Hotel parking lot - the new art museum

It's been a while since I last had a girl's night out full of good food, aimless chatter and scandalous gossip. I’d become socially lazy and my life the past few weeks had been all about work, work and more work; with weekends spent with family at home, catching up with movies and books, and the occasional drives out for ice cream or coffee.

I'd forgotten how much fun gossiping was.

So Saturday night, our girl gang made it a point to leave behind kids (where applicable) and husbands (also where applicable), kick up our 4 inch heels and enjoy a night of fun and frolic.

After a huge (and I mean scarfing down so much that you need to undo your jeans button) dinner at a Moroccan restaurant, we headed for some much needed ice cream at a hotel in the city (we are such pigs).

We stumbled out of the car, barely able to pick ourselves up after the meal we'd had, and then stopped dead in our tracks. There, right before our very eyes, was a long line of antique cars. Porsches, Jaguars, a VW van that looked straight out of a classic cops and robbers movie, Fords, Buicks, Mustangs, cars I could not even identify.

Antique cars. In my city.

Oh my God.

I walked up and down the parking lot examining them, drooling over the cars for almost an hour, the security guards close behind following my every move (right, like I could fit a hubcap into my little sequined clutch bag); until one on each arm, my friends dragged me inside.

I have never seen so much beauty in one place. It was like walking onto the streets and finding out the roads were paved in chocolate. Except that we couldn’t eat the cars. Not that I wouldn’t have, but I was already stuffed with couscous.

Dear owner of the red 1960's Jaguar XKE convertible, will you marry me?