Now I love to entertain. Yes, I love me a little get together. Just pull a cheese board out of my arse, crack open that skinny Prosecco (lol jk, full fat alcohol please, skinny on the mixers) and put on a hideous mixture of cosmetic glitter that makes me an unfit Naked Palette owner.
You know what kinda gets up my nose though? Unannounced house guests. Yes, those sneaky so and so’s that ring your door bell as if they are the Amazon delivery man and surprise, no parcels for you, but instead an impromptu ‘kettle-on’ moment.
For anyone that hasn’t had, what I like to call, a ‘kettle-on’ moment, it’s when a person is in a state of shock within their own home and, in order to buy themselves time to put together a plan of action whilst still looking composed, says “I’ll just pop the kettle on.” Then they escape to the kitchen to rush about, mouth swear words and mutter, under their breath, about how unprepared they are.
This happened to me today. Good job I lit a candle that morning because I was feeling fancy. House guests mean I have to actually put on something appropriate, like a bra. I was having the best, free-boob day: no make up, no bra, no troubles. Until there was a knock on the door. As the woman entered, I made a swift exit, throwing on the first mangey sports-bra I picked up and the most unflattering shirt and legging combo I had to hand. I think these leggings were second day-ers too, with a teeny tiny hole in the knee from where I walked into a wall attempting to bring all my shopping in from the car in one trip. Ugh, I ooze class. Get over it.
Then came the make up. I mean, I’m a pro at make up in ten minutes, I’ve been doing that since I was fourteen and made the ultimate life decision between sleep and looks. However, I didn’t have ten minutes. I had 0 seconds. The woman was in the living room getting cosy with my dog. Ok, bare faced and beautiful it is then.
I was just glad that I had dusted the top of the bookshelf the day before because I got bored before work. I mean, I wish my dog hadn’t emptied his toy box (yes, he has a toy box. I’m like a crazy cat lady but instead I just have a dog… so not like a crazy cat lady at all) because I really didn’t need to apologise for the string of sausages and stuffed, neon sting ray sprawled across the floor.