07/07/13- Deirdre, the Start of Summer and Why Graduation Eve is a bit like Christmas

As I sit here typing this to distract myself from a great life-changing decision (coral pink or hot pink for nails?), I know I won't sleep much tonight now that Graduation Day has finally come around. I'm not even sure what it is about it that's so nerve-wracking. I have come to the conclusion that it may be due to one or more of the following:

• I'm worried that I'll display emotion for all of the wonderful friends I've made on my course and everyone will know that I have a soul.
• I might wake up late and miss it.
• I might fall over on the stage and slide across it like a pissed polar bear.
• Does this cap and gown make me look fat?

  

  All any graduate needs to thank.

Despite the fact that the sun has been shining all weekend and it is warmer outside than Satan's arsecrack, preparing for graduation has been not unlike preparing for Christmas. There's the shopping. I nearly killed three people yesterday in Outfit. I could not for the life of me find a smart black skirt in my size. Go to H&M= size 8 is too small. Go to Next and New Look= size 6 hangs off like Fat Bastard's excess skin in Goldmember. Why can't there be a universal agreed measurement so that I wouldn't have to go in changing rooms and get mad? I could just pick up SIZE NATALIE and know it would fit. 6 hours of shopping later, I decided on a Marks and Spencer white blouse (I don't often go in there, it's cold and I'm not 80) and an Oasis tailored skirt that I'm having to hold up with my

Me snapped on CCTV in Tesco

tightest waist belt because if I'd stepped into one more high street store I'd have snatched up a coathanger, waved it about, pretend to be Captain Hook and start bashing someone in the face with it.

I. HATE. CLOTHES. SHOPPING. Unfortunately I've had ex-boyfriends who've dragged me around Topman and Burton for hours on end whilst I've sat sullenly outside the changing rooms and been pulled into queues. I remember a particular trip to Cardiff where he had to buy my a bag of Milkybar buttons to keep me happy because sometimes I like to think I am 4 years of age.

Today's shoe and jewellery hunt was easier; found the perfect shoes immediately in Miss Selfridge and some sophisticated jewellery in Debenhams instead of rocking up to the ceremony wearing a hilarious necklace with a giant perspex banana on it.

It may be July, but there's no shortage of fat red
bearded blokes

Preparation and gown orders and planning and families coming together? See? It's Christmas springing up in July, only without mince pies or sherry or fat hairy blokes in red coats.

Instead it's Magners in beer gardens, Nobby's Nuts and fat hairy blokes with red skins.

The Natmobile got taken away last week. I wasn't sad, funnily enough. I thought I might have wept when they took it away, but I didn't; I thought it looked hilarious.

On Monday I picked up Deirdre. Deirdre is lovely. Deirdre is a Citroen C3 in a very nice sky-blue colour and doesn't start smoking from under the bonnet like it's going to catch fire and doesn't roar and doesn't have a tape player which has collapsed in on itself. Deirdre does not slowly cook me

I feel like a cruel parent watching
my baby get taken away and wondering
what's for tea. 

during the summer; she has air conditioning. She has 5 doors so no risk of awkwardly crushed people in the passenger seat when a fatty gets into the back of my car. 

I love Deirdre.

I'm going to keep her shiny and clean forever. My brother has already influenced me to buy a ridiculous Mickey Mouse car aerial topper; all I need now is as many stuffed cats as I can possibly fit in the back (please donate any unwanted stuffed feline toys to me, I'll take good care of them), a cat tax disc holder, cat air fresheners and a real Siamese who will cruise on my bonnet and act as an alarm.

I also found out I was specially commended for an international poetry competition today which was a lovely surprise. It's been a very nice week in terms of all things literary. I did another feature at the Tavern on Thursday and it was great to see just how popular the Garage Players poetry nights are getting and just how many people want to stand up and share their work. There was some great talent and as always, a lot of wine, a lot of laughs and fantastic company. There was also a very very fit barman at another bar later on so perving opportunities were top-notch.

Unfortunately, upon coming home I thought that diabetes and cheap wine had finally claimed my eyesight and was about to run screaming into my Nan's room but after a few minutes I realised that I was pissed and the lightbulb was broken.

Phew.

On that note, I really do have to go and paint my nails. Jesus I sound like one of those Bratz dolls that used to slut about on adverts and nearly had as many careers as Barbie, but who were meant to have more "attitude". However, they love shopping; I don't. Plus the painted nails are a rare occurrence. I usually only paint my nails if I have a big important event, I am going on a date or my brother's given me a "makeover". 

Anyone remember these sluts?

I'm even wearing St Tropez for a "healthy glow" as opposed to "anaemic hue". I have NEVER worn St Tropez up until now, so the choice was basically wear none and look like Casper the Friendly Ghost or put on a layer and wake up like Trevor McDonald.

I figured Trevor McDonald always looks quite smart.

So ladies and gentlemen, if the red hair dye is too bright and the tan comes out too dark, you can all cease wondering what Nicki Minaj would look like in a cap and a gown and a Marks and Spencer blouse.

Please God, don't let me wake up like this.