It’s a rare occurrence, but this weekend was mine and mine alone. No neatly penned scribbles in the diary, no vague plans with the girls carried away into the air when we previously parted – nothing.
Exciting. I love the thought of a free weekend spanning out across the horizon with nothing interrupting it as it drifts away, and so I went about that brilliant hobby of making last minute plans to fill my day.
On Friday evening we decided, out of the blue, to go out in Camden. There was a bite in the breeze as the season is turning, but we had great fun drinking and dancing and talking with strangers. It just goes to show that when you are with your best friend, time passes too fast and very happily. No fair weather friends, just me and my partner in crime, having fun.
My Weekend In Photos
On Saturday we went to Borough Market. If you are based in London and haven’t been, or ever get to London, it’s a must. Lane upon lane of food stalls, the hustle and bustle of people browsing butchers and fishmongers, and the delightful smell of food stalls whetting your appetite and tantalising your taste buds. It was so hard not to stop at the first stall and chow down on paella, but luckily we resisted as we eventually came to a hog roast stand with cracking and applesauce. Yum!! We finished wandering the market and found an independent cafe to have some tea and warm our bones before heading out into the sleet to go home.
I woke early on Sunday, as the clocks had changed and took the train home to spend the day with two poorly little girls. We had great fun making pizza faces, watching movies and playing, with the kind of clingy cuddles that only sick kids give you, when they don’t want to be out exploiting and discovering, just having cosy cuddles.
How were your weekend? Seems like an age ago now!!
At first cock-crow the ghosts must go
Back to their quiet graves below.
~Theodosia Garrison
Are you sitting comfortably, my dear? Let me tell you a story, of horror and fear….
I’m a bit of a wimp. My bedroom door is right by a door that leads downstairs, and if I go to the loo in the night I often run past the door to get back into bed, just in case the ghouls get me. As a five year old, I vividly remember being read a story by a school teacher about a monster that lived in the space created when a door was left open; the triangle between that and the wall, and now, as a twenty six year old woman, I still sleep with the door shut. Its habit, but I’m sure it has its roots in this. I hate to be able to see darker patches, it stops me from sleeping.
So this weekend, when my sister and I decided to go to the cinema we had a bit of a debate over the right film. I opted for Madagascar 3 (cartoons and penguins) but she preferred Paranormal Activity 4. You know the one, demons are let in, demons throw humans all over the place, humans in the cinema join together in terrified union, humans go home and have to sleep with the light on in case fictional tale of fear is somehow true… not my cup of tea. BUT, seeing as I am closer to thirty than twenty, I thought it was time to embrace my inner wimp and become at one with my demons (see what I did there) so I did it. I braved. To be honest, the film was rubbish and not at all scary, but I thought that about the first one. Until….
I went to Cyprus in September. On the first night I struggled to get to sleep; the heat, new environment and presence of my best friend was all alien to me, and it took a really long time to drift off. When I eventually did, I was woken by a crash that sounded like it was coming from the bathroom. I went to investigate.
Just in case you are trying to picture the scene, I wasn’t armed with anything, I was just lookin’. Not alarmed, nothing. It sounded like the noise when your shampoo gets knocked off the bath and scatters down into the tub, but when I got to the bathroom, there was nothing there. The noise was too loud to have come from an adjoining room, but despite being suitably freaked out, we went back to sleep. Pretty soon I heard the steady breathing of my friend, who had gone straight back to sleep with no concern. Could I? No, I could not.
Because all I could think about was the bit in Paranormal Activity 1 where I had laughed. The goaty footprints. At the time, when the girl put the talc all over the floor and I joked that didn’t the devil have hooves and wasn’t this the perfect time to see goaty prints in the talc, I didn’t think it would come back to haunt me.
What-if-there-really-is-a-devil-and-its-portal-is-a-hotel-room-in-Cyprus? I panicked.
Eventually, I managed to calm myself enough to start drifting off, and just as I was about to fall asleep, I woke myself up screaming.
It had happened again.
Luckily, my best friend has the patience of a saint and managed to calm me down, but by this point I was freaking out, and ready to go sleep in the foyer of the hotel and get the first bus out to a church in the morning, to stand on some hallowed ground or whatever it is you are supposed to do when being haunted.
