Sunday, 21 December 2014

Disco Celt

It's the Winter Solstice y'all. I like how so many of us have a thin vein of paganism flowing inside, passed down from an ancient past -  if my aunty is stood in the garden at night and she can see the moon, she has to salute it and turn round three times.

When you dig your hands in the sand, or brush your hand along a hedge as you walk past, or close your eyes and feel the wind trying to push and pull you - is that what happens when your inbuilt pagan tendancies flicker to life and begin to worship, or is that just what happens when you drink too much? Discuss.

I'm in Any Nothern Mill Town. It's cold. I got off the coach on Friday and felt like I'd been thrown into an icy puddle. It was so windy and the rain was vicious. I've not been back to my mum's for six months and all this time I've been fondly reminiscing about heavy rainfall, filling the streets with curtains of mist and water, pitter-pattering on my head in a light and refreshing way.

That rain is bullshit rain, existing only in romcoms and London summers.

The rain here doesn't fall straight down, it blows in at you from every angle and it's so cold it stings. You can't see and you can't walk straight because of the wind and it's bitterly cold. I tried to cover my hair in what I usually imagine to be my chic and casual, is-she-or-isn't-she-vaguely-Middle-Eastern-or-Eastern-European manner, but the scarf got tangled up at the neck and stuck flat to my forehead. I struggled through town like an insane turtle; my pale, blinking face like a hideous wet square, surrounding by dripping blue scarf.

Also, my vest top kept pulling down at the front and showing my bra and I couldn't fasten my coat. When I finally got to Any Northern Town, my brother had cooked us a roast dinner. I had no idea he could cook. He cooked beef! I don't know how to roast beef.

That night my mum took me and my brother to stay with her boyfriend. I don't know if I mentioned she has a boyfriend now, but she does - and it's someone she knew years ago, who me and my brother used to know quite well.

We went to a funny social club to watch a folk band and a local performance poet. He did a poem about having Monster Munch and a Fudge shoved up his bum -  what wonderfully refreshing poetry, darling. Really different.

I drank a lot of Guinness and got a bit inwardly sulky when my mum made me swap seats so she could sit with her boyfriend. SOUND FAMILIAR? I think I am a bit touchy about this because my mum has done it to me before at my grandad's funeral years ago and my dad did it to me this year at my aunty's funeral.

A funeral is not an ideal place to be reminded that everyone in the world would prefer to be with someone else rather than you, even your mum and dad are just killing time until their boyfriend/girlfriend shows up.

Maybe I am overeacting a tiny bit. I did drink a lot of Guinness.

Anyway. I am glad my mum has got a boyfriend and funnily enough it's someone who, when I was little, I would have liked her to go out with.

Talking of my mum and boyfriends... do you want to hear a creepy story?

Two weeks ago my mum's ex-husband called her and said he was moving back into the house. Can you imagine? After all this time, for him to try moving back? I think he thought he could get his old life back by barging in on my mum's life, but she told him he could not move in under any circumstances.

Two days later, my brother noticed some of my ex-stepdad'd stuff back in the garage. Then the next day, my mum woke up around 6am. She went into the bathroom and saw her ex-husband's toiletries lined up in the bathroom.

He had moved back in while she and my brother were asleep!!

So creepy and nightmarish.

He stayed for ten days and eventually left. I was dreading coming back and seeing him - so glad he left before I got here. My mum said she thinks he was a bit scared of seeing me, which is funny. He is like a big spider - more scared of you than you are of it, even though it makes your skin crawl.

Thank god he's gone again. He's such a weirdo. I don't want to say too much on here in case he reads it. You never know what he is scheming.

I wasn't feeling very Christmassy, but yesterday I went into town and met up with Kayt. We had a couple of glasses of prosecco and then she had  a dinner to go to and I went to do some Christmas shopping. Walking around Selfridges while drunk is great, but is not the way to successfully complete your Christmas shopping. I bought some toner for myself and three jars of Nutella with personalised labels for the three French kids I used to look after (they LOVE Nutella). I spelt one of their names wrong and so have to go back today to see if they will change it.

