Having triumphantly played my first ever game of poker, and enjoyed excellently stupid and drunken gossip with Miss Lucy Ferguson et al, I arrive home at the aforementioned time. I'm a little merry. Twenty minutes later the milos wake up. And then at 6.45AM. I have to beg the ana's for a lie-in to recover slightly. Poker has killed me.
It's killed me to such an extent I can't face any alcohol until the beginning of the Wales game - for which I'd specially got in some SA Gold for me and Mikelodocus, who is up for the weekend. Further, I spend the day cramming baguette and Boursin down my throat as they are the only things I can eat.
Faced with hangover and Wales failing, we get a takeaway from Tiffin Box and watch a Magda-special DVD. It's not a great day for cooking, Welsh rugby or the russells. On the upside, the milos had a good day:
BaaaaaaD Russells.
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