I don't think I handled that very well

Today I had lunch with a very very dear old friend I had not seen for more than two years who was over visiting from Paris. He and I were just as we had always been and I realised how daft we were not to have managed to see each other for so long.

So we're two old friends rather wrapped up in each other. As we enter my pub of choice I suddenly spot The Boy/Ex-Boy (that's another story) sitting at a table immediately in front. The Boy looks up as we enter; we're laughing and have managed to faff with opening the door. For a moment I'm like a rabbit caught in the headlights. When my brain finally defrosts I disentangle my arm and steer Parisian toward a table far away.

Cue a few minutes of me rather unsure what to do.

a) Do I introduce?
b) Do I wave and go over?
c)Or do I just engage in conversation in a somewhat over-enthusiastic manner and hope that everything will go away?

I chose c having decided that a or b could give the wrong impression (or any impression really) and risk making an already nightmarish mess worse. In the end, The Boy takes the initiative and I get a text to inform me that he's rearranged his lunch with The Man With Whom I Never See Eye to Eye (That Man happens to also be one of his best friends) and is going elsewhere.

Crisis averted. Guilt suitably induced. It was possibly all over nothing anyway, but I am in no doubt that That Man would have found a spoon to stir somewhat vigorously.

Tesco. Friday Night. Eleven Thrity Pee Hem.

I've found that now I have overcome the hurdle of escaping my duvet fort the world is, apparently, at my feet.

Naturally, at a late hour on a Friday evening the most logical thing to do with my new found freedom seemed to be to go to Tesco. I bought a veritable treasure chest of items in my excitement to be rid of the Cabin Fever; these included 2 notebooks, 3 jotter pads, an assortment of clickable biros, far too much orange squash, The Guardian, The Independent (got both wings covered there, phew) and a packet of chocolate fudge brownies (Weight Watchers' unfortunately). All was going swimmingly up until I arrived home and spread out my purchases with glee at which point I examined one of the boxes in a new light...

...Bugger. Lent. Chocolate not permitted.

Needless to say I've spent the last ten minutes staring at said sliced temptations willing them to morph into shortbread or something else I can allow myself to consume. I think I'll start furiously eating the peanuts instead.

Perhaps I can even persuade the cat to eat them. Excellent. I'll round off celebrating my freedom by chasing the cat with a box of brownies.

Just another friday night chez franglaise.

An Open Letter to Lush, makers of Fresh Handmade Cosmetics

To whom it may concern,

I am writing to express my distinct displeasure at the quality of your "Think Pink" bath bombs.
As part of a thoughtful, spontaneous gift, The Boy recently purchased me an assortment of your bath bombs and other goodies. He is also aware of my penchant for the colour pink. This naturally resulted in his purchase including one or two the aforementioned "Think Pink" bath bomb variety.

I have spent the last 4 days in bed with flu. What better way to reward myself than by using one of your delightful products I ask myself? I pop one of said Think Pink bombs into my bath, gingerly step in and relax away.

Unfortunately, the flu means that after around 10 minutes I am shivering violently and forced to abandon attempts at bathing. However, your products have suitably relaxed me and I do not feel upset by this situation. Job done you might say? Oh no. On getting out of the bath and emptying the water I discover a 3 inch deep pink watermark. It took me twice the amount of time I was able to spend in the bath to scrub said pink line away. After which I was thoroughly exhausted and forced to retreat under the duvet for the duration of the evening.

I would hardly consider ten minutes to be an average duration of a relaxing bath, what happens to the poor people who decide they dare relax for half an hour? And more to the point, what sort of ridiculous, half-assed, thoughtless company manufactures bath bombs that are going to STAIN THE BATHS OF PEOPLE WITH FLU who have made said washing excursion the HIGHLIGHT OF THEIR DAY?

Yours grumpily,

Franglaise

The tone of this letter may or may not be related to me having run out of lemsip and nurofen. Help.