Mardi Pardi.

WHAT a weekend. Sequin leotards, faaaaar too many cocktails and a sprained ankle from 9 inch satin wedges can only mean one thing; Mardi Gras. My inner Kylie was unleashed as my friends and I strutted our stuff for the Oz Fag Hag float (girls who loves boys who love boys- that's us!). Flash forward to Monday afternoon and I'm STILL shaking the glitter out of my hair, limping around on a bandaged foot and wondering how the hell I walked from Hyde Park aaaall the way to Horden Pavillion and back to Oxford Street for a post parade dance off. Meanwhile, the mysterious case of how my ankle has come to be sprained is still at large. I've narrowed it down to a few specific, extremely clumsy, extremely hilarious moments. Number One; failing to acknowledge an approaching medium strip as I was preoccupied with blowing bubbles out of giant bubble wand. Number Two; climbing a tree in Hyde Park while wearing the aforementioned ridiculously elevated satin wedges. Number Three; tearing up the dance floor à la Kevin Bacon in the original Footloose. Maybe I'll pack a pair of flats next year.. Just in case..