Oh god. I'm thirty bloody one (it's my birthday today). I would moan about the misery that is my life at the moment (hate new job and concerned that will not get past probation period, which is on Monday; am slightly broken-hearted, resulting from complex situation that has effectively ruined a good friendship, have no money, etc etc - oh god, am even more depressed now) - I would moan about the above, but am frankly more concerned about how I will ever fit into the all-in-one hotpants ensemble I intend to wear tomorrow night to my bday celebrations. Will have to book emergency colonic tomorrow.
Two things happened tonight; one lovely and one interesting. My downstairs neighbour, M, (whom I have never met, as am never home and I am a v un-neighbourly Londoner) found me outside, smoking emergency cigarette (always, on the eve of my bday), and invited me round for (way too much) vodka and a bitching session about all men. Made me feel lots better.
Then, met I in Soho for more drinks. We were chatted up by lovely guy. To cut a long story short, we learned that we are intimidating to men (I is stunning, but I fail to see how I could have intimidated anyone tonight. I had got caught in the rain sans umbrella and was wearing an old pair of jeans I usually reserve for wearing when I'm cleaning the house). But anyway. Apparently, the way we walk into a bar spells "out of my league", and that's why no one will approach us.
You know what? I give up. Again. It's just a long, tragic descent to 40 now...
