Despite my country upbringing, I don't seem to be adjusting very well to this 'living in Cornwall' lark.
The first clue was when I pitched up at Costa Coffee yesterday morning at eight on the dot (I was hoping it might open at seven, but this proved unfounded) expecting to find it teeming with Falmouth's business and media elite ordering extra-shot lattes to go. Instead, I found it empty save for one barista sitting peacefully drinking hot chocolate and reading the paper.
And then this morning, as I was beetling back out of town in my fancy city coat, with my laptop bag on my back and skinny latte in hand, I found myself in the midst of the farmers' market, where I promptly demonstrated a total inability to a) correctly identify a goose's egg*, b) correctly identify any sort of fish at all, not even a cod, or c) express any kind of intelligent opinion whatsoever on the bacterial culture inside a lamb's liver.
Mr BC is going away for a couple of days on Thursday. I'm not sure I can cope on my own. I'll probably embarrass myself by accidentally trying to organise a flashmob outside Woolworths, or asking which zone Perranarworthal is in.
I really hope my London twatness will go away soon.
* Apparently it was actually a duck's egg, doh.
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