I’ve been at wee Annie’s wedding! They call her wee Annie because she’s wee. A beautiful wee bride in her beautiful wee frock. A perfect wee day. I spent the whole day yesterday getting ready, fussing around with makeup and constantly reapplying it until I looked like Danny LaRue.
If anyone had been interested enough to shout, as I hirpled up the steps to the Easterbrook Hall in the uncomfiest shoes in the world, “Hey Lindsey! Who are you wearing?” I’d’ve answered coyly – “Oh this old thing? I’m wearing Lindy Bop and eBay darling” and the overall look could be summed up “Ruebenesque bordello madam chic” thusly:
Sadly the wind was such that by the time I got to the venue, by way of the petrol station for fags, that MASSIVE victory roll had blown straight out and left me looking like this:
You’ll note too the cavernous cleavage you could park a Harley in. It didn’t go unnoticed, and prompted many hilarious comments including “Lindsey’s brought Right Said Fred!” and when I enquired “Have I no got a mooth, like?” when wee Susan (Why are my friends wee? Makes me sound like Snow White) was pouring the 21 quid a bottle Prosecco, weirdly missing my glass out, she replied tartly – “aye but a cannae see it fur yer tits”.
Still, removing one’s larger than life bra at night always reveals a trail of evidence and clues as to how much one has enjoyed one’s day. Last night’s “things found in cleavage” included:
- Half a sausage roll.
- Fag ash.
- One Parma violet.
- A lighter
- Somebody’s email address reverse printed on my boob which I can only assume had been written on a scrap of paper subsequently assimilated by my bosom but not before leaving an imprint.
- An Argos pen.
- The obligatory half a dozen Kirby grips.
I got home around midnight, left a trail of clothes from the bathroom to the bedroom and thought “Oooh I’ll listen to Trevor Nelson for a while because it’ll take me aaaages to get to sl…zzzzzzzzz
I woke up at 6am, dry of mouth, with a dose of the heeby jeebies, makeup intact, and no memory of hearing Trevor. I looked up the tracklist to see if any tunes had subliminally lodged in my brain but nope. So obviously that’s a load of shite.
And finally…*shuffles papers on desk, newsreader style* *gives wry, flirty smile to camera*, I just picked my car up from the wedding venue, where I’d abandoned it overnight, and was amused to notice this interesting “in-car survival kit” in the footwell. Be prepared; that’s my motto. *gives Brownie Guide salute*
Disclaimer: This post in no way condones drunken behaviour or acting the goat. It’s not big, and it’s not clever, kids.