I don't even have their address anymore.

I've not been shopping for months and months. While I was waiting for the Nutella labels to be printed, I browsed the Topshop concessionary. Forget my inner pagan, my (not so) inner consumer was FLIPPING OUT.

My hands weres stroking everything - feathery jumpers, mirrored crop tops with black beaded fringes, purple velvet kimonos, a white shimmery dress with white feather trim, silky trousers, cashmere, soft leather, black lace, thin silky straps on camisoles and slips, lurex, satin, sequins...

If it had all been in a charity shop or a bin bag on the street, I would have loved it just as much. I'm not an evil consumer. I just like nice things. Maybe it is my inner Celt, who would have liked turquoise and jade and bronze jewellery. Imagine an army of Celts wearing mirrored crop tops and velvet hotpants, with cloaks and spears...

Disco Celt - the new mood for AW18 perhaps?

Saturday, 6 December 2014


There is an article in this week's Grazia about the 'single gene'. Apparently it is a real thing and lots of women have it. (No mention of whether men can have the 'single gene' too.)

I have definitely got it - I know it.

But then again, Susan Boyle has apparently got herself a boyfriend, so maybe there is hope for everyone? Not that I am saying Susan Boyle should struggle to get a man more than me - just that she has never had a boyfriend and she is fifty years old... so it is quite unsual that she has found a feller after all this time.

This is the problem with reading shitty magazines - they fill my head with crap. That's why I like Vogue. People complain that it encourages people to go out and buy £2,000 silky zigzag trousers, but surely that is better than persuading people they have the single gene?

I wish MORE people would go out and buy £2,000 silky zigzag trousers. They could pay for them on finance instead of that massive fuck-off telly.

I don't have a fantastic singing voice or a record deal, plus I have the single gene - Grazia basically reached out from their poor-quality paper pages, grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and TOLD me I have it.

I really think I should get a move on and get a cat.

A fluffy black cat has been coming into our house for saucers of milk and cuddling. The first time I saw it, I was opening the front door to go inside and it leapt down from the wall, meowing at me manically as if to say "Wheere have you been where have you beeeeen???"

And I thought 'Oh my god, here is my cat. My cat has finally found me."

It definitely belongs to someone though, because it has a sparkly collar. I feel as if we are stealing it a little bit, but we don't feed it or anything. Well, apart from the saucer of milk. But maybe as it always comes to us in the morning or afternoon, its owners have a burglar alarm and have to kick it of the house all day. It's really cold in London now - and me and Mon let it sit on our warm laps and give it lots of strokes,

I've started talking about cats now and I can't stop. Last weekend I cat-sat for Beth and her fiance's (!!!) two Burmese kittens. They are so cuddly - they slept in the crook of my knees and fought for my attention all weekend. They both tried to sit on my knee at the same time, but it took them a long time to do so without one of them falling off and then clawing at the other one in annoyance. Eventually though they both managed to squeeze on, as you can see below:

I was trying to do some freelance work at the time. I'm back to writing content 'articles' with titles like 'World's Best Poker Players' and 'How to Find the Best Cosmetic Surgeons'.

I still really love my copywriting job, but I wish I didn't have to subsidise myself with other work. We had our Christmas party this week and if they are giving out bonuses to employees who can do the best knee dancing then don't worry - I'm definitely getting one.

Halfway through the night I looked down at my knees as I tried a new dance move out - knocking them together continuously - and saw, to my ecstatic delight, that they were moving in time to the music. I've tried the 'knees-knocking-together' dance many times before but never managed to get the rhythm right.

Last Tuesday however - they were bending out and smacking back into each other like two smooth groovy knee hipsters - like I had hired them for the evening and left my normal, uncoordinated knees at home to practice dancing in unison (I bet they just sat in front of the telly eating crisps. They are inexplicably chubbier than the other components of my legs).

