![]() ![]() Our rendezvous turned out to be a sceney little brunch spot flanked by fragrant shrubs that seemed to be chained to the ground. It’s amazing what six months in south London can do to a girl. I could feel my hair sticking to the back of my neck.ĭespite retaining her own accent, she called me “dahling” as we stickily embraced. My sister was wearing a sundress and sipping on a smoothie that probably cost more than my hourly wage. ![]() After forgetting my sunglasses and going halfway there before realising my mistake, the dreaded sweats started long before I’d had the chance to note the prices on the menu. I’ve been described by well-meaning people as going a particular shade of apricot when exposed to sunlight, much like a bashful vampire, and although there is nothing quite as chic as a redhead lounging in the sun, clad in a men’s shirt with a cigarette hanging off her lips, it isn’t long before the tickle in her throat can no longer be blamed on the tar.Īt the very least, a quick glance at the weather forecast would have saved me the humiliation of turning up in a turtleneck. ![]() ![]() So when my sister suggested brunch “al fresco” in the middle of Clapham, I should have simply said no - any sane person of my complexion would. ![]()
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