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.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Tell me your deepest secrets. Or your opinion on the Oxford comma. Or your favourite pre-dinner drink. Anything really, as long as it's not mean.