It's no secret that I, in addition to a long nose and a pair of cufflinks, have inherited a higher-than-average amount of body hair from my ancestors.
I mean on my body, not like in a box or something.
This can prove difficult when one is attempting to present as the most beautiful fake woman in Derbyshire, and you may have noticed the sheer manliness of my hands and forearms in various pictures of me (see Media for more), so I thought that, in preparation for attending the LARGEST ARTS FESTIVAL IN THE WORLD (lol), eradicating one's arm hair is only good and proper.
Good and proper: yes. Easy: no.
I have shaved my arms once. I have Veeted my arms once. I have remembered that I am semi-allergic to Veet once. THE HAIR STILL PERSISTS. If you know any ways I can succeed, please comment. Otherwise, I'm considering just hitting the Royal Mile, razor in hand, and asking people to shave what they see... (Malcolm Harder award, anyone?)
In other news, I've packed everything I think I need. Into more than one suitcase. Oh god. Luckily, your gal treated herself and paid an extra £10 for first class, so I'm hoping that there'll be room for all this woman. I've been packed since about Sunday, which means I've been left with just those gross clothes you never wear yet still unexplainably own which, for me, is a pair of blue linen trousers and a jumper that says 'A Very Palpable Tit' on the right breast. I was in Hamlet once and was, quite frankly, conned into buying a jumper for it, so consider it a protest slogan.
I've forgotten to buy a new book for the five hour train journey tomorrow, but I've just remembered that I need to writing five minutes of golf-related stand-up for a gig I'm doing next week, which also involves me playing golf. I know absolutely nothing about golf, so it will probably take the full five hours to write something that makes sense - whether or not it will be funny is frankly irrelevant at this stage. I really want to buy some of those ugly trousers, though.
My train is at 8:26am tomorrow. Pray for me.