1)She makes great cakes
2)We do really fun and random things together, like burlesque dancing at a community centre nr rotherham on a friday night, with 40something chain smoking women (that's a story for another time)
3)I got the above message (my title for the post) after asking her if I would be intruding on her mothers day lunch on sunday. (mine is going to Spain.........without me)
Now, you may be wondering who I'm talking about here, it is in fact Louiza, who will from now on go by the name of fulwood fanny since she has become a Fulwood resident. (posh place in Shefvegas). I'm very happy for her and Pete (her beau who I am yet to meet!) and hope they have lots of happy times there. If she lets me, I will put some pics on here of her des res, but you can't go stalking her like ok. Maybe I'll make her a cross stitch present like this as a gift?
Fanny and I go go back to the days of uni, as you will have seen if you read the first post, the name of the blog is thanks to her. She makes me laugh, sometimes so much that I can't breathe. Everyone should have a friend like her in their life.
One of the best memories I have with Fanny could probably be when we first moved to Nice.
We spent a january weekend in Nice, looking for some accommodation for our 6 month Business School placement. We rocked up, thinking we were going to swan into a ready made jet set Cote D'Azur life of big sun hats, cocktails and designer parties on terraces. Or maybe that was just me?
The weekend was spent trudging the not so glam streets of Nice, realising that our shoe string budget would not get us anywhwere to live in this shitty town. Every church we went past, we prayed in. Every bar we walked past, we drank in. And every patisserie we walked past, we drowned our sorrows in a sugar rush of millefeuilles.
After almost ending up residents of an all girls convent accomodation, with a cerfew of 11pm (je ne pense pas), we came to the realisation that it was the end of our weekend, we had nowhere to live, and we were starting the course the week after.
We were tired. We were sad. It was bloody freezing. And we cried.........all the way through our final meal in Nice, to each other, to the waiter, to anyone in the frigging restaurant who looked sympathetic.
(don't feel too sad here, I am laughing as I am writing this at the state we were in)
Then we called our dads.
And cried down the phone to them.
It didn't work,
but we ended up in an Irish Bar.
Here we met some people from our rival uni, who, like fate had it, had 2 spare rooms in their flat.
It didn't matter what it was like, or how much rent it was, it was ours.
6 months in Nice together; living in a 6 bed flat, with an oven that blew the fuse for the entire apartment, a washing machine that secreted rust onto your clothes, a landlord that shagged his misstess the weekend before I arrived, ON MY MATTRESS, a Portuguese workman that was drunk on the job, from our vodka, finishing off the work in our "kitchen", (it didn't come anywhere near to being finished at the end of the placement actually) a devilish addiction to cakes, of any form, and 6 months of secret eating, pretending to each other we were really following the atkins diet really well...and we really did bond and become the best of friends.
We got the parties on the terrace right, but I wouldn't go so far as to say they were "designer".
I think this was my 20th bday party on the terrace. I forgot about that (paddling pool) hot tub.