Yesterday, against my better judgment, because I am woefully penniless and I was still recovering from a weekend spent with some of my oldest and dearest friends, I went out to celebrate a friend's birthday. It was a terribly highbrow affair outfitted with such classy touches as this message on the ice cream cake:
The birthday boy wielded knives, but in the friendliest possible way:
A friend's daughter proved how photogenic she is:
I proved how much I lose my ability to focus the camera when I have had a couple of pints. This is an 11-week-old puppy, Sylvain, with his new mama:
Sylvain loved like a ninja, by which I mean that he was a flurry of nearly invisible limbs. I nearly ate him.
By the end of the evening, it was apparent that Nick, the guest of honour, was having a very good night, because he started attempting to impersonate 1950s Hollywood starlets. Once the farm-raised, manual labourer men start cross-dressing, you know it's been a good night.
And today, I am making soup and crocheting. If I don't throw some old lady in now and again, well, I don't know, I get crusty, and we can't have that.