Someone give me a needle and thread
I really do have to learn that I’m never going to be quite dignified, no matter how I try. Some women sail through life with every hair in place, every fold of clothing perfect, and even arise from their slumbers looking like goddesses. I arise looking, I must admit, a bit like Worzel Gummidge. My husband, lovely man, disagrees. He thinks I look like Sideshow Bob. (When we were dating and staying at his parents’ place I used to get up at 5:30 and straighten my hair and put on my makeup so that when I emerged from my room he’d think that was how I looked when I woke up. AHAHAHAHA! Sorry about that, Steve.)
But anyway, I had an interview today, and prepared for it carefully. Hair, clothes, makeup, accessories, Dictaphone, questions, all check. So I get there and the interviewee looks shocked and says “Gosh, you’re tall.”
Pause. “Yes. I am.”
So we go upstairs and I take my stilettoes off in homage to the polished floor, and realise the back of one is completely covered in mud and the bow’s looking a bit sorry for itself. And that there’s a hole in the toe of my stockings. Then I'm walking and the back of my skirt feels a bit aerated and I remember the seam had split a bit at the hem and I hadn't sewn it up yet. Then I realise my tissues are in my bag on the other side of the room, so I sniff through the whole interview. Then we go outside and the wind whips every hair on my head over my head to the left and it won’t lie down again. Then my silver hoop earring flies off halfway through the interview and skitters across the polished floor to the other side of the room. Lucky I’m not reporting on life-and-death issues, really.
But anyway, I had an interview today, and prepared for it carefully. Hair, clothes, makeup, accessories, Dictaphone, questions, all check. So I get there and the interviewee looks shocked and says “Gosh, you’re tall.”
Pause. “Yes. I am.”
So we go upstairs and I take my stilettoes off in homage to the polished floor, and realise the back of one is completely covered in mud and the bow’s looking a bit sorry for itself. And that there’s a hole in the toe of my stockings. Then I'm walking and the back of my skirt feels a bit aerated and I remember the seam had split a bit at the hem and I hadn't sewn it up yet. Then I realise my tissues are in my bag on the other side of the room, so I sniff through the whole interview. Then we go outside and the wind whips every hair on my head over my head to the left and it won’t lie down again. Then my silver hoop earring flies off halfway through the interview and skitters across the polished floor to the other side of the room. Lucky I’m not reporting on life-and-death issues, really.