How hard can it be?
Turns out that waxing your own legs takes some measure of skill — or at the very least practise. Or perhaps just patience. None of which I can claim. So I am currently sitting here, with one leg scabbed with the straggling remains of blue wax which is too thin to peel off in a strip. Wax doesn't wash off in water. I don't have any oil in the house. And guess who can't be stuffed even thinking about waxing the other leg now?
I'll just check out the jackets.
Problem being, the hot dresses and flirty skirts were between me and the jackets. And while I did not find any jackets, I did find some hot dresses, and flirty skirts. Upside: I have new clothes to wear to work tomorrow. (Hint: I'm going to be very Melbourne.) Downside: I will not be able to afford, er, to eat this week.
Yeah, sure. I could do with a drink. Just one, yeah?
Whenever I agree to "just one" drink after work, I never get to bed before 1am. This is because alcohol, charming and wily little chemical that it is, alcohol hunts in packs. Agree to just one and they all line up behind the first, sneaking into your blood stream, and before you know it it's been 7 hours and you're standing on the curb, swaying. Just a touch. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure I participated in a conversation which solved ALL the world's problems. All of them. Uh-huh.