Over the summer, I've taken two trips to Liverpool for work. Whenever I tell anyone this, they ask me if I: Went on Beatles Tour, Go To A Pub, See a Beatle?
The answer is no, no, and you know that two of them are dead and the other two don't live there, right? I only saw Liverpool from the back of a cab, to and from work. When I wasn't at the office or on set, I was back in my room, writing.
The one thing I did discover, though, is that English chocolate is far superior to American chocolate. So much so that I might have gone on a bender and woken up in a pile of foil candy wrappers and shame.
It was all worth it.
My last trip to Liverpool, I vowed to bring some magic candy back. Thity pounds worth. (That's 30 pounds, as in the monetary denomination, not thirty pounds as in weight. I am crazy but not totally insane.) Some of the candy I'll be bringing to my niece and nephew when I go back to Chicago later this week, the rest was for Will.
Will opened them the other night, and I tried one. I was expecting something like a chocolate covered mint. What I got was a piece of hard candy, the type you find glued to the bottom of your grandmother's candy jar.
I spit it into the garbage.
Will: What did you do that for? I would have eaten it!
Me: It was in my mouth!
Will: So? You've never thrown away my penis.
Me: You know I have to blog this now.
Will: I was afraid of that.