The DJ owns leggings.
Not just owns. Wears.
They are hot pink, and shiny. No, not shiny, spangly. He is not gay, to clarify...
Baring in mind my continuing crisis about being here, I set myself the mission of making the most of things and found myself at, respectively, a DJ mag party at Space and a secret beach party in the middle of nowhere. The DJ certainly knows a few bigwigs and is a fantastic blagger.
To get in the mood, I thought I'd slut it up a bit in an ambitious and revealing All Saints number from yesteryear (v short, basically a mesh of posh rope to obscure my boobs and a belt to hold it all in place). The dress only really works if you go commando - a vpl is not a good look, and well, if these bimbo tarts can do it I can.
Except I can't.
Thanks to my post-Glasto lurgy I'm quite sneezy at the moment, and, yes....sneeze + too much rum and coke = unexpected mini wee.
Not fucking pleasant. And when I ventured to the club toilet to sort the situation out (barely more acceptable than a Glastonbury longdrop) I was faced with an empty toilet roll holder. No loo roll. No pants. You do the maths. How do the bimbos manage?
So my tip for the week: Never go commando when you've got a cold. You'll get a chill in your kidneys and piss yourself.