We finally found out what it was. The fridge had been making a horrendous humming noise, and to help me get to sleep, I had unplugged it. I left the door open to stop it from stinking our room out, not realising that it had a really small ice freezer in the top. Through the night, the ice was melting and large chunks were falling from the freezer onto the tile floors, causing the crashing noise.
Totally rational explanation.
Still slightly traumatised.
I’m looking forward to sharing some of the outfits from the Halloween party next week
Do you have any ridiculous stories that scared you at the time?
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!!!
It’s a demand that dances from the mouths of the majority, fuelled by glossy magazines and a throw away culture of opulence and aspirations; always wanting the newest and next generation across our entire lives. It spews disregard in its wake; a mess of rubbish and packing discarded, abandoned feelings and processes, and leaves us feeling empty, and predominantly unfulfilled.
I want success, love, support and money in abundance, but the chances are I won’t get a full house on this one, and to be honest, what would I do with it if I had it? Its fun to build a massive house full of mod cons and objects, but if you have no one to share it with you may as well be sitting in a cardboard box on a street corner, by yourself.
As the Rolling Stones once said, “you can’t always get what you want, well if you try sometimes, then you might well find, you get what you need”
So stripping it back and thinking hard, what do I actually need to survive and flourish? Support and sustenance. That’s all, folks. I need the love and support of the people around me to pick me up and dust me down when I fall, and to celebrate with me when I succeed, and I need to be healthy and sustained to do so. And ultimately, that’s it.
So I can say, hand on my heart, that the people around me are the people I need. I’m impulsive (you might say flighty, but I will beat you) and I lose interest very quickly. I have a short temper, although as my years grow, my fuse grows with them and I’m stubborn to a fault. If I disagree when you tell me to do something, I will struggle to play by the rules. I think it’s the way I’m made.
But despite that, I’m loyal, considerate, and if I love you I’ll never leave you. Just like my little blog, which despite having been absent from in the previous months, I put my hand on my heart and promise to give a little more love. It’s turned into a weedy and overgrown garden, and it’s time to get pruning.
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*
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?
“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.
I have blogged before about how often I hear a song and wonder about the point of the lyrics, but I swear to whomever it’s politically correct to swear to these days that the world of music is headed sharply for the bottom of the pond.
At work, we have a carefully selected music system, where we all submit an eight-hour playlist, and these playlists are rotated so that there is harmony on the songs that are played and the regularity in which we hear them. You would think that given this system, there would be relative calm and a happy work environment, but there is not. I’m not sure what possesses some people to select songs that feature on their playlist, but I can assure you this; they never admit to it. I personally love a good selection of Wham!, but I wouldn’t actually go as far as to opt for it as part of my eight hours, for fear of becoming a social pariah in the office. It was bad enough when the Beach Boys came on and when the moaning started I stood up and hotly claimed ownership, arguing that I defied anyone to not feel happy when the Beach Boys were playing. They couldn’t. Win.
So far we have had all sorts. The office is a melting pot of ages, sexes and upbringings, so there is of course a wide variety of songs, from The Eagles to Daft Punk, Rihanna to Bob Marley. What you can guarantee, and is as certain as death is to life, that at least once a week we will get Imogen Heap, and also a song that sounds like a smurf has been carefully fed into the paper shredder, with someone drilling behind it.
And the lyrics! Some rap songs, for example, make it really hard for me to understand what the hell is going on, and the motivation for this particular lyrical avenue. It’s almost like the dictionary had a lobotomy, and I just know Bob Marley is turning in his grave, alarmed at the amount of overshare that we get as an insight into these people’s lives.
Historically, rap (I use this in the loosest terms so I don’t get abuse) hasn’t had much to look up to. Lets take the unique Vanilla Ice
“cooking MC’s like a pound of bacon / Take heed cos I’m a lyrical poet (that’s opinion) / if there was a problem, yo ill solve it / check out the hook while my DJ revolves it”
And then, years later, graduates from the Vanilla Ice school of lyric writing, LFO:
New kids on the block had a bunch of hits / Chinese food makes me sick… when you take a sip you buzz like a hornet / Billy Shakespeare wrote a whole bunch of sonnets
Apparently, if it rhymes, you’re good to go. I hear these boys also wear a badge stating they are poets but they just don’t know it.
