Tag Archives: funny

Forgive Me, For I Am A Cross Dresser

13 Feb

I mean it.

F*!@ng cross.

I hate shopping. I know we have discussed this before, but I feel the need to cover old ground with this one. I HATE SHOPPING. It comes at you with alarming force (and for all those people who just happen to have a ‘spare’ outfit in the cupboard for the surprise event, I’m not a bit fan of yours right now either) suddenly you need a dress for something you have to go to this weekend, or your bra strap breaks and you have to make a non scheduled Victoria Secret stop, or your sister throws up on your boots…. it’s all the same. Sprung from nowhere like Robin Hood in the forest, you have to go.

Not THAT sort of cross dresser.....

Not THAT sort of cross dresser…..

Firstly, I’m a fan of online. Browsing through virtual shelves of sumptuous fabrics and delicately made garments is my joy de vivre. No being ram raided by some glamazon who is coveting that last size 10 you are halfheartedly looking at, or being asked every two minutes by the shop attendant if you “need any help at all?” (the answer being yes! Mental help if I have to carry on doing this) But it carries with it its limitations, in that you can’t be totally sure you havent accidently bought lycra unawares, or that you wont look like a doughnut trying to force itself into a test tube when you try it on.

Shops get the better of me. And so do playsuits. My best friend laughs at me for constantly picking up playsuits masquerading as dresses, and once I tried one on and managed to get both legs through one leg hole, before enquiring what the funny bit of fabric was and being hilariously informed by the dying shop assistant and my friend that that was in fact the other leg. Foiled by a playsuit once again!!

Secondly, I hate changing rooms. They either make you look like Halle Berry; all sinewy arms and washboard stomachs so that you purchase the item, get it home and model it for your sister who, once composed, recommends you take it back. This happens far too regularly. Or, you take your clothes off, look at yourself in the mirror in your underwear and are overcome by a sudden sense of horror. A combination of the oh-so alarming lighting and the circus house of mirrors cause a sob to rise in your throat while you speed dial your mother and beg “AM I THE ELEPHANT MAN IN DENIM??”

"The shopping is done, biiiiiitches!"

“The shopping is done, biiiiiitches!”

To make the whole thing worse. in London it doesn’t matter what day of the week or hour of the day you go, everyone else is there. Its like everyone has a pager, and as soon as I get the idea that I can’t put it off any longer and I simply must go shopping, the beeper goes off and everyone in the world springs from their sofas, puts on their shoes and hot foots it to Stratford, where I am innocently getting off the Tube, prepared to give this shopping lark that girls seem to love one more go.

Love it or hate it?

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Under The Sea

4 Oct

I’m sitting here writing while listening to the waves lap on the shoreline, and the wind gently rustles the leaves on the trees above. I imagine its dusk, and as the twilight descends, the sky is turning pink and all you can see from the sand is the calm of the ocean, mimicking my mood.

I imagine? Sure. I imagine. The reality of it is that it’s well past witching hour (I’m testament to the fact that Roald Dahl was pulling my leg as a child. The BFG isn’t real, and he hasn’t come to find me. My eight year old heart lies broken) and I’m listening to the dulcet tones of the sea from an app on my iPhone. Insomnia, my old friend. I wish I could say I’ve missed you.

And what have I done in the hours your weary heads rested on your pillows? Nothing productive. I’ve plucked my eyebrows with a magnifying mirror (dangerous habit, often resulting in the accidental removal of most of my eyebrow) given myself an alternative French manicure in lilac and green, changed my duvet cover, finished my book, stared at the ceiling and pondered my life. And now I have resorted to an app with a choice of whale song, metronome, robins chirping (WTF? Don’t even ask), frogs (likewise) or the beach.

So please excuse me while I get back to pretending I’m shipwrecked- but in a cool, not-to-worry fashion rather Tom Hanks in that film that I can’t remember the title of because I’m tired, but where his best friend is a football.

It’s worse than I thought.

The problem with me is I over think things… Oooh, a parrot!! I wonder who else is on the beach…..Gah!! Just gave myself a minor heart attack by lying on the volume button and causing lapping ocean to become more monumental high tide sweeping loungers off and causing residual water damage. Oops. Must try to be more careful!! Normal volume has been resumed but I don’t think this is the app for me; it’s just making me need a wee.

