Cried all the way to Alex's the other day because I was sure I was going to fail my interview and fall into a pit of despair forever. Luckily, once I arrived it became clear that all I was going to fall into was an over large glass of red wine.
Suddenly everyone was brushing their teeth, saying 'I think it's your fault, I don't usually feel tired at 9.30pm', changing into their own inferior versions of really-pajama bottoms but could be Stella McCartney silky trousers if you're not looking properly.
They mopped me up with hunks of crusty bread and Chaz's sleeve and talked about how, even if I failed my interview, never had a career, and had to live in the gutter, I would still have a place on the sofa there to sleep.
By that I mean, go to sleep immediately.
This was just what I had intended to happen so I had craftily worn my Stella McCartney via Zara silky pajama-bottoms-but-trousers-really. All the better for jumping straight from the supper table and into bed. Almost like the sartorial equivalent of yawning...
Suddenly everyone was brushing their teeth, saying 'I think it's your fault, I don't usually feel tired at 9.30pm', changing into their own inferior versions of really-pajama bottoms but could be Stella McCartney silky trousers if you're not looking properly.
Oh yeah, but we still had a lovely supper to slurp up. Mussels in a very creamy delicious broth, a nice red onion salad, and rustic bread. Two puddings two but I'm too sleepy now to detail them.
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