Drunk, free, irresponsible me on holiday.

I am on holiday. Oh yes. I ran away from my responsibilities and the big pile of 'shop' in my kitchen (having now vacated my former business premises, 'shop' now resides in about 12,386 boxes of assorted size and weight - note: most of them back breaking - in my house.)
I have run away from second job 'just.... don't rota me on next week... I'll... yeah... let you know if when I'm back...'
I have run away from my mother 'of course I'll help you out in the garden... oh, wait.. my train leaves in.. 2 hours. BYE!'
I have run away from my tax returns (oh, come on, I have 'til January, it'll be fiiiiine...)
I have run away from 'lovely man' who may still think we've got something going on since I let him sleep in my bed again recently and kissed him rather too much... (oops? well... we've all done that, right?)
I have run away from my ex boyfriend who said 2 days ago, if he had his way, we'd be married, and I'd be big fat and swollen with sprog. (Which, if my period doesn't hury up and start I'll start worrying I might be).

I have just... well. Run away.

I might go back. I imagine I'll have to when I realise it's all going tits up and I've run out of clean underwear..
But, for the next 3 weeks, I've let myself off the leash of the whole hard work thing.
So, today, in way of celebration, my sister and I walked 10 miles to a nice pub and back. Which, incidentally also means I've now seen the Vicar of Dibley's front door. It's a very sweet village where they filmed it, which was lovely, but, looking at my slightly battered feet, I do wonder if it could have been as well appreciated from a car.

So now, I'm in my sister's flat, hobbling about, drunk on hideously cheap wine that has given us both massive headaches, and planning tomorrow, which, unfortunately for my furry bits, is also going to be a day of pain.

I'm sorry fluffy parts, but you just aren't becoming on a single modern woman out in the big bad city. You have to go.