip-down seats. Making light of this we chose to pretend we were in our own private carriage with two entrances and windows either side. Lucky really for the 0944 to St. Pancras! Alighting at our final destination we headed to the tubes and straight to our first point of interest - Piccadilly Circus but more specifically the wondrous Ripley's Believe It Or Not! London! Entering the venue we handed over our tickets and began our walking tour of the exhibitions and museum artefacts. Coming round one corner I noticed something spectacular. A full size replica of the Titanic made out of matchsticks. Next to it was a tank. filled with the same icy cold water that would have attacked the lost victims of that fateful night in April 1912. -2 degrees. Below freezing. Fascinated by the Ship's gruesome tale and all things Titanica I took no hesitation in plunging my left hand into the tank of cold, needle-stabbing pain. After thirty-seconds or so I could no longer stand it and wiggling my fingers in an effort to keep warm just made it worse. Freeing my palm from the Chlorine water I was thankful and glad that I could get out of that situation and get warm again, unlike the hundreds and thousands of people that died, alone in deep blackness of that starry night. 

"Lets have a competition to see how long we can keep our hands in?!" Mr. Warehouse said, rolling up his sleeves. "But to make it fair use your other hand as your left one has already had a dip."
And so as I took off and placed on the side my precious Alurring Brilliance ring from Pandora I bought whilst in Las Vegas in March this year and Sterling Silver and Cubic Zirconia ring, very similar to the Droplets ring by Pandora that I bought from a little boutique in Lyon, France whilst there not even a fortnight ago. Talking my way through the competition with Mr. Warehouse I was determined not to be beaten but alas I had to get out after again less than a minute. Drying off my hand and grabbing my bag I moved onto the next thing to see and eventually Mr. Warehouse and I made it back to the beginning. Taking a walk down to Buckingham Palace we walked and talked about the evenings entertainment of a Magic Show in London's West End. But as I stepped out across the red gravelly sand of The Mall I couldn't feel my rings on my right hand. Where are they?! Pockets?! Back Pockets!? Handbag?! I knew though where I had left them. Frantically I called  Ripley's Believe It Or Not! London, praying to god that they had been handed in by some kind, kind person. But after what seemed like an eternity on hold the sorrow female voice returned to say that nothing had been handed in and nothing was found at the Titanic freeze tank. Mourning my beloved jewellery I spent the next hour or so moping around. I tried to blame it on Mr. Warehouse, saying that if he hadn't asked me to compete with him in a stupid game of "me verses you" then I would not have taken them off ergo not leaving them on the side for some thieving little bugger to pinch them. 

Beyond sadness and only barely consolable I was taken to a posh Champagne Bar overlooking Trafalgar Square. Comforted by Macarons and milkshake I was reflective on how much of an idiot I was but also how I did not want to spoil such a lovely birthday day trip with Mr. Warehouse. Continuing with the days activities, albeit slightly subdued in happiness, we continued through some more typical tourist hotspots to the four-star, Kingsway Hall Hotel in Covent Garden for dinner. Moping still and with my phone battery dying Mr. Warehouse had a cracking idea. Lets just get pissed. And so he took me to the best bar we knew in town - Adventure Bar, Covent Garden. We had been here before on our mini-break over Valentines day earlier in the year and fell in love with the place always remembering fondly that time we went to London and went for spontaneous cocktails that got us very drunk indeed. I feel now though that it is somewhat a right of passage whereby whenever we now come to London, Adventure Bar, Covent Garden will be another tourist must-see. 

Gathering ourselves together we finally came to our end stop of the day - The Leicester Square Theatre to see Tim Barnes in Something Fishy: An evening of magic and wonder. A tincy-wincy little room, blacked out and holding only around thirty people we as an audience were shown a mirage of card tricks, fire magic, rope tomfoolery and surprises left both me and Mr. Warehouse mouths wide and aghast with questionable curiosity. Soon there was an assistant to be had and like the great Debbie McGee I stepped into the limelight and provided myself for the crowd. The magician, Tim Barnes, handed me a piece of paper with a prediction of which animal would be on a card I had just selected from a bag of children's picture cards. It was a rat. Doing as he said I placed it carefully inside a tiny black box and closed shut making sure the audience saw I had locked it tight. Swanning back over I was asked a series of questions and was given some information about animals before being asked to disclose my animal card. Then I was asked if I could retrieve the prediction from the little black box. Unlocking the catch and raising the lid I pondered on how I would unveil this ending to the anticipating crowd of people. but as I lifted the door of the box out popped a little nose. Then a whisker. Then an ear. Handling him gently I held up the live and very wriggly rat named Fifi. Black and White patches covered her body with silky smooth fur and as I petted her I wanted to take her home, imagining all the fun we would have in my new home! 

Unfortunately Mr. Warehouse does not care for rodents, especially the ratty variety and jumped out of his skin as I raised the little cutie for all to see. Amazed and bewildered at how Tim Barnes had done it the audience looked on as I guessed that the small seem at the bottom of the box housed this little critter until the magical moment! Enjoying the lights and enthusiasm from the room of faces I reluctantly handed back the rat named Fifi and took my seat once more. 

There were up's and down's but I enjoyed myself and especially when the best bit of the whole day was only £12.00 spent which is equivalent to two Starbucks and a muffin if your lucky. All in all I suppose it was a good day, apart from leaving my rings behind. Loosing something precious and meaningful that has not much monetary value but personal value in shed loads is horrible, and especially so when you know that you are the type of person to go and hand something like that back in so as to be retrieved by its rightful owner. But at least maybe I can look forward to brightening my mood slightly this week as it is my birthday on Friday. And whilst I will be turning the ripe old age of twenty-four I will certainly be partying and drinking my way through my first forty-eight hours! Bring on Mid-twenties!

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx