The closest I'll ever get to cosmopolitan is a cocktail menu.

I've just realised that I've managed to spend an entire months wages in just over 48 hours. My debit card probably thinks it's a gigolo now, having been excessively fondled in the name of pretty goods.
  
I may be eating rotten value beans for the next month but hell, at least I'll be doing head to toe in overpriced attire! They say life's a catwalk after all. And I'm the straggly, stay fucker that not even the crazy old cat-lady wants.

Maow.

Also nothing quite justifies a hard days work like a pair of disgustingly expensive shoes that you'll stagger home in, step in dog shite and never wear again. But hey, all work and no shoes makes Julie a fucking grumpy bastard.

I never claimed to be a poet.

But enough shoe talk, I realise that not everyone shares my enthusiasm/obsession for attempting to make feet look pretty. Because let's admit it, they are fugly. FUGLAYY. Not even an IV drip full of the melty chocolate from the inside of those wee red Lindor sweets would make me rub a person's feet. And I mean that chocolate is the epitome of food porn. My digestive juices are flowing as we speak.

That's another great mystery that haunts me. Not religion. Nor philosophy. How in the name of all that is chocolatey DO they get it melty in the middle? You can already clearly see that my higher education is £3,450 well spent a year.

As I'm currently sat in quite a trendy bar off Oxford Street sipping a double gin&tonic (I only do things in double measures, drinks, dancing, D's). I ponder whether I'm ever destined for a life like this. Or if it'll be a more menial nine to five desk job where the highlight of my week comes in the form of an M&S meal deal.

But my god, do they do a good ham bap.

I've also noticed that unlike in Belfast, here I seem to be somewhat exotic. Who knew that a ginger 'fro and the look of severe anaemia could be alluring. All I need is a guitar, some quirky lyrics and Ed Sheeran will be shitting his begs.

I discovered I was of more interest in the big city when a charming young Caribbean gentleman remarked,

"Helllll ye got some big ass bootay fer being such a white gurrrl."

Clearly all those two for Tuesday's, three for Thursday's and five for Friday's are paying off. Thank you Sir stuffed crust. I may never fit into a pair of hotpants, but hell, I am the proud parent to a litter of food babies! They grow up so fast these days.

Over and out, y'all! X