the final two

The one thing I hate about having a job, is working out what to wear to work every day. After spending the last week in my bikini and one pair of short-shorts or another, I am not sure I'm going to be able to handle the return to skirts and pants and collared shirts that the onset of 2011 heralds.

Outside my window, the grass is a moving blanket of grasshoppers, locusts and butterflies. They careen into your legs when you walk past, aggravating the red welts the mosquitos left you with the night before. My skin permanently smells of chlorine, Aerogard and dog cuddles and feels just a little too tight for my body.

I have two more days of freedom left to me and panic attacks are dancing in my chest; two more days to swim, two more days to stare out the window at nothing until my eyes stop focussing and just hang there, chillin', two more days to walk around in thongs and shorts and two more days of using my fingers as a hairbrush.

There are also only two more days of raiding my parents' fridge for Christmas/New Year leftovers. There's nothing quite like opening the door to the coldest place in the house, feeling the frozen air swirl across your bare thighs while you reach in and lift open the ham bag, trying to steal a slice before someone catches you. It's a talent you have to build on each year, trying to get the bag open without upsetting the cling-wrapped leftovers dishes, stacked Tetris-like on top of jars of pickles and cranberry sauce, but it's a talent I perfected many years ago, back when overeating had no affect on my waistline whatsoever.

This year, things have changed and that extra bowl of "sick of Christmas leftovers so lets make curry" has resulted in a rather unsightly bulge over the top of my shorts.

In two more days, I will have to fit back into my size 6 work skirt and I am not entirely sure that is going to happen. I need to do a trial run of my work clothes in case I need to fall back on my unwashed fat clothes, but putting those work clothes on is just the final nail in Summer's coffin, and I'm not sure I'm ready to say goodbye yet.

In true Bri style, my plans to make 2011 the year I get organised will be broken just a couple of days in, thanks to the strongest talent I possess: the ability to pretend things aren't happening, until I have no choice but to acknowledge them. Just you watch, I will make these holidays last until the very minute I have to leave the house for work in an unwashed fat skirt and a shirt with a bulging button hole where my boobs have miraculously grown.

Until then, it's me and my messy hair, out to get the most of these last days of freedom. I wonder if I can convince mum to make another trifle?