I'm quite scared.

I am ill. The proper kind, not the oh you've got the sniffles kind. I have the high temperature, achey bones and unable to get out of bed for long periods if time kind. Tell you what, I would love to have the sniffles right now, as the thought of me going into work tomorrow morning at 10am is slowly filling me with dread. The thought of the amount of time I have to spend standing on a shop floor, breathing through my mouth and praying it will either get really busy so I'll forget I'm ill or that it will be dead so I can stand and mope undisturbed is not a good thought.

I've had lemsip, of course. I've had paracetemol, of course. I've had every home cure imaginable, and my mother (who is a nurse) does not believe in bothering doctors unless you are actually dying.

Watch this space.

Hello

That panic when you have a night out planned and you have the dress, and then you can’t get into the dress? This is why I hate Christmas. I hate all the bloody food.

I have the dress, I had shoes, I had the freaking hair. But unfortunately I also had an extra 10million pounds that won’t fit into a dress that had no stretch. What a way to start my new blog.

I am paranoid. And at the same time I don’t care, yet I have the sneaking suspicion that I am going to one day end up with a complex and an eating disorder. The kind of eating disorder when you can’t stop eating? But instead of throwing it up and getting a beautiful set of green teeth to go with your size four waist, I’ll just get cankles, and kidney pouches and flab rolls.

Bring on obesity. Seriously.