Just as an aside- if anyone sees me tomorrow looking frazzled, with unbrushed hair or my clothes on inside out, make me a coffee and avert your eyes. We’ve all been there!!!

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Enough With The Oversharing

28 Sep

The world has gone crazy. Once upon a time (my mum’s era) people went to school together. They made friends, or they didn’t. Then when they left school, they either stayed friends, or they didn’t. No biggie.

I remember a teacher telling me once that statistics showed that by the time you turned 30, you would be friends with three people you went to senior school with. In a class year of over 300, that seemed like a fairly small number to me. Ah well, I thought, she’s old. What does she know?

Fast forward twelve (shudder) years from that conversation, and you’d imagine it to be true, right? People move away, people change, friendships ebb and flow with time.

Not so much. and who do we have to thank? Facebook. Mark Zuckerberg, you have a lot to answer for.

In real life, we might bump into an old school friend in the supermarket when visiting the homeland, have an awkward conversation along the lines of “Hi… how are you… im good too, nice to see you” and wander back home pondering on how totally awkward that was, how you had nothing to say to them and how you hope that it never happens again. If you’re feeling particularly extreme, you might pretend to not have noticed them and make a swift exit to prevent that painfully awkward conversation in the first place.

You certainly wouldn’t ask them how they were feeling about the recent demise of their last relationship, or enquire as to what they had for lunch. And if you did, they wouldn’t be wrong in telling you, in the politest terms, to do one.

You wouldn’t go to a work colleagues house on the weekend, knock on the door and ask them what their cat has been up to today, or how their Auntie in New Zealand was doing, without so much as a “Hi, how are you?”

No? Everyone still with me???

SO DON’T *!*?@*ING DO IT ON FACEBOOK THEN!!!

It has so much to answer for. You get friend requests from people you barely spoke to, and feel obliged to accept (I don’t want them thinking im rude!!). That’s OK, as long as they share whats sharable, and keep private the things that you shouldn’t impart to the rest of the world. The odd update about Big Brother or their child is fine, and you and those people reside in relative harmony for life.

And then there’s the ones who split up with a partner, declare it to all, then follow-up with a series of posts about how their ex has moved on and they want to die, then imply that they are ACTUALLY going to top themselves, and then carry on moaning.

Some sort of rule of thumb should be adopted. If you wouldn’t march into work, announce that you are sooooooo drunk and then call your ex a whore, then don’t do it on Facebook.

Come on people. Have some dignity.

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Adulthood Isn’t What I Expected.

4 Sep

When I was 15, 26 seemed like a really long way off. I figured by the time that I got to that ripe old age I would definitely be married, have a child, and own a house.

Adulthood isn’t what I expected.

I thought that I would feel like all the women I saw on the train in the morning; poised and well put together, with matching underwear sets for each day of the week and a perfectly organised handbag full of all the daily essentials that one might need, and be able to organise my way through daily life without a hair out of place.

The reality is rather more sobering. Some days I get to work and realise that I have my underwear on inside out (this actually happens more often than you would think!), and if my bra matches me knickers then it has to be a major league event, like the Diamond Jubilee. Sometimes I can’t even find a pair of socks, let alone a pair that match. My makeup is done in the morning through a bleary smog, and by the time I get to work, having negotiated the intricate labyrinth system that we refer to as the tube, it has worn off in patches, leaving me resembling a giraffe. And don’t even get me started on the days that I have to wear tights, which normally results in me putting my toe through them and having to rush to the shops to buy a new pair.

I didn’t think I’d be still waking up on a Sunday morning with last night’s makeup on, hair all over the place and bedroom looking like a tornado had swept through, lamenting that vodka isn’t my friend and what the hell happened to everything in moderation? And my wallet, for that matter.

I didn’t think I would still warble at the top of my voice when I thought that no one else was listening, to show tunes or cartoons. Sure, it used to be a whole new world, and now its tunes from Wicked, but Defying Gravity is still hollered through my house while I am doing the hoovering.

