Another jack-booted Nazi of a day. And it's even a bank holiday.
I am working like a maniac bashing up against the project deadline, like Rainman when that fire alarm went off in the kitchen. Pressure suits me in the same way as clothes suit Playboy centrefold and I cant wait to be done.
When this is finished, I may retire. I'll have to live in poverty, but thats okay - all that's in my fridge right now are cheese strings and jelly, so I'm either four or poor right now anyway.
The only people I spoke to all day were Twitter types, oh, except for Guy1 who called excited about the dinner party. He's very keen to get J hooked up with his mate. It's a bit over-eager for my liking, but not yet enough to stop me from offering my friend up to the Gods of a Horny Single Man, but it's reaching the point where I may have to address the underlying reason behind the matchmaking. For the moment though I'll concentrate on the fact that I am having to co-host an actual proper dinner party.
Where people expect food thats not charred and desserts that arent sweets.
I offered to make a salad for the table, and I think Guy1 had enough wits about him to pick up on the hesitation and fear in my voice, so eventually he just allocated me the role of setting the table and pouring the drinks. That I can do. Making things pretty and getting people pissed - thats my kind of dinner party.
NOW, I'm excited. Relieved of all key responsibilities and only managing low-key activities makes me a fantastic hostess. Roll on Saturday.
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