Fat frogs. Very bad things. So bad they're good, even. So bad, they linger blurrily in your mind and on your furry tasting teeth for twenty-four hours after consumption, their strange greenish-blue hue an ever present smear on your retina. I distinctly recall dropping one (a fat frog, not a retina. I would definitely recall dropping a retina. ), hopefully one of Annies, laughing hysterically, and buying two more. That is the logic fat frogs forces you to embrace.
In other news, I am hopefully, due in the main to repeated bullying from Annie, on my way to a new job. A very lovely man in a recruitment agency has promised me this and I see no reason to doubt him. This forecasted development was my ostensible excuse for acting disgracefully and without inhibitions last night. That, and the joyous news that Grainne W., intrepid traveller of North America's finest establishments, has returned to the fold almost two weeks earlier than she was expected. Hurrah! I predict a repeat of last night's drama on the weekend when Gra is unveiled to her adoring fans in the hospitible interior of The Baldy Man, Tramore. Splendid stuff!
Speaking of splendid stuff, check out the Splendidiser on the website of Stephen Fry's adaption of Waugh's Vile Bodies, Bright Young Things. Simply too, too divine, darling.