"Goergy!" she calls. Well, it was spelled Goergy, but pronounced correctly at least. Georgie and I freeze and stare at the hot chocolate. Another one is laid down beside it with three marshmallows bobbing at the top. "Tom!" the man called out. "That’s me." Yup, sure is. Turned John into Tom, but that was probably a good thing because another John had ordered a drink moments before me. So, what does Georgie do? That cunning, conniving, clever little Georgie quickly seizes my drink and crams a lid on it. I stare, positively mortified, at the poisoned challice. Hoping I was mistaken, I took it reluctantly and drank.
My rationalisation is this. Even if she did sip from the cup, it would be no different from being kissed by a random stranger. Except it would taste slightly sweeter. So I drank, hoping that woman had either thoroughly brushed her teeth moments before we entered, or that my eyes failed me.
In completely other news, our jolly little trip to the Motion Picture Theatres™ was tainted by the obtrusive and brazen presence of Adele’s two 13yo cousins. Recently teenaged brutes that pretend they’re tougher than they are- reminding me of a slightly more uncouth, younger self- and trying to prove it to the world. They, barbarians, which feast on Jacks that are Hungry and then pursue delicate morsels in the more savoury, Swedish world… Well, I’m sure Georgie’s dying to say so I’ll let her finish this paragraph! Tell ’em what happened Georgie, go on, tell ’em! =D