Strawberry pink

It's hard to tell sometimes if I'm being the witty, charming creature of poise I imagine or actually just loud, drunk and obnoxious. There was pink champagne and strawberries in the UTS women's space yesterday evening, which was most pleasant, but I did get rather carried away with the bubbly I think. Enough so that I wound up at the Sly later on, without even having changed out of my work clothes (shock, horror and confoundment!). It made me nervous, but I am easily made nervous by women, especially when I'm not wearing a protective armour of heels, cleavage-enhancing top and girly perfume.

It was a battle with myself to get up for uni this morning. I left the pub at an entirely decent hour last night but stayed awake till too late talking to a woman on the phone and eating icecream out of the tub. An odd element of my awareness of age is that I am entirely conscious of things, like the fact that it is some freak accident of metabolism that I am able to eat and drink the quantity that I do without outgrowing all my clothes. And that this will not last forever. So, I enjoy it while it lasts. I'm too cheap to buy new clothes.

I met a very pretty lawyer last night. And may have gotten slightly enthusiastic with endlessly refilling her champagne glass and passing her strawberries. I plead impaired judgement- it's been a while since I met a pretty laywer.

(there's an appalling photo of me in the gay press this week. I badly need a haircut)