My room is painted and I just re-hung my curtains all by myself. Alas, still no bed or sewing machine, but tonight should be my last night in my swag till Stonerollers BnS on Saturday. And even then, a girl can hope for a sea of invites to other swags, preferably the kind containing hot, naked cowboys. I'm getting sick of my swag, and it's distinct lack of hot naked cowboys.
Tonight I should have many many trippy and interesting dreams, sleeping as I am in a room full of paint fumes. Obviously, my anosmic little self can't actually smell them, but I've already decided to attribute my complete inability to type to them. Is that a known side effect of inhaling paint fumes? Typos? Well, it is now.
Wading through the typos, I have written up the instructions to make a gym bag like mine. But I have no sewing machine to make another bag to take the accompanying photos. Or, if I'm honest, any time to make the bag to take the accompanying photos. Three 9 hour days, then a short day during which I also have to clean out and pack my car, find my clothes including the ball gown and the fur coat in the sea of tubs in the shed, get my legs done* sort out food and grog, charge up all the phones and the laptops and the cameras and the walkie talkies, get petrol and wash my hair.
Just as well my swag's been checked out then, isn't it? I don't even know when I'm gunna find time to scratch.
*according to the girls at work, referring to my beaver as "free range" is one of the funniest things I have ever said. Actually, it might be one of the funniest things anyone's said, ever, according to one of them, but I'm not sure why. Maybe it's just because it's the complete opposite end of the spectrum - indeed, I cant think of anything less funny than having all the hairs on my vajayjay ripped out. And it's one less thing to have to worry about getting done.