So, according to my uber-super-duper psychic abilities, there’s some sort of massive blogging conference next weekend, mais non? I’m hearing the voices in the ether… they’re saying… Bit Bums… no, it’s more like, Brit Cums… no wait… it’s BritMums! *spooky music* Go towards the light, Carol Anne! GO TOWARDS THE LIGHT!*
Mahahaha. I’m not ACTUALLY psychic. Not totally, anyway. I know there’s a conference cos a) I’m going to it, wahoo hoopla-a-go-go etc, and b) EVERYONE I follow on Twitter is going to it, and won’t shut up talking about it and stuff. People. Y’all are too organised. Planning outfits? Really? Outfits, plural? Like, other than jeans and a top which doesn’t have crusted food on it? I am not proud to admit, I had a bit of a mare this morning as I saw some folks YET AGAIN twittering about what farking shoes they were going to wear. It made me feel inadequate and disorganised, as I have not really given much thought to such matters, not in any depth anyway, or without a residual sense of impending doom.
I don’t KNOW what I’m going to wear. I barely know what I am wearing RIGHT NOW. I gather the awards ceremony thing on the Friday evening might be a swish do, so I have selected from my eclectic and mouldering wardrobe, in my infinite sartorial wisdom, either a dress that looks like something Barbara from The Good Life might have made some curtains from, or a dress that I’m pretty sure the 1960s threw up on. These are my swishest frocks – that’s right, I don’t do swish, how could you tell? – and more importantly, they fit. And don’t have crusted food on them.
But that’s as far as I’ve got. My prep so far has consisted of:
- making a note to shave my legs on Thursday night, and
- stealing money from Moo’s piggy bank so’s I can afford a drink or two
*random Poltergeist film reference, there. You’re welcome.