This morning I went to work looking like something even the cat wouldn't want to drag in. My outfit was less Oscar de la Renta and more Rent-a-Chav. Let me conjure the image for you:
Five-year old white sneakers that haven't been white for three of those years, black socks, three-quarter length grey tracksuit bottoms (neither baggy nor cool enough to be in the running for Harem pants), a white T-shirt that accidentally got coated with black angora in the wash, the angora culprit itself in the form of a shrunken cardi and a disgusting brown leather jacket.
The strain of rehearsals has taken its toll and I have lost all ability to dress myself.
It's not like me.
I need to get it together. The director must be wondering what happened to the stylish, graceful girl he cast and why a tramp keeps turning up to rehearsals.
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