If you read yesterday’s blog then you’ll know that I’m not exactly in the best place at the moment. I’m confused. About life. So I decided today to make a few changes.
Firstly I decided to sit at the very back of my train. The rear carriage. The carriage I like to now call the B.O. Carriage.
What IS that all about? B.O? I’m mainly talking about armpit B.O. Not fanny B.O or Ball B.O although to be honest I’m pretty sure the only thing between me and a wiff of prawn crutch or cheesy wotsit balls on THIS carriage is a few mm of fabric preventing any wafting.
Anyway. Changing my routine so far seems an ill choice.
It gets worse.
A POOR INDIVIDUAL (Tit) has been hit by a train. In his car. At a crossing. He hasn’t died. He’s just injured. It wasn’t that dramatic apparently. Although it was dramatic enough for everyone to have to get off the train.
I bought myself a Bacardi and coke in a tin. I sat on the platform and drank it.
God. What has my life become? 6 months ago I’d be in the First Class carriage. Or driving into London in some fancy whip. Here I am today, only two things separate me from looking like a lunchtime alcoholic.
The first being the refusal of the ‘bag’ I was offered by the woman behind the till of the station cafe “D’Ya wanna bag for that love?” she said, judging me cruelly with her eyes. No. No I don’t want a bag, lady. I hardly think a can (ok 2) of rum mixed drink needs hiding in a brown paper bag, so I can consume it discreetly. Maybe I’m being paranoid. Maybe she just had a squint and was offering me something to carry it in.
The second being the Christian Louboutins on my feet. I’ve not seen many daytime alcoholics hunched over a train station bench with a brown paper bag full of rum and their cankles (well it is hot) spewing over the perfectly stitched rim of a louboutin.
There. See. I don’t look like an alcoholic at all. Ahem.
Anyway. I’m late now. For a meeting. I smell of someone else’s B.O and I have rum breath. I’d eat a mint but I’m pretty convinced that’s a true sign of an alcoholic smoker. I don’t want to be either half of those things. So I’ll go with it.
I didn’t wash my hair this morning either. I spazzed it with dry shampoo. What a GREAT idea that was. It looks like a bird – not a particularly careful one – has climbed atop my head and done some kind of fancy foot shuffle to create a bad looking nest. Then shook it’s beaky head, given up and gone. Oh and I chose today, TODAY to experiment with my eye make up. I could have left it. How I normally do it. I like how I normally do it. However in a moment of mistaken genius I decided to do one of those eyeliner looks. Thank god it’s sunny. My eyes look like someone has played a trick on me with a telescope and permanent black marker. So, if you see me in London today, it’s not that I’m too cool to remove my sunglasses. I’m not glamourous or have a misguided self awarded status of celebrity. I just cannot get my eyes out because I look a tit.
Luckily Noel Fielding has invited me to the screening of Luxury Comedy tonight so I can give the eyeliner some beans and claim I’m rocking a unique emu / goth style look.
You know what? In the 32 years of my life I’ve never needed anyone. Not really. After Mum and Dad split up I just decided to get on. I relied on an ex before and it ended up in eyes much similar to the ones I have now only on a more regular basis. No I’ve always just got on. I’ve put my energy into my children and my career. I’ve never been on my knees long enough to say “Help” to anyone.
For the first time in my life I feel like I need someone. I have an amazing man. I need him. He knows that. But it’s deeper than that. Right now I need a chance. I need a hand to pop out of the sky and say “Come on dickhead. Wash that ridiculous stuff of your face, do your hair and let’s smash this shit”
And then to actually show me how to smash this shit. I can’t work it out anymore.
Or I need to find some discarded drug deal money in a suitcase at the train station. Or be involved in some kind of high reward rescue.
Or. Or. Just for a moment of clarity to hit me so I can get back to the woman I was a few years ago who was fearless and courageous in business and not a completely useless lump. With AMAZING shoes.
Right London. What have you got for me? Xx