Well, my Fake Fiance proposed to me again, this time over a Happy Meal at MacDonald's on Friday afternoon.
He bought me a ring. It's exquisite, and he really shouldn't have done that. It's a solid rock of moonstone mounted in silver:
For a fake fiance, he really went all out.
What a sweetheart, although C reminded us that someone may get hurt from this situation. I hope not. I think we understand each other, Big T and I.
Then we all went to the Mandog. I wore a polarneck jersey, which was, despite all the stupid choices I've made in the past, was the most uninformed decision I have made all week.
It was schvitzy in there. And when I say 'in there', I don't mean in the club.
I played mommy at the Manhattan Club. I haven't done this in a good long while – zyphing my mate's car keys and forcing her to down Coke, so that irrescribable destruction wouldn't be left in our wake.
After a picnic with The Ant and Company at a park, I spent Saturday afternoon in a haze with Skimpleshanks and Teddy, whilst listening to Big Band in their apartment in Norwood. Just chilling. And talking about souffles, Belgium and Oros.
Lovely boys they are, when I took 40 winks on their sofa – I awoke having being tucked in with a duvet over me.
Peas: Put on some Lionel Richie!
Teddy: It would be quicker to have Granny Weatherwax knit a jersey for the entire Great Wall of China than to wait for Skimpleshanks to put on Lionel Richie.
I've realised that my life has been slipping into the doldrums of uncontrollability over the last few weeks. I need a plan. I need control. I'm overwhelmed by everything right now, and I need to shape up or ship out. As from today, I have goals in place to ensure the only way I go is forward, not backward.
My room will no longer look like it's been in a jihad. No more bras hanging from the light fittings, no more pants, shoes, and other indescribable shit strewn all over the floor. I shall, when working from home, not sit at my desk in my pyjamas. I shall wash the make-up off from the night before. I shall be assertive and say 'no' to a mid-week piss-up when I'm too buggered.
I'm taking control.
This bird isn't going to look like a chewed plimsoll anymore. I'm reprogramming and refurbishing myself.
It won't happen overnight, but I'm ready for fabulous again. And I'm starting with the basics. My routine.