Late last night, all thanks to your crossed fingers, no doubt, I found myself dubiously answering a call from an unknown number (I'm this weird Australian girl with very little social skills living in a foreign country, who's gonna call me?). Fortunately it wasn't a serial killer and/or someone breathing heavily into the receiver. Instead, on the other end of the line was the lovely Claudia from Brighton Frocks very eloquently saying something about me having won the competition and being the writer for Brighton Fashion Weekend and backstage access and free booze (I was kind of too busy squealing "AWESOME, WONDERFUL, FULLY SICK MO'FO" and so I may have imagined that last bit. But if there is I'm totally getting trashed and, article? What article? 'I went to the Brighton Fashion Weekend and got super trashed and hung out with tons of models and it was awesome.')
So, with less than 24 hours notice, off I'll jet this afternoon to spend my Friday night clicking, recording and scrawling away.
Now we just have the tiny problem of where Bobby and I are going to sleep tonight. With the last train leaving Brighton before midnight, and not enough notice to find a friend to 'couch' us, I'm taking votes: Will it be a dodgy motel? The train station? Heroin park? May the best venue win.
Disclaimer: If you're reading this, Brighton Frocks, my sense of humour isn't always in very good taste. In truth, I have been sober all my life and am a very good writer and shall take this job more seriously than a polar bear takes global warming.