Do you think I'm sexy?

It is no secret to my friends and family that winter and I do not mix.

Some people delight in sitting by a warm fire with the curtains drawn. I turn on my SAD lamp and start window shopping the shit out of 

There are many reasons I hate winter. The cold. The wet. Tights. But my real gripe with the colder months is that almost overnight, I find myself about 40% less attractive. 

Every year, Winter brings about ghostly pallor, over eating and an almost permanent red wine mouth. This time however, I had resolved to be a babe.

After having greeted my boyfriend for the second time, looking like I’ve been dragged up from the bottom of the ocean, I decided that enough was enough. I was going to get sexy.

I kicked off my preparations for my romantic evening the night before the event. My routine got off to a typically rocky start, with a bucket of chorizo pasta and some drunkenly slapped on fake tan. Still, I kept faith and fell into bed, smugly expecting Elle Macpherson to greet me in the morrow.

Unsurprisingly, I awoke the next morning to find that I was not in fact a golden brown sex goddess, but a tangerine in pants, my pores secreting the delightful aroma of a digestive that has been lost down the back of the sofa for a month.

I scrubbed myself with all the exfoliator I could find and slapped on a vat of passion fruit scented moisturiser to mask the smell. I looked and smelt like an over ripe fruit.

The beautification did not stop there. I rushed off to Clapham for a wax with heavy handed Heather and emerged onto Lavender hill with the look of a woman who has survived a natural disaster. I began slowly waddling to Tesco.

Having purchased all the ingredients for ‘most romantic meal of all time.’ I headed back home, laden with produce. The gate was in sight. The thought of exfoliator was driving me forward. Then the inevitable happened. I tripped, I fell, I dislocated my ankle and my shopping flew all over Coldharbour lane.

A bus on the other side of the road stopped in the middle of the street and 20 rubberneckers gathered around my pitiful motionless body. Ambulances were called, tears were shed and my boyfriend arrived to pick up the pieces. 

I am now back in Scotland, the land of recovery and have resolved that either I must accept that looking vile in winter is part of my charm or move abroad. 

I think its back to for me.