because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

The universe provides

On Sunday, I woke up my bestest friend in the whole wide world from my sofa, and ate banana and honey pancakes with him. Then we had an idea for a project we want to work on together, so I lounged in my kimono and he lolled in yesterday's trousers and for four straight hours we made charts and and brainstorms and Googledocs, and then one of us looked at the clock and said, 'Oh. It's 2 p.m. We should... brush our teeth?'

We meandered around Columbia Road flower market and Brick Lane vintage stalls whilst wearing hats and two things became obvious: we wanted cupcakes with an overwhelming unattractive desire (me), and the old fashioned fish and chips wrapped in actual proper newspaper looked divine (him).

Budgetary restrictions meant that I found myself doing a 'Mama Janie' and saying, COME ON. YOU DON'T NEED IT FROM A SHOP, I CAN DO YOU THAT AT HOME. Which is exactly what she used to say to my brother and me when we wanted McDonald's, and instead she'd put some warmed up burger substitute between a folded over bit of bread and hand us the ketchup. THAT'S JUST NOT THE SAME, MUM.

Anyway, we acquired some sweet potatoes and a mere two and a half hours later we stood on my balcony, homemade newspaper-clad chips in hand, and let the cold kiss our faces as we chowed down on food which, much to Calum's surprise, was actually pretty fucking tasty.

We got our chips in newspaper in the end, he said, and then I KID YOU NOT there was a knock at the door and my friend Jack The Dancer was holding a bag of Hummingbird Bakery cupcakes as a thank you for crashing on my sofa this week.

WE GOT OUR CUPCAKES, TOO! Calum cried, and together we agreed it was the best of all the days.


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