I was so chuffed with my knee-knocking dance that I did it solidly for about three hours. I'm not exaggerating. My legs were KILLING me the next day and they were still aching a bit yesterday. I wore my super high shoes that I fell down the stairs in at Olivia's birthday last year - it's lucky I didn't snap my neck.

At least I didn't fall over at the work Christmas party. I did a lot of extravagant dancing in them though and - as it was a free bar - my wine glass was always full. A lot of my wine went on the floor, to the point where a man from another office took my glass off me. This other girl was twirling me round like we were at a school disco and I was literally showering everyone within a five metre radius with cheap white wine.

The next day another girl was telling everyone that she fell over five times during the party and was really embarrassed.

"It's because the floor was so wet," I said wisely, "Remember how the floor was inexplicably wet?"

Someone pointed out that the floor was only wet around me, because it was me spilling the wine and as I was twirling around so much and disco-dancing here there and everywhere, I managed to cover the entire huge dance floor in wine throughout the night.


I've not done a crap Paint picture in a while, hold on...

The man is wearing a white suit because I can't be arsed colouring him in. I didn't wear a white dress either. Ooh do you want to see the dress I wore?

It's from Joy and it was 30% off in Black Friday Weekend. I HATED Black Friday before - it's such an Americanism, we don't even have Thanksgiving in this country, what's the bloody point - but when I took the dress to the till and realised I was getting 30% off I changed my dress.

I am so fickle.

I also feel bad about what I said about Russel Brand (about he was a dick for telling the masses how to live their lives, not being one of 'the masses' himself) after reading an article about how he is sticking up for some East London residents facing eviction. The articled questioned why we are all hating him when all he is doing is trying to help people.

Sorry, this post is all over the place. Now I have started blogging again don't know why I stopped. I do have a couple of specific stories I want to share, but I'm a bit worried people at work can find my blog...

This is one of my favourite songs ever and I'd forgotten all about it until this week:

Thursday, 13 November 2014

Balkan Dreams

I'm back and my key isn't orking, so e could be here for a hile. 

I could copy and paste w to the front of all those words, like I'm doing now, but I think for (the admittedly small) comedy value I will leave them as they are.

There are a lot of bloody w's in the English language, aren't there? Maybe it would be quicker to type double-u instead of copying and pasting each time... It is! But double-uould that be extremely hard to read?


Oh my god. I am such an idiot. why don't I just write the whole blog post (how many ws??) first, then go back when I've finished and add the ws? Don't expect any capital ws though...


Yes, I'm stalling for time.

I don't even know where to begin catching up (in my head I sounded like Audrey Hepburn then), so I will start with some notes I jotted dowwith the intention of blogging about them.

new TV- distration directly into brain

taking away everybody's fingerprints to stop identity theft

Hmm, I don't think they where things to blog about, I think they were actually just my ideas for sci-fi short stories set fifty years from now/predictions for the future that will come true. Maybe I should write them all down here so that when they come true I can wave them about and bathe in my glorious correctness. After all, I predicted the see-through toaster and the rising popularity of cloaks - I clearly have a gift for knowing which way the wind is blowing... 

Here are some other forecasts that will probably come to pass tomorrow or if not maybe next Sunday:

1) More and more western girls will sell their virginity on ebay, until a neweb site comes out called Vbay. It will become a right of passage and girls who don't save their virginity will be unable to pay their way through university. (I think we're all glad I never sat down and tried to stretch these two sentences into a short story.)

2) There will be bouncy castles with goldfish swimming in them, or maybe tropical sea creatures. (I told this to Lauren when we were about 19 and to be honest, I'm not sure I still wholeheartedly believe it will come true.)

3) There will be a Twitter for thoughts, where you publish ThoughtStreamz and people can listen to them in their heads.

4) Hipsters will start making their own chocolate in some kind of warehouse, from cocoa beans grown in the Forest of Dean.

Ok. The other things I've jotted do
wn are:

Darlington, don't want to go to Darlington - I think this is pretty self-explanatory.

