If there’s one thing I consider myself pretty good at, it’s finding good food and eating it. In fact, I consider it more than just a hobby, it’s an investment. I know this because my bank statements tell me so. They also tell me that H&M and Zara aren’t the supportive friends I thought they were. They make me look slender and gazelle like in their mirrors then when I get home, boom, I’m an ogre again. The spell only lasts so long. See, the trick is they blast out a bit of old school Enrique and lead you to believe you can be a shhhexy, sassy, off-the-shoulder wearing salsa emoji. And then you remember you’ve got £30 to live off until pay day so, here’s to eating butter sandwiches for the next fortnight. But I still keep the clothes don’t I, because no part of me can face going through the fresh hell that is returning items in Zara. If you haven’t got the receipt, they will want proof you’re not a robot. And failing that, they’ll want you to sweep their dusty floors. What is it with all that dust? I had a woman sweep over my foot while I was in the changing room once. Admittedly, it tickled and felt nice but that’s not really the point.
April 25, 2017
I like to think I’ve got this whole stable relationship thing down, that is, except the one I have with my wardrobe. That’s not so stable. In fact, it’s as erratic as my hair washing habits. There’s just no consistency. One minute I wanna be the girl with bed head hair wearing a leather jacket, sunnies and a choker, the next, I wanna be gallivanting around with a herd of sheep in a gingham dress like Little f*cking Bo Peep. But like the cool Toy Story version, at least, that’s the vision I have in my head anyway, ha, and that’s what really counts, right?
April 23, 2017
I’d like to dedicate this post to my décolletage, because you young lady have been hiding away under turtle necks and tights that go up to my earlobes for what seems like foreverrrr. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the area south of my chin(s) needs all the support it can get, so giving me and it a lift all the way to Spring is really, really kind of you. As much as I count myself as fully-fledged knitwear devotee, there’s only so much armpit claustrophobia a girl can take – does anyone else get that? I get it in when I’m laying down in the bath because my arms are pinned by my sides. Or, when I’m laying on one side in bed and the side-down armpit just becomes too aware that it’s trapped, face down in a pillow. It’s kind of like when you become aware that your tongue is too big for your mouth. It’s knocking around by your bottom teeth like the tide, bashing gently against the back of your incisors. Welcome back to the madness my ol’ pals, has it really only been a week since I last projected all these LCisms onto you?
April 16, 2017
I can’t remember the last weekend I had an entire 48 hour slot to myself. Nobody to see (and/or let down), no promises to keep and no f*cking launderette duty – thank Uncle Buck for spring. Perhaps that makes me fortunate. In fact, I know it does, what am I talking about? Seeing friends and family is just what I want to be doing. But it also means there’s little to no time left to rest up, to recharge your batteries for the week ahead and to do all the things you were meant to do before the sun showed up and tempted you away from cleaning the fridge and told you to slip into your flip flops instead. If I feel like there’s not enough of me to go round now, how on earth am I gonna feel when I have another little person to take responsibility for? When I’ve not only got to make memories for my children but I’ve got to plan the memory making before we can even make the memories in the first place. At this point in my life, I’m the least busy I’m ever going to be and yet I still feel like there’s not enough hours in the day. Weekends come and go and someone somewhere is always going to be left disappointed. First world problems? Hmm maybe, but I feel like this is more than that. I feel like this is the curse of the millennials.
April 9, 2017
Ever get to that age when those lines you’ve been palming off as ol’ laughter lines for the last 3 years, have now actually grown up, got life insurance and put a deposit down for a mortgage… on your face. And they’re not paying it off any day soon either, ‘cos those wrinkles are first time buyers don’tcha know. They’re not just there when you’re giggling away anymore. Oh no, they’re out in full force whether you’re rofling all over your floordrobe or weeping over Rio Ferdinand plaiting his daughter’s hair and using your floury tortilla wrap to shield your ugly crying face (it was all TOO much for some of us ok!?).
April 1, 2017