This entry is a continuation from Friday and the things that happened on Saturday.

Note to self- keep on top of blog.

Work drinks on Friday. Pic no. 1 features Owen, our new team leader, Dave Hillier (OkCupid extraordinaire) and Twatter, Lord of the Dance etc. Can we take a moment to appreciate the tightness of Sam’s jeans in pic no. 2?

Oh medieval incest (What’s this Jenn?! Read my previous posts!) is wrong, but didn’t go down in Tudor town BECAUSE everyone was only pretending and now Henry is going to be king anyways and the smutty little Elizabeth is going to be queen (and breathe).

So work drinks turned into work booze sesh, tubed it home (with G, obvs). Was informed by our landlord that the original Starksy and Hutch were having their party in the pub the following night, then broke into Sainsbury’s because we wanted the prawn mahiki. Security guard = angry.

Woke up early (Mother Crothers was coming), hop skipped to Victoria to meet Zoe to get my phone battery, collected Mumsy, then took her to Pitfields to show off how successful I am. We had a coffee. It was nice. 

Tubed it back to Highgate, tried to wake up G, failed, so went for a carvery at the Red Lion and Rising Sun. Was bloody delicious too, bravo. 

Mum and I then went to Highgate cemetery for a wander (this is the woman who has made me obsessed with Poirot and Doctor Who, graveyards are our thing). Apparently Hightgate is the place to be for the trendiest of deceased, as you can see in pics 6, 7 & 8 I hung out with the founder of Penguin books and the absolute babe that is Karl Marx. Think he went a bit overboard with the old headstone, but hey ho, that’s Marx for ya. 

‘I didn’t know Jeremy Beadle was dead! Maybe it’s some elaborate joke?’- Crothers, Sue, 2013.

Last picture is the result of a long day eating and photographing famous people’s tombstones- CIDER! Gina joined us from her slumber about 5pm for some lemon cake that Mum made me. Yum yum. 

After Mother- mine left, Gina and I got our gladrags on cos it was parrrrrtay time! The original Starsky and Hutch were having a bash downstairs with the likes of, Paul Gallagher, Terry Richardson & co. We had a natter, cheeky pint and some cheese, then hit the sack about 1am because a Croth is, as a Croth does. 


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