Thank God there are only 24 hrs in day.

Today started out pretty good.

I woke up early, forced myself out of bed and went for a run. Got home, did 100 sit ups (OK! 60 but I was close), had a little hip wiggling session with my home girls Beyonce and Shakira. Then I hit the shower. I picked out a lovely summery outfit and wait for it …got my bra on the LAST hook. No pain. No lack of oxygen. Nothing but comfortable, boulder holding support. Yes ladies and gentlemen! It was a very emotional moment. I shed a tear and captured the scene on my camera phone. So should any of you receive an e-mail with a picture showing a gorgeous back wearing a bra hooked all the way, don’t think someone signed you up for internet porn. It will be me just sharing the moment. After so much joy I was expecting my day to just get better and better. So with a skip in my step I headed out the door and disaster struck.

I was confronted by dark clouds and an arctic wind that sent me scurrying back through the front door. Believe me I’m no wimp and I’ve been known to face horrific weather conditions in nothing but a pair of flip flops and a thin cotton dress but today was not a day for bravery. I dug out my jacket and for the second time today shed a tear for the cute summery outfit that no one on my journey to work will see. Sob!

Got on my overcrowded bus and someone stepped on my toes scuffing my newly applied Rouge noir nail polish. As if that wasn't bad enough, I was then assaulted by a balding pensioner who kept pressing his suitcase against my thigh. At least I thought it was his suitcase until he got off the bus empty handed with a very self-satisfied grin on his face. Oh my gosh! Had I just been used as a sexual aid by a man old enough to have been around when the light bulb was invented? Ewwwwww!!!!!!!!!!!!! I need a bath.

I get into my ibi ise still traumatised by the sexual assault against my person (maybe I should call the police? There might be others suffering at the hands of this geriatric predator as we speak). I decided to leave that till I got a chance to calm down. I figured I would cheer myself up by parading my new and improved figure around my ibi ise. I've been doing this all week now in cute little outfits emphasising my curves in the hope that someone would notice and compliment me. One week on the twerps haven’t said a word. I blame them not. They are all just jealous of my ghetto fabulous body. Deciding to ignore them and get some work done I scanned through my e-mails only to be confronted by an e-mail from HR regarding company dress code policy….

“It has come to our attention that certain individuals have been flaunting company policy by wearing inappropriate clothing in the work place. Tight, revealing, figure hugging, extremely short, sleeveless or see through attire is not permitted in the office environment. It is essential that all staff adhere to company policy by being professionally attired at all times. Further disregard for this policy will be met with disciplinary action”.

I agreed totally with them jare. Some people just take the pi.. . I won’t mention any names but a polyester suit is just bad taste. Some people just need to get their act together. I casually enquired from the rest of the ibi ise what they thought about the latest drama from HR only to find out that no one else had received the e-mail in question. It slowly dawned on me that they were talking about ME!!!!

Me! “Flaunting company policy …disciplinary action”? How could this be? I’m always immaculately turned out (barring the too fat to fit into normal clothes part of my life). I mean what’s not professional looking about a fitted shirt and a skirt to work. All right, the shirt was cropped and did seem to expose quite a bit of cleavage but hey! It had sleeves. And the skirt did go over my knees and a little bit up my thigh but you can only see my knickers if I bend over. This is just discrimination. Fattism, that’s what it is. Some confectionery eating person, jealous of my newly defined abs has reported me to the powers that be.

I suspect that cake-eating monster from accounts. I don’t think she ever forgave me for saying the miniature telly tubby on my desk looked like her and that the next time she brought me files to work on 5 minutes before closing again I would use it as a voodoo doll and stick a pin in it (Not Christian like but I need something to pray for forgiveness about don’t I?). I’ve noticed that anytime she’s not feeling too well these days she always finds a reason to come over to my desk and play with La La. I think she’s actually checking to make sure I haven’t stuck anything in it like I promised. Don’t know why she’s worrying about me finishing her off. That packet of Monster munch she’s wolfing down for breakfast will get her before I ever will.

Anyway I’ve decided to ignore their evil and rude behaviour towards me. It’s not their fault. Nonsense! My papa too get company and if not because I don’t like chickens, hard work, lack of electricity and mosquitoes, I would be there now wearing hot pants and a boob tube to work. I will even leave your cold country for you sef. Where bad weather reigns and peverted pensioners are allowed to freely roam the streets. My hubby to be, Basket Mouth is in Nigeria anyway and I ‘m sure he would find it terribly hard to maintain a long distance relationship. I mean, how is he expected to be funny when all he can think about is me, so far away. That’s it. I will not let my boo suffer any longer. I will pack my fake Louis Vuitton luggage and head on home.

Did I tell you my boo is in London this weekend? I’m sooooooooooo excited. My special invitation must have gotten lost in the post but no matter. I’ve decided to buy a ticket like the other commoners and surprise him. Naturally I don’t want to mingle with the commoners in the audience on my own. I would naturally stand out with my hot body and exotic looks. So I’m trying to convince Bunnylicious, Ijebu Chick, Preggy Chick (she’s a maybe. I don’t trust her not to go into labour and have her waters break all over my REAL YSL shoes. No offence girl! Designer shoes are designer shoes after all) and their respective hubbies come with me.

They would blend naturally into the crowd after all (especially Ijebu chick with her hard core Yoruba looks…next time you will give me fried stew when I ask) giving me cover and also protecting me from the stampede liable to occur when Mena steps into the room. I will obviously try to tone down my beauty so that the other girls don’t feel facially challenged but it will be hard.They are all playing hard to get but hopefully my persistent whining should start to wear them down pretty soon.

I’ll let you all know how the Mena/Basket Mouth reunion goes. Now I’m off to stick some pins in La La and put it head first into a mug of scalding coffee.
Have a great weekend.