Early start to the weekend

See, now this is why I love blogging. Every time I click publish on a post like yesterdays, where I'm usually in tears as I'm writing it, the comments are always just spot on. This morning as I sat in bed at a mates house, I retrieved the emails on my phone and read them all, thinking how they all just made so much sense. All the advise and 'that happened to me' stories have really sorted me out. Thank you!

Clearly, yesterday did not start out well. Between crying and sorting out the cat, who seems to be spiralling into a feline form of dementia, I realised I hadn't really been making the most of half term. Yet with London on my doorstep and an afternoon to kill, I couldn't think of one place I wanted to go. I felt almost agoraphobic about leaving the house but knew I had to get out for a few hours, so I shoved on a dress, some boots, and headed to Oxford Street.

Within half an hour I was worrying about how I was going to get from Bond Street station to Selfridges without killing someone, The Ex demoted to back of brain once again. Then, an amazing thing happened. I went to the French Connection concession and saw a dress I've been lusting after for a while but couldn't justify spending £75 on. I stared at the ticket price. £25? I checked with the sales assistant. The dress was indeed in my size, my ideal colour, and £25 - limited edition for Fashion Week. I grabbed it, headed to the changing rooms, tried it on and decided that for £25, I'd buy it and get it altered to fit. As I was standing at the till, the girl next to me was also buying it, but she had the size down. "Oh, thats a shame. I needed the 6 really. Never mind". She looked up and replied "Well, I wanted the 8. We can swap?" and just like that, I got my dress...and my smile back.

Then my Partner in Breakup / Make up / Break up again called, her and a friend were heading out to a few bars, did I want to come? Off home to get some heels on, then back into town again. Two bars and a taxi ride later and we're at the doors of Whisky Mist in Mayfair. Now usually, I'd avoid this kind of place like the plague. But last night, spurred on by my need to get out, do something I normally wouldn't and get out of the hole I was in, we wormed our way past the clipboards and into what can only be described as the strangest place I've been for a while. With no sign of any A-Listers (thank god), we danced, drank extortionately priced drinks, and got spun around by random men underneath the mirrored ceiling.

With no work the next day and no money to get even close to home, I hopped into a black cab and headed back to my Partner's house for a 3am bowl of Shreddies and burnt toast.

This morning, dressed in last night's clothes with unbrushed hair and bleary eyes, still drunk and giggling, we walked to the tube and I headed home to bed.

The moral of the story? When in doubt, go out. I think this is the first hangover which has ever actually perked me up.