This morning, a slightly sleepy (ahh, cute) Racer Boy bid me farewell at some ungodly hour so as to begin his ghastly commute to some race track somewhere.
I rolled over, content at the newly spacious bed area I’d just be awarded, and promptly went back to sleep. The problem, of course, with RB’s early departure, is that I was left somewhat high and dry in the lifts department. I have grown accustomed to my routine of hitching a ride to the station, since it is juuuust too far to comfortably walk on a twice-daily basis (think half and hour and hilly. The curse of living outside the M25). Being stranded in bed without a car was a bit of an irritation.
Eager to maximise sleeping time, I made the executive decision to stay in bed a little longer than perhaps strictly necessary and then jog to the station, operating on the theory that any time presure would simply make me run faster. Surely a tried and tested motivation method?
So off I went, with Racer Boy’s extremely large backpack bouncing away (complete with waist belt. Oh yes, this looked hot), and began my upward jog to the station. It was pretty tricky. Not only had I shunned music (“it’s only a short run”), I had made a fairly massive smoothie for myself, which (along with the essentials – make-up, wedge heels, leather jacket, etc) was weighing me down quite a considerable amount.
Unfortunately, it transpired that the worst was yet to come. Turns out, the showers in our building are not where I thought they were. Running low on time, I was given no option but to go sans shower. And now I keep twitchily sniffing at the air, desperately trying to reassure myself with my make-shift shower in a can (deodorant), Mandara Spa face wipes and Marc Jacobs Hibiscus Splash have done the necessary trick.
P.s. yes, that’s what happened to my hair. Weep.
Love, Laugh, Liverty x