A busy day, kid drop off, shopping with toddler and husband, which always elongates the process, then home 15 minutes before the photographer for some magazine turning up for a photo.
Impress self, managing to shower, dry hair, do makeup and get dressed in that amount of time.
Discover lasagne from dinner three nights ago on jeans during photo session.
And with a particularly hectic and stressful week behind me, a month of toddler tantrums and 9 year old boy smartarsedness, my three-day long conference this weekend, complete with dinner on Saturday night had completely slipped my mind.
Worse, I recall vague discussions re “rock star outfits” people were organising for the dinner, when it hit me that “Oh, shit! We’re supposed to dress up!”
I like to be really blase about fancy dress soirees, but to be quite honest, I do love them just a bit. I gives me permission to be crazy and even if I fuck the outfit up, I can