I didn’t think that I would still be calling my mother on a regular basis with any medical emergency (or non emergency) that happens. I think ill be all grown up, and then I get a rash on my arm and I check Web MD, freak out that I have meningitis and call my mother, who calms me, tells me to roll a glass on it and concludes ‘ive probably come into contact with something scratchy. Thanks Ma!

What are you finding different to how you imagined?

*thanks to Fibronomy Awesome for inspiring this post. You can read hers here*

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Some Of You Will Be Baffled, I Can Guarantee It

1 Aug

The word sport, in my book (it’s a dictionary) is considered a swear word. I am the fastest runner in the opposite direction to the gym, and a gold medallist in being first to the pub after work, but any actual organised sport makes me shudder. I don’t like anything that I have to do in a team, because I don’t want to disappoint the rest of the crew by dropping the bat or not hitting the ball, and when forced to take part in tennis on the Kinect in the office during the Olympics, even the automated commentary speculated on how bad ‘player 2’ was. That’s me folks!

So I wasn’t excited about the Olympics. I adopted a traditional British approach. Whinging about the sheer amount of tourists that would descend on the capital and hamper my journey to work , and bemoaning that food prices had soared to capitalise on hungry foreigners.

When a tourist coughs on the Tube and doesn’t put their hand over their mouth

But then I watched the Olympic ceremony with my American cousins, and a patriotic sports fan emerged like a butterfly from a chrysalis, having transformed from that grumpy caterpillar. I did find it a little odd (Beijing had thousands of drummers, we had sheep, some beds that lit up and at one point, E.T) but how awesome was it?! I felt proud to be eccentrically British, despite the rain and the cold, and embrace my tea drinking, jolly good fellow heritage. Although I know none of you ‘got’ Dizzee Rascal, but that’s OK.

And now? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a clue about the rules of any of these sports that I’m watching, but I kept one eye on the Equestrian events while at work yesterday, and my heart was in my mouth as I watched the men’s synchronised diving, and slightly teary as they scored a fourth.

When Mitt Romney starts bitching about London.

I clapped and cheered when we got our first gold today, and thought how fantastic Hampton Court looked as we grabbed our second. Now I’m sitting watching the men’s gymnastics, and I gather the point of this one is to stay on the horse as long as possible, do a handstand and then jump off without falling face first into the sand. And look at those arms!!

In the words of Boris Johnson,”The excitement is growing so much I think the Geiger counter of Olympo-mania is going to go ‘zoink’ off the scale.”

Who’d have thought, I’m a sports fan after all!?

What’s your favourite Olympic sport?

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You Sound Like You’re from Laaandan! – An Alternative City Guide

25 Jul

After what seems like years of waiting, it’s finally arrived and all eyes turn to the capital as we host the world famous Olympic games (are we allowed to call it that? I think it’s banned. As is London 2012). For months, the councils have been busy beautifying our humble cities, because it’s OK if it looks as bit naff for us, but God forbid the rest of the world  think that we haven’t run the Hoover round. It’s like when your Nan comes to stay.

And of course, the weather has been absolutely glorious this week. I’m not complaining; after months of pouring rain dampening my mood and causing my feet to web in an unsightly fashion, the presence of the sun on my skin is a welcome, if not alien feeling. My legs emerged from my jeans like prisoners into the sun, all white and reluctant, and I keep thinking I forgot to put my trousers on this morning as my legs feel so light and strange in a dress. But all of you lot are going to think that we are overreacting with our constant whinging about the weather as you see the rays casting beautiful shadows over the games, and wonder if you were maybe wrong to think that it always rains in the UK.

I can assure you, this is a rare heat wave, and as soon as the curtain falls for the last act of the Olympics, the first drops of rain will join it.

I’ve read a couple of articles of hints and tips for tourists visiting the capital during this time, and so I thought I’d do the same. Like a public service announcement, but with less boring old voices, and more Englishness. No need to thank me, just send cake.