And even today, they are still at it, with Kanye West leading the pack
You should make your own toilet roll, cos you the s**t”
Compliments a plenty with that one, hey? Obviously, this is a cultural pandemic and not just specific to rappers. The worst ones have quite a catchy tune so you find yourself humming along, but then you clock the words and have to head off to the loo to apply some brain bleach to the affected areas.
And here are my top 5 terrible song lyrics, as chosen by me:
5) Hanson – Mmbop
Plant a seed, plant a flower, plant a rose/ You can plant any one of those / Keep planting to find out which one grows / It’s a secret no one knows.
Lets be sure of this people, it is a secret we know. You plant a seed, and the majority of the time, it will grow. Sure, if you find the seed on the street it will be a surprise as to what actually grows out of it, but chances are, the majority of seeds will grow.
4) Black Eyed Peas – My Humps
So don’t pull on my hand boy / You ain’t my man, boy / I’m just tryn’a dance boy / And move my hump.
This upsets me as Will.I.Am wrote the lyrics to Ordinary People, a song that I absolutely adore. And then this. How. HOW?!
3) Vanilla – No Way No Way
Ah, if you got the genes and think / Ah, you can buy me with one drink / Ah, come we’re livin’ in a dreamworld, boy / Ah, no no no no no way, no way, man-ah man-ah man-ah
Is a highlight. Lyrical genius.
2) Vengaboys – Boom Boom
Boom, boom, boom, boom / I want you in my room / Let’s spend the night together / from now until forever / Boom, boom, boom, boom / I wanna double boom / Let’s spend the night together / together in my room
What a double boom is ‘bear thinking about.
1) Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney
Because she’s mine /The doggone girl is mine / Don’t waste your time / Because the doggone girl is mine
I can’t help but think that this trend for terrible lyrics comes from looking up to Michael Jackson and Sir Paul McCartney. I just cant fathom how two of the greatest songwriters ever were put in a room together and the only word they could think of to describe the girl they were fighting over was doggone.
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.
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.
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
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!”
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?
"There’s not much I can say other than I adore this young woman’s writing. You really need to check her out for yourself." Caprice at The Home Heart
"This one’s making her way back to Neverland, one day at a time… With a hell of a lot of blog posts taking her there! Laura always has something to give and write about, you will never fail to find something interesting to read and comment on, partially because there is so much to read!" from Rebecca @ Rebecca's Retreat
'There aren’t enough adjectives in the english language to accurately describe this lovely gal… Miss Tink has been scheming a way to get me on one those them there aero-plane thing-a-ma-jigs along with the fabulous Miss Vix since we first became blogging pals at the beginning of this year. She’s a hoot, insightful and one of the sweetest and real chicas I know. She will make you laugh… Go on now… catch the bug and head on over her way.' from my chica Megan @ Maggie Mae's Days
'I stumbled upon her blog: Laughter is catching by chance and absolutely loved it. While she might stay half way around the world, I felt an instant kinship and believe if we ever do meet we’ll likely laugh together at random rubbish until tea comes out of noses… or one of us snorts.' from Sam @ That Place In My Head
'Your undying creativity and worthwhile content astounds me. Keep up the good work :)' from Josiah @ Devastating The Obvious
'Can you say adorable and hilariously funny at the same time…you will be in love in a heartbeat!!' thanks Donna! The Redneck Princess
''I am impressed when I read her blogs. She is young, smart and to the point. Great blog!'Tammy Holloway
'Tinkerbelle: another lovely Englishwoman who believes Laughter is catching.Sparklebumps
"Things I like about this 20-something Londoner: she doesn’t take herself too seriously, she’s got a great cast of supporting characters, and her light, witty writing style is just fun to read" .From Kelly @ Hot Off The Wire
~ Tinkerbelle is a young writer from the UK who seems to pour humor from her keyboard. She’s only 25 and I found her site because she came across mine. I like her self-deprecating style and the window into a completely.different.life .From Grace and Space
~ I could listen to Brits speak til the cows come home. How could you not love this? “rather than faff with doing it on the hob”? Oh stop that, it’s nothing to do with THAT! .From Pooter and Boogers Place
A lovely little blog which actually encapsulates what a blog is supposed to be- a journal of thoughts and happenings. Laura writes about the simplest and most everyday things in a fun, humorous style and her blog is true to it’s name. You are guaranteed to laugh! .From Cinnamin
