Pooped.

Thursday. Was. Exhausting.

In a good way, natch. The Doctor (or Stethoscope Stud, as I have now taken to calling him) met me straight after work. I had done a sort of rom com-worthy trasnformation from Work Shelly to Super-Vamp Adulteress Michelle, using the staff bathrooms at work as a kind of Mr Ben-esque closet. Except of course when I opened the door out to my office I hadn't been magically transported to a zoo. And I wasn't been voiced-over by Terry Wogan. Which, in context, would have been more than a little distracting.

Anyway; we met just around the corner from my office. Doctor wore a crisp suit that looked so expensive I was a bit wary of touching him (don't worry...I definitely got over that). We had a quick coffee and then raced off to our hotel suite for what can only be described as onlythebestsexIhaveeverhadinmylifeever. Hubby was elsewhere occupied with friends for the evening, meaning I didn't have to be so strict with my curfew. We stayed rolling around in our own filth for about 4 hours, before I had to make a shift exit (via the shower and some strategic clothing-adjustment) at 11pm. FOUR HOURS. I do not know the last time I stayed awake and in bed for that long...let alone in bed with a living human male. I was so giddy on leaving that I forgot to put one of my stockings on and really unnerved a junior porter who got in the same lift as me. He just kept staring agressively at my right leg, as if to say 'How dare you brazenly disregard the basic rules of getting dressed? What are you, some kind of fingerless invalid?'. I just coughed uncomfortably and got out a floor early.



It is just over a week later and I fear I'm still walking like a benched footballer.