Sunday, November 20, 2011


So you can get an idea. I'm sat here in my pretty dress and shoes on. They match perfectly. I have greasy hair and look like someone's mental old aunt. 

NOW the sartorial dilemma is to tight or not to tight. I say not tight as if I wear black tights I'll look I'm off to a funeral. If I wear a coloured tight I'll look like The Saturdays. Yeah. Funeral over Saturdays every time. My sister says black tight. But I'm fashion forward. So I'm going to go not tight and realise that 

1: It's just one fucking night
2: There will be no photographic evidence of said night
3: No one cares anyway
4: If it was my wedding it would be a different matter entirely

So my meltdown is over. And the more I look at "those fucking boots" as they are now known in Mademoiselle/Monsieur/B land the more they will go with in my wardrobe. I've already put them with a lovely pencil skirt. Perhaps it's time I had one pair of not completely whackjob mental shoes. Just the one. 

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