The other morning I suddenly realised I hadn't put out my rubbish bin.
No time to waste. I stumbled out of bed, hastily flung my grungy Sylvester Cat bathrobe over equally-as-grungy matching pyjamas, stuffed my feet into panda slippers, and rushed outside to lug my bin to the footpath edge. It was 8.30 a.m. There wouldn't be anyone around to see me, surely?
The two kids from the house over the road scooter-ed and skate-boarded out of their front gate. They couldn't take their eyes off me.
A neighbour, putting out her washing, coo-eed across the fence. Another neighbour waved at me from behind her front window.
The bin men rolled up before I could rush back inside the house. I tried to get out of my horrendous morning fashion mistake by channelling Dame Maggie Smith. I held my head high, raised myself up to my full height of just over 5ft, and grandly accepted my bin back from the rubbish man (really, did the guy have to wink at me?).
Back in the house, I glanced into the hall mirror. OMG, I had bed-head!
Dame Maggie would be appalled -
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