I'm not getting it right. By right I mean I do not have the perfect anything. I want to be one of those women that just get it right. I want the perfect demure black outfit, tucked away at the back of a perfect made to measure wardrobe. The dress that smashes at a funeral. I'd also like the black lace veil but probably pushing it with the whole combo. Now let's see, well a two pice little "outfit" would work too. Fitted pencil skirt and tailored jacket. But that's just it. the little part. I also need the body to hang the clothes off.
Just to fill the one reader that actually reads this blog in, I have not ditched the junk as promised in my ever hopeful and far too optimistic blurb. The truth is I am worse than ever. I suspiciously stop at several different sweet shops after my work day to feed my sugar addiction. This often means I am driving miles out of my way to ensure I rotate the shops. It goes a little something like this. I walk in and it's usually a grubby farmer/shopkeeper type standing behind the counter. He eyes me up. He knows I am up to no good. I ramble some nonsense "lovely day or will it ever stop raining" while scanning the shop for the biggest bar of chocolate.
Back to the list, I also want the perfect interview attire. Crisp shirt, perhaps in colour to show my personality. If I was truthful, it would have to be psychedelic swirls with glitter bombs exploding as I walk, but I know I'd have no chance of landing the job. Interviews are such acts. Just come to work and see me in action, I'd land any job then. Maybe wide legged trouser suit and glasses. Ah yes, they inform the viewer that yes, I am smart. I can read the back of the cereal box while multitasking like super Mum. What am I saying? No, I never feed Tarquin cereal. I activate some beans or that and add homemade yoghurt that I churned from hand organic of course. Scrap that, I now have no children and am simply professional women an I invest in the job only.
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