Yesterday my flat was party central. At 1pm this tiny London flat was invaded by 25 10-year old mini humans, ready to get down, so to speak(the method of choice was Rihanna on max volume and chocolate cake)
Since I had consumed a bit more than the recommended intake for an average sized adult the previous night, I did not feel like joining the party. (Or the un-organised form of hell) The mother, responsible for the planned chaos, had given me warnings "Close the door hard, otherwise they will most likely wander in on you". I laughed. I didnt realise the seriousness of the warning. She however, that had both seen me hungover and acted host for birthday parties before, did.
With the Yankees cap pulled down low, Uggs and mis-matched sweats, I managed to sneak out a couple of hours later. Looking mighty fine.
Yes, there is a foreign junkie renting the spare room.