My new best friend.
Couldn’t think of any better way to say: I’m moved in.
On average, we consume about five toasties each per day.
Six flat mates in total.
Now, I’m not much of a math person, but that is a lot of toast and cheese.
Simple. Brilliant. Delicious.
A very global, British-esque version of a quesadilla.
I suppose it’s safe to say, I made it over. I made it moved in.
And am currently in the involuntary process of becoming everything British.
One week down, and hot toast and tea has become my primary staple.
As if on cue, just to remind me of where I am, Jonathan yells across the flat in distress at Gordon, “How do I tie these bloody laces round my ankles?”
It seems getting dressed for a fancy evening out becomes a bit more complicated if you’re required to wear a skirt.
Especially a plaid one.
With no underwear.
Gordon and Jonathan, both medics, are headed out to a “Caleigh,” a type of scottish dancing ball, this one specifically for doctors.
Jonathan has been griping all week over the sixty pounds he had to spend to rent his kilt. It was the cheapest one in the shop and he had to buy kilt insurance as well, a concept I found to be ridiculously entertaining.
Gordon, the only son in his family, owns the kilt with their specific tartan that had been passed down for ages, well, at least from the sixties. He occupied himself with firing rapid complaints over the length of the sleeves, which to be fair were about three inches shy of fabric. As well as the avocado color and “lame” pleat of his very vintage kilt.
All I can do is thank the lord almighty that my flatmates where graced with considerably much more patience than I myself possess. As they tolerated the stupid blonde American, as she photographed literally every moment of their existence as though I was a proud parent taking pictures of prom night and the pinning of the corsage.
I couldn’t help it.
They were wearing kilts.
It really doesn’t get much cooler than that.