loaded god complex

Tonight on my way home I only wanted to listen to 'Sugar We're Going Down Swinging' so that's exactly what I did for thirty seven minutes. I sang along to every single word, too!

Usually when I drive home I spend 90% of my time fishtailing erratically across lanes while I skip track after track of music I hate but think I should like (Sigur Ros, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Of Montreal) and looking one of three Ting Tings songs, or Sleater Kinney.

Last night I went to the pub quiz and stayed out far too late for a schoolnight, so this morning I got dressed in a fog of headache and blurred vision. Imagine my surprise when I got into my meeting with my pharmaceutical supplier and realised that what I'd thought was a demure 40s-style dress of refinement was, in fact, more 50s Pinup than 40s Landgirl. I got what I wanted out of the meeting, needless to say.

I used to wear jeans to work quite a lot, because I was too tired in the morning to plan 'smart'. But now I like to look like I've made an effort (because one day Baldymort will realise what he's missing) so I almost always wear skirts, and usually heels too! I don't think I owned a pair of high heels until about four months ago, but now I understand that genetic midgets such as myself have to wear them by law, so that we don't make other people nervous. Also it freaks out the two incredibly scruffy (seriously; ratty, faded black t-shirts and baby blue sports jackets) new girls.

Also someone told me today that Stephen Fry is in panto in the South this year, but on investigation it's just his recorded voice pretending to be a mirror. I'd packed my bags ready to move down and woo him outside the stage door, but clearly the time isn't ready for us yet. Maybe it never will be.