Trains and Tubes: the tube system in London is a God send for anyone wanting to get from A to B and arrive in a hot sticky mess while understanding what it means to have a panic attack, but it’s also a melting pot of emotions. If you think that it’s a quaint little British train full of jaunty English folk who want to talk about tea and crumpets, you are wrong. I can understand why as a tourist, you would want to have a go on the tube. The views from the window are spectacular and if you are lucky enough you might get the change to rest your face in a sweaty armpit, but in the morning, the Tube system is the most evil of hellholes and smiling is not an option. The majority of people look at the floor, and if you do manage to make rare eye contact with a fellow traveller, it will be a look of death, most often accompanied by a scowl. It’s not a happy place. Try to make conversation with someone and you may see an uncharacteristic example of team work by frazzled Londoners; when we team together and throw you on the line.

If you have the pleasure of travelling on one of the packed commuter overground trains into the capital, make sure that unless your bag has purchased a ticket of its own, that it is not taking up prime real estate on a seat. It’s bad enough being pressed into the small holding areas between carriages with ninety three other sweaty bodies, so if someone spies a spare seat being taken by a bag, they will not be accountable for their actions. Especially if the air conditioning isn’t working.

Boris Bikes, and Boris in general: if you spot a bank of blue and silver bikes, then by all means, grab one and go for a cycle. Just be careful of the buses. They don’t acknowledge your existence. With regards to their namesake, he is a concern for the majority of us. When he opens his mouth and speaks on behalf of our fair city, we all face palm on mass. We don’t know which planet he came from, and for the time being we are also unsure of when they are coming back for him. Read more here…

North, South, East, West: wherever you are staying during your sojourn for the games, you will notice a ‘certain sort of person’. In the East, you will notice that everyone wears trendy glasses with thick black rims and jeans so skinny that you worry for the circulation in their feet. We call them wankers, but I think the official term is hipsters.

Out West you’ll find that the people on the streets are slightly different. They have names like Tarquin and Camilla and you will be able to identify them by their welles and padded jackets. Extra points if you spot one toting a rifle on their way to a hunt.

In South London you’ll be fine, as long as you have packed your stab vest. I reside here, and own one in the majority of colours. The sirens lull you to sleep, and if an old man walks past you, sucks his teeth and asks you “what you’re saying?” carry on walking; you weren’t saying anything.

Taxis: yes, it is acceptable to hail a taxi and the drivers have an extensive knowledge of the city, but you might find that you are sitting still for a long period of time. Just walk it. you’ll be surprised how close everything is. If you do decide to use a cab, don’t ask the driver how excited he is about the Olympics, or if you are nearly there yet.

Cockney rhyming slang: I know the temptation as soon as you get to the UK is so use this, but the majority of us don’t really understand it. we will just be very British, and ignore you.

When travelling around the city on foot, don’t stop. A tourist with a map and no sense of urgency is the metaphorical red rag to a bull, and you’ll find that the pile up you cause will be highly abusive.

Have fun!

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Monday Musing – Bride Without Groom

14 May

It’s that time of year again, when the shops adorn their windows with pretty dresses and the talk of the town is what weddings will be attended this summer, and how many outfits need buying. One of the girls at work regaled a mortified story this week about attending her first wedding of the year and showing up in the same dress as three other girls, and then having to pose with the bride as if they were bridesmaids. Not funny if you’re one of the ones in the matching dresses.

thats normal. She has a groom!

Bubbly brides is one thing and I can handle some excited squealing and planning of wedding  days, after all, raucous hen dos are fun and it’s an excuse to go shopping and buy something fancy, not to mention toasting the happy couple with copious amounts of champagne and dancing the night away to cheesy eighties tunes which I do all the time makes a change.

What concerns me however is the emerging trend of BWG’s. Boooo… I hear some of you hiss. Not me, I didn’t have a bloody clue what this meant, so had to research it. Apparently it means ‘Bride Without Groom’ and is an exploding new phenomenon of women who have planned their whole weddings, regardless of whether they have a boyfriend, or perhaps, and in my opinion, slightly more scarily, if they have one but they are not engaged… yet (OR NEVER IF YOU CARRY ON LIKE THAT!!).

