Flying high

I've definitely lost a handful of hair and shed at least 8kgs over the course of the morning. Trying to sort out flights to Turkey (via London) has without doubt been one of the most maddening and stressful experiences of my life, especially while simultaneously trying to do my job. My father decided it was absolutely urgent we booked the flights immediately before they a.) went up in price, and b.) we lost the seats, and he rang incessantly at 10-minute intervals to ask me if I had done it yet. Not like I have a serious job to do, and my morning muesli to eat. But I also still had to confirm flight details with Lovely Boyfriend, and break the news that we were on different flights and spending a day in London! It was all very dramatic and my colleagues have now seen my dark side as I let loose on the phone to my father, consequently knocking over the vase of roses on my desk and spilling two-week-old plant water into my handbag, which merely added to the morning melodrama.

I went to an engagement party at The Bay Hotel on Saturday night. After drinking my weight in Champagne, consuming all the spring rolls, and spending a good hour trying to convince all the parents that I'm awesome (I have a thing about parents liking me, even if I don't know them), I managed to persuade (or bribe, whatever) everyone to go to the gruesome Decodance. Why? I don't know. I don't even like that sleeze pit – it's seedy and smelly and greasy and filled with creepy brides-to-be wearing veils and sipping from penis straws, pole dancing in barely-there clothing and hitting on all the other creeps in the club. I kept my hand sanitizer close by as am convinced one could easily pick up a range of life-threatening viruses from the bar top. But I was on some kind of high (delayed excitement from all the free bubbly) and went so mental on the d-floor I almost popped a hip. At this point, I think it may have been me who also suggested we get the hell out of this place.