Yes Way Frosé

Bonjour. J'ai le cerveau d'un sandwich au fromage. 
That right there is the product of my high school French lessons, and just about the only thing I remember from six years of study - and I'm not entirely sure I've remembered it correctly so it could mean absolute bollocks. Either way, none of this is in anyway relevant to today's blog post which is going to be waffly and contain an embarrassing incident. 
Buckle up folks.

Two weekends ago, Scott and I attended the Abu Dhabi Food Festival - which by the way, was pretty blummin' great. Think sunshine, a field, and pop ups of amazing, local restaurants serving delicious nibbles. There isn't much more you need in life, really... well, that was until I discovered the Frosé stand and this is where things start to get a bit sketchy. 
Firstly, I'm just going to make a declaration that frosé is by far one of the world's greatest inventions, after pizza and anything chocolate-coated. If you are unfamiliar with the delights of frozen, strawberry/rosé slush, then have a read of this. Just have it known that I will accept no responsibility for any mishaps that ensue. 
So, frosé happened and at some point so did gin - and considering the fact that I woke up with, 'Bourjois 12 Beau Brun' saved in my iPhone notes, so did the harassment of some poor girl over lipstick. It really was a beautiful shade though! 
Oh, but it gets worse.
During the taxi ride home, I felt it completely necessary to demonstrate my, 'sick dance moves' by flailing all of my limbs and personal belongings around in the air like I just don't care... which, in fact, is a lie because I do very much care, and whilst doing so, I'd managed to piss off the taxi driver and unknowingly fling my apartment key out of my bag - the only key that Scott and I had to get back into our home. 
High five Kirsty.
So, several phone calls, an argument and a man with a large drill later, we finally made it home home - and by home home, I mean home to the largest puddle of piss known to man and a smug-looking dog that, by the looks of things, had performed a one Shih Tzu show of Swan Lake through her wee and around our bedroom. Joys.  
So I guess the moral of the story is, 'Don't drink frosé' but in all honesty, I can't consciously endorse that because frosé is the shizz and (don't tell Scott because he hated me after my performance) I'd happily lock myself out of my apartment again for a large pitcher of fruity wine slush. So I guess there really is no moral, just an acknowledgement that I am a ridiculous drunk. 
P.S. I left out the part where I mooned Scott in the street because it... NEVER HAPPENED! *aherm*