I’ve epilated my legs, moisturised, toned and exfoliated my skin. I’ve waxed my moustache. I’ve painted my toenails, plucked my eyebrows and realised I have a monobrow forming. I’ve written four To Do lists, I’ve packed and repacked my suitcase. I’ve sprouted a spot on my chin – typical – and I’ve studied myself in the full length mirror and have come to the conclusion that I’ve probably put on half a stone since I last saw him.
I’ve stressed myself out with what to wear on the journey, I’ve had butterflies each time I think about where I’ll be and who with by tomorrow evening. I’ve struggled over whether I should use a little bit of fake tan just to take away the terrible paleness of a Scottish girl who hasn’t seen the sun in a long, long time or if I should just listen to FP and be ‘au natural’.
I’ve tried to whiten my teeth (to no avail), I’ve tried to disguise the bags under my eyes and the big scar across my face (to no avail also). I’ve put an expensive deep condition mask on my hair and wrapped it in a hot pink towel, I’ve chosen my most sexy pairs of knickers – except the polka dot pair that FP hates but they are so comfy – and packed my three new dresses and two new pairs of jeans.
I’m moving to France!
Except I’m not.
Not yet anyway. Not like I thought.
I’ll be back in Scotland after a week for the beginning of my new treatment at the hospital.
My home now lies neither in Scotland nor in France but rather somewhere in between – (The English Channel maybe?). Still, there’s no point in complaining. I’m seeing the man of my dreams tomorrow and nothing can get me down.
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