Le WeekendMonday, September 12, 2011
Race from work to the station. Run over several tourists' feet with wheelie suitcase.
Decide that a small pasta salad, a G&T in a can and a jumbo packet of crisps constitutes a balanced dinner.
Frantically read several chapters of How to Be a Woman on the train in preparation for Blook Club while simultaneously applying multiple layers of glittery nail varnish. Get weird looks from man on train.
Read the childbirth bit. Cross legs repeatedly. Resolve never to have sex ever again.
Try to eat pasta salad using only the little wooden sticks you use to stir your coffee. Harder than you might think.
Race to Leicester Square to meet friend. Run over some more tourists. Drink some wine.
Back to friend's flat. Drink some more wine. Drink some chocolate liqueur. Regret it almost immediately. Fall asleep on couch at 2am.
Arrive at work, thirty minutes late. Discover the computer I was going to use is gone. Say "SHIT!" in very loud voice. Realise senior partner is sitting behind me. Bollocks.
Lunch with lovely internet lady.
More work. Yawn.
Race to hotel to meet Lucy. Knock wheelie suitcase down Tube escalator. Act like it's not mine.
Arrive at hotel, thirty minutes late. Rush to get changed. Apply eyeliner unevenly. Keep adding more eyeliner to 'balance it out'. End up looking like I am paying bizarre, eyeliner-based tribute to Amy Winehouse.
Arrive at Any Other Party, thirty minutes late. Squeal. Hug. Drink. Chat. Laugh. Drink. Gush. Bond. Giggle. Drink. Swoon. Act like total loser when introduced to wedding blogging royalty. Cringe. Drink. Hug. Hobble. Sleep.
Meet lovely internet ladies for breakfast coffee at 11.
Meet lovely real-life lady for lunch at 12.
Back on the train at 1, back to the book, back to the flat for Strictly. Jason and Kristina to win, obv.
Sleep. Up. Finally finish the book at 1. Off to Blook Club at 2 with YET MORE lovely internet ladies.
Chat chat chat chat chat chat chat. Start off with coffee, move on to the hard stuff when someone brings up the boobs. Chat chat chat chat chat. Tales told, trains missed, gossip shared.
By the time I get home, six laughter-filled hours later, I can barely speak. I have no words left. I am blissfully content. And fucking knackered.