When you spend all night dreaming of having tea in the morning.
When you critique the authenticity of a plate of nachos.
Yeah, so, umm, this is probably the 3rd time I've ordered Mexican (er... Tex-Mex?) food in England. And the 3rd time I've thought to myself, "What the hell was I thinking!?" Ok, so technically I didn't order it. Our friend and fellow wedding guest Stu did. But I encouraged him, thinking it'd be something good for the table to share and pick at. The chips tasted like pizza, for some reason. Probably because of the nuclear red tomato sauce/salsa/ketchup/sweet and sour or whatever they poured on top.
But what the White Hart pub lacks in gastronomic ability, they make up for it with a few types of cask ale, loads of low-ceiling charmed, and a couple of outdoor courtyards, one dubbed the Secret Garden. And then there's the kaleidescopic lights that change the color of this statue.
No tripod. No Photoshop adjustments. Not even my fancy new SLR. Just a very well-lit statue and a little point-and-shoot. Amazing how pints of ale can steady the hand.
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