Une feuille

I've managed to terrify myself into turning over a new leaf, by the deceivingly simple but unbearably harsh means of absentmindedly looking in the mirror- scary stuff; puffy eyes (think, MIB beetles), big hair (think, natural beehive do) and a weeks worth of eyebrow regrowth (think, cookie monster).
I'm just blessing my lucky stars I'm not a peroxide blonde, cos I don't think I'd be able to bounce back from the sheer shame of living with contrasting roots.

Thank you all, by the way.

Cigarette in hand (fuck! What happened to quitting?), I waited til the flat was empty then proceeded to lug a bin bag full of That Bloody Womans chick lit, rom-coms and anything of that ilk down the stairs and abandoned it by the back door.
I fled it's guilt laden stare and didn't stop til safely back behind the locked door of the flat. I lit another cigarette, hands shaking slightly from the sheer physical exertion- I haven't had that much exercise in a week, alright? And realised I was leaning, back against the door-

This rom-com stuff really gets to one's subconscious, doesn't it? All the situation needed was for J to come aknocking, and possibly proposing, just to set the scene. And, because of the RC infiltration, I would neither answer the door nor tell him what a complete bastard he is, although I might tell him half heartedly that I don't want to see him, before seductively opening the door with perfect hair and clean teeth, and just happening to be clad in a silky negligee. Although that said, the Rc production teams aren't into smokers these days-
its neither big nor clever, children-
So maybe I'd escape that little melodrama.

But perhaps I'm just bitter I don't live in a film full of incidental dance numbers and mood music.