Hi, hey, hello

Good morning!

How is every one today?

Still sleepy from the weekend?

Not me!

This weekend I ditched my dancing shoes and feel better for doing so today!

What did you do instead? You ask?

Well, on Saturday, Jacob picked me up in the afternoon to go for a ‘late day at the beach’ which turned into ‘an afternoon of cleaning water out of the car that had been pooling in the back and a delicious lunch in Bulimba’.

Then, on Saturday night, I went to Chloe’s place for a ‘girly night’ where we watched Riding in Cars with Boys – possibly the greatest movie ever – and stayed up late talking (by late I mean 11:30pm).

On Sunday, after a delicious breakfast, Chloe dropped me home (I swear I owe you my soul in petrol money) and I spent the day cleaning my room, putting music on my new computer (which is pretty much the first time I used it too), watching Pretty Woman and painting my nails, before Jacob blessed me with his company and horrible stench, accompanying me to the ice cream parlour.

One thing that has become apparent this weekend – which I never really realised before, and it kind of scared me a little – if you get between me and my ice cream, you’re dead.

I got 2 ice creams this weekend – one at Bulimba, one last night – and both times the girls got it wrong (the first girl daring to put my ice cream in a CUP not a cone).

I actually almost started crying.

If there is one thing I expect to be right – it’s my ice cream.

I have been getting the same flavour (bubblegum and cookie dough in a waffle cone) for the last 6 years and if anything is wrong – e.g. putting it in a cup, not a cone – things get pretty ugly.

I really don’t see how it could be so hard to work in an ice cream parlour. Maybe I am incredibly naive, but still.

DON’T MESS WITH ME AND MY ICE CREAM OR I'LL FUCK YOU UP.