I had a nice evening on Friday night, kicking off with a haircut at a salon that I'd chosen deliberately as looking like the kind of place where a customer might be able to communicate with the stylist using actual words rather than the combination of charades, gritted teeth and passive aggression that I'd tried last time. The new guy was so high up the hair food chain that instead of using sectioning clips to secure the top of my hair while working on the layers beneath, he actually had a minion to hold the locks for him. I've never seen this happen before and it made me feel slightly dirty. But the cut was good and I, as usual, look precisely the same as I did before.
Then I had a lovely dinner and drinks combo with Sarah, and then I journeyed home via Londike, woke up on Saturday, lay around, went on the computer and had a nice time, and then I went off to Victoria Park for Field Day, a one day 'festival' which was made awesome by the universe's greatest headline act, the sun, the actual sun, which beamed down on all of us and made what had been a non-descript cloudy morning into an ethereal, light-kissed evening full of beer, dancing, plastic pigeons and good music. It was really fun. And Sunday was good too, in that I did more lying around, and cleaned out my bathroom and planned a holiday and talked on the phone and did laundry and made delicious food. And I watched the Sondheim Prom on iPlayer, and then calmed down and watched Sherlock, and went to bed with a big grin on my face after what had been, by my reckoning, a most successful weekend, and although I was admittedly a little over-excited by some of the evening's events (the Prom in particular got my pulse racing), I didn't in the least expect to wake up at 2am gasping for breath as if I was being strangled. But that is actually what happened. My heart was pounding, and I recognised the symptoms of a panic attack, and I did all the deep abdominal breathing that you're meant to do, but my throat just felt like I was having an allergic reaction to something, like a cold fist was tightening round my larynx. Not pleasant. I slept patchily for the remainder of the evening and still feel funny.
Cannot work out why I would be having a panic attack since I feel absolutely fine at the moment and officially declare the boyban to be the best decision I didn't make (forced on me, as it was, by a third party). Maybe this is what my brain does when it's not worrying about men. Stupid, stupid brain. Hmmm. Rock. Me. Hard place.
Other than that, I have nothing to report.
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