We all know I love a good lever arch file and anything involving a post it is like heaven to me, but the idea of having a hidden box file marked “important papers” which is actually stuffed full of venues and seating plans makes me feel a bit nervous. I would constantly be living on the edge (i need to actually start living on the edge) in fear that it would get found and I would get dumped for being such a closet nutter.

Being a little girl who dresses up as a princess and plays at her wedding day is one thing, but I actually have no recollection of doing this. I used to dress up in my tutu and pretend I was dancing the Royal Ballet, and the only boy I ever considered as a worthy life partner was a boy called Matthew who was the only boy in our ballet troupe. I think he was only considered as he wore a leotard and liked to pirouette too. But being a grown ass woman who has reserved her dress in the wedding store, identified the shape and colour of her bridesmaids dresses by putting together some clever equation cross referencing the size and shape of her friends against their skin tone and hair colour, and been and sampled wedding cake, is something that I find alarming, and quite frankly, ridiculous.

So I Googled it. Obviously. The standard responses came up ‘bride and groom’, ‘bridal services’ but no ‘bride without groom’. I was hoping to find some fantastic scientific research on this as a syndrome and be able to explain it away in a bid to gain some sanity for the female population. Instead I found this ..

I read through the story incredulously, thinking that some of the engaged girls I know ould be amazed at her levels of organisation. Until I got to the part where she had told her friends, and they were standing there in the shot with their bridesmaids dresses.

WHAT?!

I have an awesome group of friends. For example, if I announced that I was off to audition for the X Factor they would be encouraging about my outfit, say how nice my hair looked and as I headed for the door they would yell “DON’T TAKE ANOTHER STEP! YOU CAN’T SING YOU MORON!!” and that’s what friends are for. Because I sound like a cat being skinned, and the world should not be allowed to witness that.

So if I was to announce that I have reserved my wedding dress, chosen the bridesmaids dresses and nailed the food, I’m pretty sure that my nearest and dearest friends would give me a verbal smack down, put a bag over my head and lock me in the wardrobe until I came to my senses. Not pose holding the dresses I had picked out for them, looking pleased at the results. I’m not sure what planet these people are on, but it’s definitely not my one.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to book my wedding venue watch the TV.

Do you know anyone who has done this? Do you think it’s as crazy as I do?

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“OMG. That Was Totes Awk”**

8 May

“The existence of other people is essentially awkward.”
― Lionel Shriver, Checker and the Derailleurs

There is nothing more awkward than misunderstanding a situation and having to deal with the fall out afterwards, when your brain doesn’t catch up with the moment until you are well and truly knee-deep in misunderstandings. It often happens around the microwave at work during the busy lunch period (“Are you feeling OK? You sound sick.” “Are you saying I look rough? My boyfriend dumped me” Oooooooouuuch.) or when making polite conversation on a conference call while waiting for all attendees to dial in, but the most awkward one is when you accidentally overhear people talking really loudly and can’t help but laugh at their conversation. It happens a lot on public transport when you either overhear a really inappropriate chat or someone misunderstands the conversation you are having. I can assure you, this happens to me, Awkward Annie, at all times.

On Saturday I went for a lonesome jolly around London (one of my favourite pastimes) and hopped on the bus as my little legs were weary, to take me home. I sat behind two twenty something boys who were whinging about their girlfriends and the lack of fun in their lives. My ears pricked up. I’m nosy, and was hoping to uncover some sort of weird fetish that would provide me with a story for my friends at a later date. None of that, but it didn’t take a psychologist to work out what the problem with this guy and his girlfriend was.

“I just don’t get it. She literally doesn’t want any physical contact with me anymore. We’ve only been together three years!” Poor him, I thought, that doesn’t sound nice.

“Ah mate” his friend replied “Does that mean you haven’t had sex since dinosaur roamed the earth?” Good line..

“Nah not really. She doesn’t like the fact I play Xbox in bed, and also she thinks it’s bad that I thought the clitoris was a Greek God till about two years ago”.

I snorted. I couldn’t help it, my iPhone battery had died (again) and I had nothing else to do but listen in! They turned around and scowled at me like I had mugged their grannies, and then I made it worse. Of course I did. “Sorry, but it WAS funny”. I know, I’m going to hell without a get out of jail free card, but if you are sensitive about this kind of chat then please, for the love of Christ, don’t talk about it on a busy bus.

