Over three years ago I entered the beautiful world of advertising, innocent, over-excited and despite the three years prior to that at Uni, with a fairly healthy complexion. Then I met Heather. Corruption ensued. As did the growth of a lovely friendship. Which is why her hen do in Rome wasn’t going to be anything but corrupt, no matter how lovely. In between consuming a frankly absurd amount of pasta, finding a fitting Italian stallion to sing ‘Mamma Mia’ to me, the theft of a 118 wig, encounters with Mexicans, riding bicycles off diving boards and being removed from a hotel for deciding a suitcase trolley was instead a suitable mode of transport, step aside locally sourced red wine because an unexpected gladiator has paraded into the arena with greater sexual velour and stolen Silvio Berlusconi’s clothes:
Now I know what you’re thinking – those Italians can’t half tailor sensational suits but I didn’t know what trickery they could achieve with a peel of lime?! Look at the cheeky swirl! My mind was blown. Then there was the glass. Clearly compressed in the womb of Italy’s answer to John Lewis, my Margarita experience was finally finding finesque in the suburbs of Rome. Naturally, we got the waitress to photograph our unconventional cocktail desolation:
Even more naturally, it was time to go forth and party like Pirlo. I’ll leave the rest to your imaginations.
Margarita & I 