It's 3pm. I really should get bathed and dressed or at least out of my pj's. Or maybe I'll blog and procrastinate some more.
Neighbour went to do a supermarket shop this morning. She doesn't drive so I said I'd collect her, as long as I didn't have to get out of the car as I'd still be in my pj's. Pajamas and walking boots being a look I perfected some 10 years back whilst working on summer camp. Perfected meaning I wore one pair of pj bottoms and hiking boots until the pj bottoms fell apart. Literally. Whilst I was wearing them.
I'm much more of a classy chick these days. My 'going out' pajamas are really more of the tracksuit style with trouble emblazoned across both my arse and tits. Because obviously that's what all 9 year old girls should wear (I had to check the label to see how old I am today)
It all seemed very straight forward. Fall out of bed. Fall downstairs. Try not to break anything. Wake up for half an hour. Collect neighbour. Stay in car. Stay in car. Stay in car. That was where it went a bit pear shaped.
I decided I was hungry and wanted sausages. So on the way back from the supermarket we stopped at the butchers. Neighbour went to collect something for me from the chemist while I went into the butchers to get some gluten free sausages. Still in my pajamas. While I was waiting one of my old lecturers from university came in and we started to catch up. As you do. Well, maybe not, but round here that's quite normal. Apart from maybe the pj's. Which did go down a bit too well with the butchers. I was having a good old gossip with my old tutor when neighbour came in and so we all decided to head off to have a cup of coffee.
On the way there I explained to neighbour who was looking a little bewildered as to why I was so nonplussed about going for coffee with my old professor in my pj's that actually this man had seen me in far worse states than I was currently, including but not limited to, having had to tip me out of bed still drunk in the morning to try and get me to a presentation lunch partly in my honour whilst I lay there begging not to have to move.ever.again. and having had to conceal my food from the waiters in the Savoy while I moaned that I was going to vomit onto my plate and begged for mcdonalds. The most productive thing I was taught at university was that men want to marry the woman who they can take to their company do, have talk to their boss, have every man there fantasise about taking her home and fucking her up the arse the way their own wives won't let them and know she'd only ever be that dirty for you. I was 19 when this was explained to me by another, much older tutor and it's shaped my view of men ever since.
University was great. I learnt how to wear pajamas at all times, and be a slut. The things one is supposed to learn. Not usually taught as part of the curriculum however.
Before anyone asks. No, I did not sleep with any of the lecturers at my university.