Yes I am in my bra and pants wandering round my flat at half past four in the afternoon and yes you have just clocked me doing so but you know what, I’m not even sorry. I mean it would have been a bit better had my underwear been matching (sorry Oj) but I won’t lie – the minute I’m through my front door the clothes come off.
Partially it’s because my flat has the tendency to be hotter than the surface of the sun but also it’s comfortable and I’m the Queen of my castle. I don’t care who you are or how much you earn, errrrrrrbody has secret single behaviour they get up to when they think no-one is watching. Even if people can actually see you such as when you’re pretending to be a pop superstar in the car, Ally.
I do a mean Iggy Azalea, all Judy Attitudey head bobbing duck face, but I can also crack out a passable Adele with a well timed air grab and my Regulators can mount up with the best of them. When stuck in traffic I like to come up with backstories for the people around me too, particularly if they’re driving like an arse or have a personalised numberplate (*ahem* like I also have) that spells something daft.
I talk to myself a lot, normally bargaining with myself to get my arse out of bed but I also talk to Hobo a lot too. Going as far as asking him how his day has been (and, err, interpreting his miaows as answers) and giving him a running commentary on my evening.
OH MY GOD I’M LITERALLY A CRAZY CAT LADY.
The only time I’ve used my NutriBullet was to crush ice to pad out a frozen cocktail and I once had to shove my washing up into the oven when the object of my affection turned up unexpectedly. I experiment with ‘out there’ makeup to try and hone my techniques – the only time I’ve been busted doing this was of course when for shits and giggles I’d given myself a full Helga from Hey Arnold eyebrow, bronzed to all fuck, and slapped on enough neon pink lipstick to blind from fifty paces.
In walked my housemate’s gorgeous friend, the man who looked like Dermot Mulroney and was a total knicker melter. ACES.