Looking at photos of me taken last night at Justin's surprise 30th, you wouldn't guess the mess I'm in the rest of the time. What I find most frustrating is that one can oscillate between giddy happiness and distraught loss with such confusing frequency. I should probably be grateful for the ups, but instead I find that the downs which follow are worse because they contain an element of unwanted surprise and thus contrast so glaringly with the good moments.
Last night was great fun, involving sparklers, spilled drinks, old friends, fairy lights, cured meats, too much white wine, milk chocolate HobNobs, wigs, quiz questions and a celebrity chef. You'd have thought that today I would be basking in the glow of happy memories but instead I have been crying in front of the televised memorial for Diana, pleased to be over-emotional about something else for a change. The rest of my Friday thus far has been spent wallowing in self-pity, hangover and, as of a few minutes ago, self-loathing as I recently consumed a plate of cheese-covered tuna pasta that would have provided a helpful back-up option for Jesus if another five thousand had turned up.
Still, on the upside, at least no-one has thrown any mud at me since Wednesday night, so things could be worse.
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