Walked home barefooot tonight. (F-it B, you were right this is addictive.) I was the trashy girl in evening clothes with high heels in hand walking in her own bubble home to bed like a quilt seeking missile. After wearing said heels I never expected to walk home. They were Falling Out Of A Taxi shoes (thanks to Miss A for those words), but after enough drinks walking home seemed good and carrying shoes and letting feet commune with every stray lump and bump n footpath also seemed good.

Speaking of parties (was I?), why am I always the dregs of every party I go to? Dregs? Last guest to leave? Life of? whatever - amounts to much the same thing. There are others guilty of this too (you know who you are) - you're the ones dancing in the loungeroom while the host tidies glasswear at the end of the night, the ones making novelty drinks and convincing the pregnant tee-totaller to do tequila shots, the ones doing huddles in the loungeroom and loudly whispering plans ('it's only 4.15'). Trashy - no doubt. No regard for tomorrow self - clearly. Good party guest - well I like to think so.