It takes literally ten minutes in order for my room to turn into a re-enactment of a WWII bombing. Of course clothes, paper and peanut butter cups wrappers smother my floor; not shrapnel. All is the result of looking for one mere garment of clothing that I have the urge to wear. Sometimes I hate being a girl.
At least this mess is an excuse to whack out Hetty the hoover, Henry's fit wife. I still can't believe my Mum paid £100 for her though. Is that the normal price for a hoover? I shall have to inspect the nearest hoover selling shop.
Bye now.