Sunday’s Child Is Full of Sweat
Flatpack carnage, chilled wine, hangovers, a melting Victorian cat-dad, and one accidental act of journalism topped with some collaboration.
Not to sound dramatic, but I'm dying.
The heat is doing me in. Not in the sexy Mediterranean way, where you glisten and sip spritzes under a pergola. No. This is the full-flop, damp-elbow, lying-on-the-sofa-like-a-fading-Victorian-orphan variety. The sort where you stare at the ceiling fan as if it's your only remaining…
