First proper night out as a Mummy. Without Dave. And it's a hen do. Oh dear.
I sense slurring, embarrassing photographs and at some point complete abandonment of blood saturated slip ons.
Getting Ready Ritual
The only bra that doesn't cut into my shoulders is washed. The granny-sucky-inny massive pants are ready. Corn plasters are on, pits have been shaved and hair has been singed, sprayed and split-ended into oblivion.
I know. Wit and/or woo.