So I wrote a post not so long ago when I started keeping this blog about Monday morning. It kinda digressed somewhat into a monologue about that time I went to see Shamu (no h8) and suffered from chafing and embarrassment for the rest of the day though, and so I’m guessing its alright for me to double up on post inspo and talk once again about the glorious Monday morning vibez. Continue reading
It’s so hard to escape the trending columns this week, with so much showbizzy goodness to distract us from social and political monopolisation. Just to clarify: I’m totally team Amber Rose in the Muva vs. Khloe Kardash spat; there’s no escaping that Tyga should probably be helping out with his baby mama and not getting stuck into a 17 year old, but that’s just my opinion. Continue reading
Today my morning has been sponsored by nutella, sugar and lemon juice, much like the mornings of many of us around the glorious United Kingdom. Our office has been overrun with sugar rushing officey types as we all celebrate (perhaps obtusely) because some guy who may or may not have existed and is now Kanye West took a trip into the desert to fast and pray. My morning looked a little like this: Continue reading
When it comes to just about anything in life, the rule seems to be that if science says it’s OK, it’s OK. For example, if nutritional science is telling you that it’s OK and even encouragable to be eating a blend of kale, spinach and broccoli for your brekkie, you run out and bag yourself a nutri bullet and fill that shit with anything green, in the hope that the gods of science will approve and make you slim, fit and healthy.
I for one am not one to argue with science (although I don’t own a nutri bullet and would prefer to eat a brownie than a handful of kale). We as humans have a lot to thank science for; the pillheads among us for their narcotics, the wounded among us for their medical prowess and ability to ease pain and heal, and now the lazy amongst us for their indissoluble theory as to why some people (me) are always late. Continue reading
The thing I suck most at in life is being bad at things. While that might be an oxymoron, what it really means is that I am the worst most sore loser in the United Kingdom, probably; I tantrum when I can’t grasp how to do something and end up winding myself up even more. If you’ve read my post about my skiing incident, you’ll probably have gathered this by now; it’s not the most attractive trait in a person I’m sure. Late last year, when I moved into my beautiful house, I bought a shit load of Ikea furniture to swag out my room with and was fuming when it all arrived flatpacked – being less than gifted with common sense or with any practical skills, there was no chance I was getting any of it up myself. In fact, I tried to screw one of the screws into its corresponding little hole and failed, started crying, and ditched the whole job for my boyfriend to do.
One of the great disappointments of my life (woe is me) is that I’m truly shite at art. I could write you a great description of someone pretty easily and you’d probably get an alright idea in your mind of who I was on about (I would hope) but if I got out the paint brushes and attempted to draw them you’d end up with something like this that I just whacked out on Paint: Continue reading
OK so as I mentioned yesterday, I’ve been nominated for the Liebster Award (and if people want the evidence that I’m not just making this shit up, you can check out the glorious nomination itself on this here post). Thank you kindly to Laura from Owning Your Okayness once again for ever taking the time to read anything I write, and for bothering to give me a shout out. It’s truly lovely.
I’ve knocked together some answers to the questions I was asked by Laura, and hope that they’re not quite as boring as they sound in my head. I’m not too good with answering questions on myself or making myself sound interesting – I was always wank at that ‘stand up and tell us something interesting about yourself’ game in school. Continue reading
After a ten-day stint on the sofa weeping at Frozen and destroying all my hard work in the gym and on my diet, I’ve now returned to full strength for long enough at least to write myself a little number for the blog, like a fetal Lord Voldemort reborn from a cauldron with the help of his loyal servant Wormtail (represented in this metaphor by antibiotics). Continue reading