never in moderation

Sleeping over always necessitates some form of logistical admin.

The overnight bag filled with [in no particular whoreder]:
1) Lube
2) Fresh doondies
3) Outfit for next day [crease-free items that can be scrunched]
4) Toothbrush and deo
5) Makeup bag
6) keys, iPod, wallet, travel card, phone
7) laptop

Except that after a few glasses of South African piss rouge with the flatmates, I left my makeup bag.

Late and frantic this morning, I exited the Brit's house without my face on.

Look, if I was wandering the streets of Cambodia in cheesecloth pants, I wouldn't care. If I'd just been on a run, [very fucking likely], I wouldn't care.
If I didn't have a crusty nose and sinus-induced bags under my eyes from a cold, then I probably wouldn't break into a sweat.

Except that I had on a new ho-pink bright dress and smart blazer for a breakfast meeting on Oxford Street - dressed for the part, save my mug. Not a drop of foundation on me.

I even checked the Brit's underwear drawer to see if he had a secret stash of foundation in there. Just in case. And in hindsight, bloody good thing he didn't. That would, I imagine with horror, deserve it's own blog post(s).

So having no makeup in one of the world's most stylish cities, where everyone looks tooled up and ready to fight using a Maybelline sabre, isn't ideal.

So I dashed into Boots, bought myself a whole blush and foundation pack, had no mirror, so just kind of rubbed it on, missed my train, and only realised after aforementioned breakfast meeting, that I looked like a cast member out of Priscilla Queen of the Desert.

The blush I had purchased in a frenzy and had emblazoned all over my face was discotastic, the type with glitter in it [gak!].

And so, I have been going about my day of spokespersoning in very serious tones with Barbie powder on my cheeks.

And nose.
And chin.
And forehead.

What a slice.

It's Poen's farewell to London drinks tonight. I envisage cocktails and pink blusher making a comeback.