Good grief

"What is she doing here!?" I hissed under my breath, my grip on his arm tightening
"She's an old woman! Were we supposed to leave her out in the hall?" Uh, yes. What kind of time is this for Alec, resident meanie and generally amoral person to get a social conscience?
"And you did throw up on her posh shoes".
Point taken.

She's here. My boyfriends mother was in my flat when I trudged home today, raising a disparaging eyebrow at our nifty tin and polka dot cups- an eyebrow which quickly returned to normal level as i spilled tea on her handbag; this clumsy thing of mine may actually be a curse, but its hard to maintain a look of perfect disparagement when ones handbag is at risk of drowning; unfortunately, I also got tea on this weeks essay- done, for the first time ever, in plenty of time; but now I know better and am fully resolved to resume my normal course of action and leave it til the last minute in future.

I've noticed a nasty trend though; a universal law that seems to ensure that I simply cannot encounter someone unpleasant- be it an ex, or my current boyfriends wonderful mother- without them having the upper hand in an area that reallly matters; appearance. For example, today I not only had a hangover- from the two glasses of wine that may have inadvertently lead on to more- shall we say challenging, substances, but I'd also walked back from Oxford Street in nasty drizzly weather conditions. So, of course, I looked like hell when I finally crawled home- and she did, of course, look pristine.