Smokingboot

So, my last couple of shifts were intense: One of the most successful shows they'd ever produced they said, followed by a show that felt like a stinker to me; they won't have it though. The producer sat me through a debrief telling me how well I presented to the camera; I am wondering if there is a secret stash of cocaine in the studio no-one has told me about. They seem determinedly cheerful and nothing ever goes wrong. I have this feeling they are pimping me up so that I become all the pretty things they call me. It's a weird headspace, weirder after our first sunny weekend. Freckles! Thaasands of 'em! My upper lip has entirely disappeared under a moustache of said offenders. I 'm going to need a lot of warpaint to hide these from the cameras. All the presenters have gorgeous Essex girl San Tropez tans, even and glowing. Right now I look like Tommy Steele in some 50s film about leprauchauns and magic boots.

It is nice to be called pretty; the feeling of shimmery coyness couldn't see me past the exhaustion that dogged me this weekend, which wasn't about a pretty woman but a beautiful one. Excellent chum Em sans lj got married. She has always had a kind of nordic bright fair strong look to her, the kind of woman who can bake a cake and invade Poland in the same week. Well, Saturday came and the bride looked beautiful in a totally unexpected chocolate dress shot through with shades of aubergine, clear and caramel crystals sparkling in her tiara. Around her swam a world of golden balloons, white roses and deferent ushers in chocolate brown suits and cream waistcoats. She was beautiful, not just because she was radiantly happy (the failsafe creator of beauty in all seasons) but because she really is seriously beautiful Strange how one forgets these things about close friends.

And now time to forget everything and sleep.