The Boy With The Penguin Tattoo. Or something.

I’m getting old.  And I don’t care.  I’m not going out with Sarge anymore.  Because we’re too busy staying in.  I can’t remember the last time I went to a club.  These days, the highlight of my Friday night is a new episode of Come Dine With Me.  And that’s OK.

Take this weekend for example.  For about five minutes, Sarge and I thought we’d make our own wedding invitations.  We got a penguin stamp and a butterfly stamp and a butterfly ‘punch’, which is apparently a Martha Stewart product.  I feel dirty.  I might hate myself.  A little.

Then we went to a café that played Frank Sinatra tunes while we waited for brunch.  A full breakfast for Sarge and Eggs Benedict for me.  I might not hate myself for that one.

After that, we went to use an engagement gift certificate.  We did need some stuff for the house that wasn’t covered in cat hair, and ended up with two robes/dressing gowns and a grill pan.  Yes, really.

I picked mine first.  Sarge carried it around for a while and said, ‘This is nice, I hope they have a man one.’  And he got one.  They don’t match.  Because that would be silly.

We arrived home feeling domestic.  Eager to try out the stamps and ‘punch’ some butterflies.  And it wasn’t just me.  The first thing Sarge did was ink the penguin and stamp his arm.  And the current Filmhouse brochure has a butterfly on the front.  Because we can.

After beer and butterflying all available bits of paper, we decided to send away for printed invitations.

This is why:



























Crafts and beer. Craft beer?


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