I'm literally minutes away from putting my impossibly high heeled shoes and walking out the front door for a jolly good knees up. I've dutifully painted a different face over my perfectly acceptable usual face. I've squeezed myself into a dress that leaves little room except under the arms for any flesh that you wouldn't find on a Barbie. I've altered the structure of my hair to the point that it's threatening to go and work for Helena Bonham Carter if I come near it with a comb again.
Why do we insist on doing this again?
Tune in tomorrow for my homage to Katy Perry and the inevitable retelling of exactly how wild my night got. Or watch my Twitter feed around midnight for sounds of pleasure being emitted as I get home, take shoes off, put pyjamas on and eat cake in front of the nearest Bill Pullman film I can find.