Return of the Trout Pout.

Was at The Kitchin last night, with it's lovely staff and amazing food.
While waiting in the bar, I felt my allergy beginning to kick in.
Shit, I didn't have any antihistimine with me.
But I was determined to eat fabulous food.
My lips started to swell up. By the time I tucked into my
wonderful lobster ravioli they felt the size of 2 hotdog rolls.
I could see the staff looking at me strangely, and even my friend (friend?)
said I looked 'interesting' and laughed. Loud. And for quite a long time.

Boy that ravioli was fucking stunning. I recommend it.
Even the embarrassment of pushing the
last morsel though my now lifeboat sized mouth, and
having people point at me from across the restaurant
didn't deter my greed.

When the grouse turned up my lips had turned into a bouncy castle,
there was a queue of children all the way up Commercial Street
and even Tom Kitchin had a little bounce on my top lip before going
back into the kitchen before preparing my souffle.

It was gorgeous. But now I could hardly forced the spoon into
my bursting face. My turrets were beginning to get a bit sore.
And none of the previously lovely staff would come near me for fear
of this being catching, or worse, me pretending to be one of their friends.

Getting a cab by myself was the only way of getting home.
No-one else could fit in.

It's lonely being a big lipped freak