And then, this morning, when getting the Tube into work, he and I were laughing at the fact he never gets angry over anything, except the amount of people in the tube station. I get annoyed at a lot, but funnily enough the amount of people at the Tube isn’t something that bothers me. The way i see it is everyone needs to get to work one way or another, and sometimes you get a bonus cuddle with a hottie if the tube is full. Or a tramp, which in all honesty, is the more likely one to happen to me.

Image sourced from hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com – check Allie out, she’s hilarious!!

So I was laughing at the rage of the happy kid and how he turns from this smily character in pretty much the image order above, and said, not in a loud voice; “Try not to assault anyone on the platform today, Hulk. It’s not the done thing.” I didn’t realise however that a woman was actively listening to our conversation, and as he got off the tube at his stop she visibly shrunk against the side of the train to let him pass, like the rage was catching and she had a low immune system. She then proceeded to try to catch my eye for the rest of the journey, and scowl when she did, and I swear she stuck her foot out when I got up to get off the tube. To give this some background, he isn’t exactly rocking the Rocky look, smiles at everyone and when we were out one Friday night, after walking past a homeless girl, he doubled back and gave her a tenner because it was cold.

You know what though? Life would be far less amusing and easy to get through without an awkward situation or two.

Have you ever overheard something really funny when you probably shouldn’t have been listening?

** I would never actually say this. This was another overheard bus conversation, but this time, amongst teenagers, a breed I don’t understand and a language I am not fluent in.

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Currency Confusion

30 Apr

I know I’m not the only one who has this problem, but I really can’t get the hang of other currencies. In the UK I’m pretty careful with money and have a really clear view of what is a reasonable cost and what isn’t, but if I have to get on a plane I lose all concept, like I suddenly have money vertigo. OK, I might think that something is expensive, but too pretty to not just go ahead and buy it anyway, but the little person in my head (normally with my dad’s cross face) makes it clear I’m behaving impulsively when I go ahead and buy it anyway. I’ve never been one to listen.

Other currencies baffle me. I just spent 25 euro on a taxi, and sitting here in the airport waiting for my flight I have consumed 6 Euros worth of chicken nuggets, totally oblivious to the cost per pound of my reconstituted chicken armpits. I normally go by the rule that if that’s too expensive in pounds, then it’s too expensive. This works in America as it’s roughly half the cost, so angry dad in my head is subconsciously keeping track of my spending, but anywhere else it’s anyone’s guess.

But this is where holiday mentality kicks in. On holiday, it’s OK to have a glass of wine in the airport at 6am, or eating ice-cream as a staple food every day, isn’t it? Just like it seems to be OK to spend money as if I have been shrunk down and popped onto a Monopoly board, trying to avoid being eatedby a giant dog or stomped on by a massive boot as I make my way around the city.

Holiday logic. You wouldn’t drink more than one jug of sangria in a twenty four hour period at home or you peers might rush you off to the nearest AA meeting, but as soon as the sun is to and the people are speaking a different language, it’s OK. Holiday logic.

Everything is more fun when you are on holiday and sounds far more magical, but I hate the fact that I only speak my native tongue, At school I was good at French but my horrible teacher told me not to apply for it to A level as I wouldn’t meet the C entry requirement at GCSE. When I walked out of the exam with an A* (in your face, horrible French teacher) the course was full. I don’t have a natural aptitude for languages though, unlike my beautiful friend Aimili who speaks Greek, French, Italian and lots of others fluently. I get muddled up. Ask me to count to twenty in Spanish and I get to twelve and revert to French. Industrious.

The Spanish language is beautiful though. The taxi driver told me this morning that I was a ‘Bella chica’. Although he was middle aged and could have benefitted from a wash I went a little weak at the knees, when he was essentially just  calling me a ‘fit bird’, something that would have induced a full body shudder in the UK. The guy at border control then called me ‘bambino’ and I smiled sweetly and carried on. Being called baby by anyone at home causes me to involuntarily retch, yet in a different language it sounds musical and seductive from whomever’s lips the words are spoken.

