Hours to England: 7 (Today! Freakin' today!
Operation Mini-skirt Status: In my excitement, I forgot to get on the scale again. But I don't feel horrible, so I'm just going to go with that.
I'm awash with panic. Excitement. Slight angst-induced stomach flippys. I'm scared out of my bloody gourd.
God help me. What was I thinking by flying on this, the anniversary of one of the worst days in history?
I'm not going to think about that. Instead, I'm going to think about misty London roads and prawn flavoured crisps and my darling friends whom I never get to see and a country full the most gorgeously designed outer-wear in the world. I’ll concentrate on the fact that when they ask at Heathrow customs whether I’m there on business or pleasure, I can say "Business" and sound busy and important and the type of girl with swingy hair and a cell phone that rings incessantly and causes me to flip it open and bark, "Mare-Ingenii. Go."
And then, I'm going to the drug store, where I'll pick up some Valerian - or even better, the Toronto Film Festival is on right now, and the city is teeming with celebrities - I'll just kindly ask one for some Valium. I mean, don't they carry them like breath mints?
Right. That's that. I've no idea whether I'll have the chance to update from London, but I'll do my best. Failing that, 'til Wednesday, then.
P.S. If That Boy who misuses words like Delicious finally calls, tell him "She’s off somewhere… but you don’t know where… you know how busy and professional that Mare is… always jetting off somewhere…"
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