To add injury to general woefulness, my lovely new work shoes, while fine around the office generally, are not made for traipsing up and down stairs all week. My god, the pressure points.
My choice of dress today (Richochet, circa some time ago) is beautiful. It’s also stuck like a static motherfucker to my tights (despite the slip, which I thought was a guaranteed old lady cure) so every time I’ve stood up, it got caught up around my ass and I looked like I was walking around with some kind of vagina-hat. Imagine, if you will.
Stress pimple has been staring people in the face today. I was not aware of this until about 5 minutes ago. The concealer is not in my bag. Fuck.
My husband (big promotion! So proud P! Celebratory lunch for you!) MAY have been under the influence when signing our lives away. I couldn’t possibly comment.
Whinge / rant / etc. Next week is gonna be so much better.