I have always been a last minute kind of girl, the 11th hour is by far my favourite hour. Annie is the total opposite - always on time, always managed her time, always ready. I'm lazy and I'm a faffer. There is always something better to do than get up and get ready namely, sleep. During our school years we used to have to catch the school bus to Loughborough at 7:15am - I know, barbaric.
Mornings went a little like this:
Annie: Alarm would be set for 6am but she would be up before then. Her uniform would be laid out the night before in preparation. She would have time for a leisurely breakfast even maybe a bit of Trouble channel too - quick episode of 'My Wife and Kids'. But most importantly she would have made time to empty the dishwasher. This made her Geeta's absolute favourite. Then of course there would be the inevitable scream up the stairs (every day) at 7:05am 'BILLIE - GET DOWN STAIRS NOW, WE'RE GOING TO MISS THE BUS.'
Billie: Alarm would be set for 6:30am and when it went off every morning I would be filled with rage and immediately turn it off, not even snooze it because snoozing meant it had to go off again....
6:35am Geeta gives me a nudge and an affectionate 'Time to get up Darling'.
6:45am Geeta decides on a new tactic, 'Come on now Billie, breakfast is ready!' (nope doesn't work)
6:55am Geeta's lost all patience 'GET OUT OF BED YOU FAT SHIT!!'
7:00am...Better get up then, the next step of Geeta's wrath is ripping the duvet off and there is truly nothing worse.
7:10 Stumble downstairs hair a mess, shirt untucked, jumper on backwards grab my bag and my cold toast get in the car and pray that the bus hadn't in fact gone.
On the frequent occasion that it had already gone and we had missed it this meant two things:
1. Geeta had to chase down the bus at the next few stops.
2. I was going to have to endure an entire journey of Annie's elbow dug deep into my ribs.
Bus journeys were happier times. I had bullied my way to the back of the bus - the window seat. As soon as I was on alarm would be set for 10 minutes before we arrived arrived at school (to try and tame the fro and put my jumper on the right way round) and straight back to sleep I went.
Life has not changed much, I'm still always late and still always being shouted out. But I'm now Geeta's favourite - bonus.
I am trying my very hardest to be organised for Vogue. I even started my packing yesterday, granted it did turn into a bit of fashion show where I made Annie take pictures of me and give me her advice on outfits and then of course I did the complete opposite of what she suggested. But the intention was there to get myself sorted, even it wasn't entirely carried out.
It is now 4 sleeps until Vogue and I'm shitting it. The excitement is still very much there but there is now an overwhelming sense of anxiety, which in turn reignites a childhood disposition... sweaty palms.
I have had to endure this miserable condition from a young age (I have even tricked people into believing it is a genuine condition). Radiator hands as they were fondly referred to, even on the coldest of days my palms would still be clammy. The difficulties I have had to overcome in my life due to these sweaty palms - you wouldn't believe. I can't hold someone's hand for more than 5 minutes before thinking 'oh my god, they must think I have the Niagara Falls quite literally in the palm of my hand'. Even BBB didn't hold my hand for more than a minute, and then he would instantly reach for his handkerchief whilst giving me a pitiful smile. Whenever I have my eyebrows threaded you have to stretch the skin tight around the eye to avoid any snagging. Due to my condition I can never get a firm grip and my hands end up slipping all over the place which means I have to embarrassingly ask for a tissue (which doesn't do much) and then try not to wince every time my skin inevitably snags. Pain.
The nightmare situation come Monday morning: I'm late, my jumper is on backwards and I have to shake a lot of hands with clammy palms - would it be less awkward if I just hugged them?
But before then I have bigger fish to fry: a Diwali celebration, attempting to not burn down the house or the gym with BBB's exhibition fireworks that you need a license to set off, trying to resist a Reggae Rum on Saturday night because we have established that they give me rage. But the biggest fish: how many suitcases/bags it is socially acceptable to take to London for a month.
So far:
2 x suitcase for clothes.
1 x Bag for shoes
1 x Bag for make up, hair care, accessories
1 x Bag....for bags.
By bag...I mean holdall/mini suitcase...ooops. Sorry Kate and Jules - if I say bags are communal does this make it any better?
And of course tomorrow is my last PT session with Zack, who has promised to rap for me - I have waited 11 weeks for this moment. Personally I would prefer a rendition of Mariah Carey 'fantasy' but alas beggars can't be chosers. So with 9 hours until my back is surely broken again by stupid 'clean and presses' (I still don't know what that actually means) I must try and put anxiety, excitement and of course sweaty palms to rest to make sure I am in true fashion late for tomorrow's session.
No doubt there will be a panic post on Sunday night, entitled 'I Didn't Mean To Get So Drunk'.
Stay tuned.
Fatty BB xxx
I am trying my very hardest to be organised for Vogue. I even started my packing yesterday, granted it did turn into a bit of fashion show where I made Annie take pictures of me and give me her advice on outfits and then of course I did the complete opposite of what she suggested. But the intention was there to get myself sorted, even it wasn't entirely carried out.
It is now 4 sleeps until Vogue and I'm shitting it. The excitement is still very much there but there is now an overwhelming sense of anxiety, which in turn reignites a childhood disposition... sweaty palms.
I have had to endure this miserable condition from a young age (I have even tricked people into believing it is a genuine condition). Radiator hands as they were fondly referred to, even on the coldest of days my palms would still be clammy. The difficulties I have had to overcome in my life due to these sweaty palms - you wouldn't believe. I can't hold someone's hand for more than 5 minutes before thinking 'oh my god, they must think I have the Niagara Falls quite literally in the palm of my hand'. Even BBB didn't hold my hand for more than a minute, and then he would instantly reach for his handkerchief whilst giving me a pitiful smile. Whenever I have my eyebrows threaded you have to stretch the skin tight around the eye to avoid any snagging. Due to my condition I can never get a firm grip and my hands end up slipping all over the place which means I have to embarrassingly ask for a tissue (which doesn't do much) and then try not to wince every time my skin inevitably snags. Pain.
The nightmare situation come Monday morning: I'm late, my jumper is on backwards and I have to shake a lot of hands with clammy palms - would it be less awkward if I just hugged them?
But before then I have bigger fish to fry: a Diwali celebration, attempting to not burn down the house or the gym with BBB's exhibition fireworks that you need a license to set off, trying to resist a Reggae Rum on Saturday night because we have established that they give me rage. But the biggest fish: how many suitcases/bags it is socially acceptable to take to London for a month.
So far:
2 x suitcase for clothes.
1 x Bag for shoes
1 x Bag for make up, hair care, accessories
1 x Bag....for bags.
By bag...I mean holdall/mini suitcase...ooops. Sorry Kate and Jules - if I say bags are communal does this make it any better?
And of course tomorrow is my last PT session with Zack, who has promised to rap for me - I have waited 11 weeks for this moment. Personally I would prefer a rendition of Mariah Carey 'fantasy' but alas beggars can't be chosers. So with 9 hours until my back is surely broken again by stupid 'clean and presses' (I still don't know what that actually means) I must try and put anxiety, excitement and of course sweaty palms to rest to make sure I am in true fashion late for tomorrow's session.
No doubt there will be a panic post on Sunday night, entitled 'I Didn't Mean To Get So Drunk'.
Stay tuned.
Fatty BB xxx
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