Baking cures all evils except swollen feet

I spent last week recovering from the flu and baking because I'm fairly sure baking cures most things, except perhaps my pot belly. I ate a lot of cake. Good old Edmond's; when you've got no one else, Edmond's is always there for you, offering baked goods to get you through the hard times.

I think someone tried to pick me up on the bus on Friday night. A Kiwi, he very nicely stopped the bus so I could catch it when it looked like it was going to ignore me. Unfortunately, he decided this was a good enough reason to sit opposite me and chat. Londoners do not do this and tend to look at strangers who try to talk to them as though they are mad. We got some odd looks. However, being polite (that's your fault, ma and pa) I made conversation. Andrew is a banker. He plays rugby. He went to King's College. Turns out half his classmates were in my hostel in first year. I loathed them. I may have told him this a bit too vehemently. Cunningly I brought up Kruse's name as soon as decently possible, talking of my big strong boyfriend who can hoist the world on his shoulders. Best moment was when I was about to get off and Andrew said:

'Is this where you live?'
'Sure,'
'Isn't that a housing estate?'
(It used to be and I don't like the sound of snobbery in his voice.)
'Yes. IT'S FUN.'

Unfortunately, the grand exit I was planning on making after making this statement was ruined when the bus jerked suddenly and I almost fell on Andrew. And as the bus drove off and I climbed the steps to the gate, a drunk old man and suspicious looking youth passed me, no doubt adding the beauty of the environment.
I love living at Katie's.

Caught up with Lemon Nice and Nic Rowe on Saturday night for a few quiet drinks in Camden. Should have known better than to meet these two for quiet drinks at a bar offering 2 for 1 cocktails. Katie and I thought we'd escaped at 11am when they left to go to another bar. Unfortunately we ran into them about ten minutes later and they convinced us to go to yet another bar. Katie cleverly escaped in time to get the last tube home. I wound up crashing at Nic and Alex's, having lost my phone and been bodyslammed onto an airbed by someone not much bigger than me. It is amazing how booze can give one superhuman strength. Sadly, as this superhuman threw me onto the airbed, my foot hit a table and now it's all swollen and mildly blue and a spot sore. Bloody sore, really.

Hobbled home in time to call ma on the blower and have a good catch-up. And then I baked because we had a hot date at Chook's house for afternoon tea. High tea with the gang and there was much drinking of tea and scoffing of scones and clotted cream and lolling about on sofas, admiring Katie and Mike's lycra-clad bodies, yet loathing them for having spent their Sunday doing something as ludicrous as cycling.

The worst thing about London is the ludicrously early time that the tube closes. Of my five weekends here, I've spent four of them crashing at other people's houses because the price of a cab home would buy you a nice house in New Zealand.