I've had just under four hours sleep. For most people, this isn't too big a thing, but you need to understand that I clock at least eight hours most nights. I mean, four hours is less sleep than I've gotten at some trance parties, which is really saying something.
Picked Boyfriend up from the airport last night and we spent the rest of the eve having a very late and mostly liquid dinner at Peddlar's with his workmates, who're all down for the company team-building weekend away (which, yes, means I am robbed of a full 72 hours of Boyfriend time).
Woke up at sparrows to get back into town (Boy lives in the south – laadidah), hit the gym and still make it into work an hour early so I could get some stuff done before the passive aggressive cleaning lady starts vacuuming my feet.
Also before we all troop off to the funeral of a close colleague, who recently lost her (blessedly short?) fight with cancer. Thank god I don't wear mascara, because I can already feel this is going to be waterworks central. A strange phenomenon for me, who usually only cries in sad movies with the appropriate tear-jerking soundtrack. Does this mean I'm not quite as cold-hearted as my own mother once told me I was?
No comments:
Post a Comment