I sent this memo to myself while semi drunk after client drinks (that’s 70% of recruitment in London) and “after” auto corrected to “fatter”.
YES, APPLE! I’m fatter since working in London’s booze-fuelled recruitment hub and even fatter since having a boyfriend from northern England where a standard meal includes crisps, chips, some sort of sauce, a hefty portion of meat and a sweet treat to conclude. Something he’s always called, for the duration of the two years I’ve known him as, “something for afters“.
I don’t know if this is a British term, a northern British term or just something my boyfriend says, but the mushy, saddo in me finds it cute. So when I phoned him on my way home in my pickled-state to ask if he needed anything from the shops this was his request.
Of course I then went home (sweet treat of chocolate in my bag) and picked a fight with him, over nothing, and he smiled, kissed me and said “Bron, you’re drunk, go to bed.”
I’m lucky he’s so patient.