Ok, wishful thinking calling myself a beauty. While I am from the land down under and I did try to be beautiful and even though beauty is apparently only skin deep, my natural reaction to claw, kick and bi-atch fight anyone who stands between my food and I pretty much vetoes my right to all beauty, including that of the inner variety, which is normally hidden below layers of flubber.
So be it. Eating is so much more rewarding anyway.
Saturday evening saw me skadoodling down Oxford Street in brand new 6-inch platform sandals, a silk floral-printed bubble dress (my man believes that the bubble is inarguably the most unflattering style to have ever befallen womankind) pinched at the waist with a faux-croc Karen Millen belt and my prized baby Mulberry clutch.
This is me stupendously dressed up, an event which occurs annually at best, and testament to the fact that girls dress up not to impress you boys, but to razzle-dazzle other girls, because I’m enroute to a dinner date with my gal pal, and believe me when I say I have never, nor will I ever teetered my way down Oxford Street in 6-inch heels for any man (ok, except George Clooney maybe).
Alone. You know that feeling? When it’s just you in a vacuum that engulfs space and time? Ok, maybe just space, the clock is still illuminated on the bottom right hand corner of my screen, staring at me (didn’t these things used to blink?) for what seems like definitely longer than a minute, and then it ticks over, so we know time is still there. Wait, so there’s a screen. Ok so it’s just me and my laptop, alone.
The laptop sporadically hums, I’d like to think that it’s thinking, but I don’t know for sure, cos I haven’t asked it to do anything, I’m just looking at it, deep in my own writer’s block. But at least the hum tells me I’m not alone, and comforts me in the knowledge that out here, in my office in Central London, if something should happen, at least someone thing will hear me scream squeal profanities.
I’m a firm believer that there are few things in life finer than waking up to my own bodyclock (and not the worker ant up-at-7am-without-an-alarm bodyclock ~ I really need to do something about that! ~ but the one that lets me sleep til at least 11am) and then falling back asleep again because guess what? There is nothing I need to get up for today! If you’ve never tried the Second Sleep, I strongly recommend it. It leaves you well rested and revitalised, ready to take on the world – that is, until nap time three hours later.
I think there is a chance (a chance?) that I have an imbalance of something in my brain, because nothing else would explain my ridiculous childlike excitement as the sun peeked out from behind the clouds this morning and I woke up realising that today is Christmas Day is my birthday I win lotto we go to Vegas I get a puppy we go to the Taste of London Festival. Are you as excited as I am? You’re not? It’s ok, I know a puppy would have totally rawked, but food is a worthy consolation.
The day actually had the potential to go pear-shaped, what with the spanktastic top I bought last week turning out to not be as spanktastic as I had originally thought, and the fact that I (who has never once been tardy – retarded yes, tardy no) thought we were running late so I made my boyfriend run to the event with me (closed my eyes, followed the fragrance of yummy). But we arrived (early, as usual, thanks to the pre-eating jog) and so the Eating began.
LondonEater threw out a last minute invite for lunch at Sketch today, and I was so tempted to throw on a crazy sexy cool outfit (with my crazier sexier cooler shoes) to chow down at this craziest sexiest coolest pad (or so LondonEater describes) but as I started to mentally undress and dress myself in various outfits, something nagged at the back of my mind. Was I doing something before this? I’m sure I was doing something, and dare I even say something important. OH, right, I was w.o.r.k.i.n.g. Work – the activity that seems to monopolise two-thirds of my waking hours – has just managed to once again monopolise my Friday lunch hour. So I bid my Sketch lunch adieu and instead popped downstairs to EAT, to grab my lunch, takeout please. I is a working girl, afterall. Not that kind of working girl.