I probably should learn Spanish; it would help me with uncomfortable situations like the one I found myself in yesterday. After trekking round the city we stopped for tapas and a much needed loo stop. Off I went, being pretty confident that I spoke enough Spanish to find the right loo, identifying myself as a senorita. There were no pictures depicting a dress or trousers, and no ‘s’ option on the door. I hopped from foot to foot trying to work out if I was an ‘h’ or a ‘d’ until I figured that it could be a font issue and after reasoning that if I squinted, the ‘d’ looked like an ‘s’, I plumped for that one.

So by the time you read this I will be firmly back on British soil, excited about seeing New Kids on the Block. But for now I must wait for my plane and try to ignore the enormous diet coke that came with the nuggets, for fear that I might need to use the bathroom on the plane and get sucked from the plane, to my death.

Do you speak any languages?

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My Guiltiest Pleasures

16 Apr

My good bloggy friend Jules made it to Freshly Pressed this week, and when I saw her mug shining out at me from the home page, I must say, I was proud.

So in homage to the mantra of Geeking out on Guilty Pleasures, I have compiled a post of my guiltiest pleasures for your entertainment. And if you want a lifetime of guilty pleasures, I suggest you follow her blog!

1)      Stilettos. In the cupboard. Never worn.

Every now and then I find the most jaw droppingly awesome pair of shoes in a shop. You know the ones; they sparkle like Cinderella’s glass slipper at you from miles away, and they play on your mind when you aren’t close to them. They are the queen of the gorgeous shoe, and you simply must have them, regardless of how expensive they are / how painful they will make your feet / potential of breaking a bone. You buy them. You are victorious.

Image

And then they sit in your cupboard for the rest of their life with you, never worn, and sometimes with the label still firmly stuck to the bottom of the shoe. The last time I fell off the wagon and bought a pair of stilettos that i darn well knew I wouldn’t wear was just over a year ago. I was slightly peer pressured into the purchase as I tottered around the shop and my friends marvelled at how awesome my feet looked and how wonderfully sleek my legs seemed. I bought them. I then danced around the house to the Spice Girls in them a few times until a wobble left me scared my ankle would soon be broken, and every now and then I get them out and show my sister, wondering at their sheer beauty. They will never know what it feels like to have tarmac beneath them, as I value my ankles too much.

2)      The alternative food groups: cheese, chocolate orange, diet coke and sushi.

Some days, I will eat only these, or combinations of the four. I might shake it up by throwing in a jaffa cake, but when you are at your lowest or most hormonal there is nothing that isn’t made better by a piece (read, block) or Wensleydale or a tube of Jaffa cakes. Some foods just make the world go round. I am the chopstick queen of sushi, chowing down on sashimi, edemame and California rolls and I often get the ‘wasabi nose’ when I venture across too much of the green stuff.

3)      Boybands

Be it One Direction (bless their chubby little cheeks), Five, Take That or Backstreet Boys, I am guilty of totally embracing my inner tween and warbling away. Now I have sold Betty Blue I can no longer make sure the windows are tightly shut and crank up the stereo, singing to my heart’s content, but when offered tickets to the New Kids on the Block and Backstreet Boys mega tour, I couldn’t say yes quick enough. If only Wham would make a comeback then my life would be complete.

4)      Pugs and Kittens

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My lifelong dream is to gather an army of pugs and ginger kittens. I don’t know what it is about pugs but their faces make me melt. I saw one near Edgeware station the other day dressed in a Burberry body warmer and being dragged by its owner, and its eyes said it all. “Don’t look at me! I’m so ashamed! I hate this woman with over expressive, drawn on eyebrows… SAVE ME!”

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FML! A frickin unicorn!

5)      Ryan Reynolds.

Ah come on, you didn’t think id miss the love of my life out did you? On my last trip to California I convinced my cousins to go see Safe House with me. They are teenagers, and boys, so weren’t convinced that my choice would reflect their interests. When we left the theatre they both marvelled at how well I had picked a storyline they would enjoy. My response?

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“I bloody love Ryan Reynolds.”

I rest my case.

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