Jeggings and visas and other such adventures

It's been an exhausting week. Also, a distracting week, a sad week, an anxious week and a quasi-productive week. And there is still the weekend to come.

To show for my week: an art review on my new website (yet to be revealed until all the bows and ribbons are c'est fini), a blood blister on my thumb (staple gun mishap at work, overzealous on the moss decoration. Long story), a new visa in my passport (no more waiting on that front and no need for a shotgun wedding [though thank you LB for the generous and tempting offer]), a plan to fly home to see my Nan next month and, of all the things I never thought this week would throw at me... an encounter with a pair of jeggings in the fitting room at work.

Now, anybody that knows me knows that apart from ugg boots worn as outside shoes the greatest fashion crime being committed today is jeggings. Jeans and leggings: ne'er the two should meet. They are wrong, they are ugly, they are just plain stupid. Seriously. Aaaaanyway, today at work we had a try-on session, working under the not silly assumption that if you know how the clothes fit you're all the better equipped to sell them. So far, so good until I walked into my allotted changing room to see my enemy hanging there, elasticised waist and all. On one level I rationed, maybe it was like smoking, you know, you smoke one cigarette once in your life, for curiosity's sake if nothing else just so you know what you're not missing out on.

But here's the thing, I've never once been tempted to smoke a cigarette and frankly I would argue that jeggings are just as bad for you, if not worse. I don't care how skinny they made me look... It certainly wasn't how I envisioned the week ending but it's marginally better than in tears I suppose. Just. Maybe.

LB and I are off to the V&A tomorrow afternoon to see the much hyped decode exhibition, which should be great fun, and then to a friend's birthday party tomorrow night. I look and feel totally bedraggled right now though - dark circles under my eyes and a strange and not-going-anywhere-fast collection of dyes and paints under my finger nails thanks to a fun few days at work helping the visual team set up the store (see previous tale re: moss and staple gun). I just want to sleep for a weekend.

This time next week Mum AND Sophie will be here and it can't come fast enough. I am in serious need of some mother-sister love and can't wait to see them. xx

Pet peeve #174

I fucking hate it when interfering nobodies volunteer advice to "Cheer up" from across the street.

a) Who the hell asked you?

And

b) My grandmother has just been diagnosed with advanced cancer of the liver and pancreas and in all likelihood I might not get the chance to see her again.

So YOU fucking cheer up. Jerk.

Sunshine on a rainy day

It's been a red letter week. I am earnestly exhausted after two full days of honest toil at my new retail job on the Kings Rd and now, after a fretful week of waiting, am delighted, ecstatic, overjoyed, optimistic and RELIEVED to have been offered the role at the National Portrait Gallery.

Ex.hale.

It is miserably cold and I am bone weary after a long week and a longer weekend but buoyed by the blue skies and a whisper of, well, promise.

A week ago you could have had me committed. And the straw that finally broke the camel's already laden back? Not having the right pair of shoes to wear. I think it was particularly confusing for LB to witness my meltdown and the apparent lack of a genuine reason for it but I was done. All toys were chucked from the perennial pram of my life and nothing, save three double vodkas, could fix it - my life or my lack of shoe.