Too much cheese

Tonight was my family's last evening in Singapore, so we went to a mozzarella bar in Duxton Hill. It turns out that if you eat your own weight in cheese, you don't tend to feel so wonderful. I'd only had what felt like a chunk of mozzarella the size of my head, washed down with truffle oil, but I felt like I'd been inflated with marsh gas and then squashed into clothes three sizes too small for me.

I wanted to go home to bed, but they're playing happy hardcore versions of 80s Madonna songs in the square beneath our flat, so that would be no sort of refuge. Instead, I continued to sit in the restaurant, eating cheese, despairing at myself.

Aside from the cheese-related agonies, it was nice to see the family again. They've had a very enjoyable time in Bali, and now they're flying back to London with some of the heaviest luggage known to man. Seriously, when my mother told me her suitcase weighed 19 kg, I wouldn't have been surprised if it was that much empty. It's a fifteen year old piece of bright pink moulded plastic, with a wheel at one corner and the ability to herniate perfectly healthy people when they try to pick it up. For a woman sized like a small bird, that suitcase is either reckless or boastful, but it shouldn't be necessary to travel around the world.

When we loaded them into the taxi for the airport, I was worried the rear axle of the car would collapse, but Mercedes are made of sterner stuff. We watched them go, then went back to the flat and watched another episode of the Ianucci Show, a thing both hilarious and horrible. Who would have thought Flash animations on websites would last all the way to 2012?