Birthday Banter

Hello Escritori,

I went to a read-through last night but I’m surprisingly okay, I had the best sleep of a long while. I’m also running around because I need to get checks done before I start my new job next week in the sure to be glamorous world of… Data Entry. (Rockstar.)

So! T’was the glorious anniversary of my birth on Monday, and then I had my crafty business the day after, round’t kitchen table.

I don’t know why my accent went from Shakespearean to Midlands: just accept that I’m weird. I was actually coaching my friend from New England how to do an Estuary English accent the other day: a forgotten calling? Maybe.

Cut the corner flaps off a used envelope and fold to make smaller envelopes.

Neaten wonky edges and those edges not on the fold with decorative tape. Seal with a contrasting tape

Write the initial of the recipient on the envelope with gold pen, put a small treat inside. Put the envelope in an organza bag and fill the bag with sweets nearer the time.

We basically fiddled with various art supplies, decorating fans (was only half hearted) while having an extensive chat, which included reviewing the end of The Night Manager, to see whether our ‘last ep plot predictions’ had come true. I was pleased to find that two of mine were correct. It was really ambitious for the BBC to adapt a John Le Carré novel and it was very filmic in scope.

Clearly too ambitious and need to think/eat pizza.

I could not understand all the fuss about Tom Hiddleston’s posterior all over social media next morning though. I’m sure he’d be the first to say that he is undressing merely to redress the gender nudity imbalance in the industry, in fact he did on The Graham Norton Show about his scenes in Crimson Peak.

So ha. 

Earlier at Party Central, TBG arrived with flowers and the beauteous confection that was the apricot gateau from the French Patisserie; t’was majestic. Apparently she had the ‘Gaul’ – get it? – to ask the chef:

“Is it nice?”

“What?” Ze Frenchman indicateed ees absolut deesgust.

“The cake, is it nice?”

“TBG, you didn’t…” I said scandalised.

(Because I’m telling you what she told me, that she told him.) And it’s my blog.

“You’re TBG today!” (The Birthday Girl.)

“Oh yeah, I am! But you didn’t… Never insult (a genuinely French) French chef about his food… that’s like asking: Monsieur, your beloved child, is it… unique?”

Or in fact, like asking ANY MAN if he’s good in bed. Ask a man any form of competency question, and you’ll get a hyperbolic answer. Holler back, Recruitment Consultants!

The IMPORTANT part was that it was sublime, and I may even as a result revise my opinion of crème pâtissière whilst tactfully lending TBG a book on Parisian manners.

I had a lovely time eventually, towards the end when I’d drunk a lot (of tea.) And I’m very grateful to TBG for attending. Hope you like the little D.I.Y. party favours. From big envelopes, little wonky envelopes grow!

Keep scribbling,

~ Pola ~

 

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