Sunday confessional. 

I really wish I hadn’t told the story today about that time I blurted “Aww you’re a handsome big boy, aren’t you!” when I bumped into a friend with her son whom I’d never met before, then later realising it was in fact her older, married brother, which accounted for the bemused looks. The situation wasn’t helped by my wearing a low cut dress, tits everywhere, with a massive bruise of dubious drunken origin on one tit. 

Boy, did I feel stupid. 

I really wish I hadn’t told that story today because now I can’t sleep for cringing and thinking about it. Or the other way round, obviously, because you can’t cringe about something before you’ve even thought about it. It’s physics or something. Cause and effect, yo. 

And now the stress of this memory has brought on a massive hot flush, ensuring further insomnia. I’m hoping that the two hour nap I enjoyed earlier when I fell asleep listening to Freddie Flintoff on Desert Island Discs (which was surprisingly good but I still fell asleep just before his fifth selection as is customary when listening to DID) will stand me in good stead tomorrow when I’m slabbering makeup on my crabbit, sheet-marked face and trying to get the wings of my eyeliner even. 

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