Russell Brand, rich irrelevant, rich people no problems but shouldn't mess in other's affairs - I think I wrote this after reading an interviewith Russell Brand I read where he told people not to pay their mortgage or their council tax... NICE ONE DICKHEAD. 

what did he say that for?? People who don't pay their mortgage or their council tax end up in a lot of debt and a lot of trouble and on the streets. I know Russell Brand used to be a heroin addict and probably lived in scummy housing, but he doesn't anymore. It's like telling people to jump off a cliff into the sea and abseiling along next to them, safely locked in. 

I have nothing against the Super Rich, but it's not appropriate for them to become involved in the lives of the Very Poor, anymore than it is appropriate for a man from Blackpool called Mad Snookerball Gazza to receive the Iranian ambassador at Buckingham Palace - he just wouldn't know what to do, his skill set lies elsewhere.

Blog: Balkan Beats - wanted to write about this because it was the funnest night ever, but almost too fun. we actually had to leave too early as we were exhausted from throwing ourselves around like wild things. (Claire actually told me to stop dancing at one point, because she said my hair as all over the place and my eyeliner was all over my face and I was dancing like an insane person.) It as seriously the best music night I've been to for ages. They played the balkan beats verson of Hava Nagila and me Claire and Jen crossed our arms like a chair for B to sit on and then we threw her up and down like she as a Jewish bride.

I'll leave you with it now but I must warn you - it's an acquired taste. I put it on in the office last week and absolutely everyone hated it apart from one French, who asked me who the DJ was because he said it's his favourite genre of music.

Before I go, let me remind myself of what's left to talk about:

My nana is on the mend (she's allowed to eat and drink now, almost two months earlier than they originally said)...

Kate Bush...


and The Best Dream I Ever Had In My Life.

They say other people's dreams are boring (not for me, I'd like to add) but this blog is, after all, just a personal record of my self-absorbed life and I need to remember that dream - all day I was mooning about it - so I might as well sum it up here, while I remember.

It was the kind of dream I would write if they invented a technology for us to program our own dream: a cross between a chase dream;  the recurring dream I have here every country in the world is in one small place along one coastline; Blade Runner; Memories of Matsuko; and a romantic costume drama. There was so much detail - the pretty futuristic city by the sea, 

I remember looking at myself dreaming from somewhere deep inside my mind and telling myself not to forget all the detail when I woke up. There were different areas of the city,with different architecture and a different atmosphere - from the crumbling old town to the slick black business district. There were flying cars and pastel buildings and towers in the sea not far from the coast, huge open windows, leading into spacious studios with conveyor belts and giant mattresses inside, everything pink and yellow... It's sounding a bit like Mr Blobby meets the Terminator but it was nothing like that...

Sorry, I know other people's dreams are boring. You can have a dance now.

PS. Guess who's shares are down by 38%? American Apparel. Their sales of offensively-advertised shit have gone down and they've "recorded the biggest loss in 4 years". Amy will be pleased to hear that, all the way in Australia! I can't remember the site I got these figures from, but that's the internet for you - untrustworthy as ever (Google it if want to see for yourself).

Friday, 17 October 2014


Spot the difference:

Blade Runner (image from here)

La Defense

Bloody hell. This morning my eyes snapped open at 7am. I threw back the covers to discover I was fully-dressed, still wearing my jumper, jeans and socks- the lot. I'd also gone to sleep with my bedroom light on.

I was only supposed to meet Jen for a one drink after wor, then her French friend from work showed up and it turned into a few drinks. When we got out of the pub it was raining really hard and all the buildings around us were black. It really reminded me of Paris- I KNOW I KEEP TALKING ABOUT IT BUT LISTEN- that dark heavy sci-fi rain that would fall on La Defense as I looked out Georgie's window, or sat in Julia's car as she drove round the périphérique.

Jen looked at my face, "Are you crying??" she asked and I was- proper bawling my eyes out and I hadn't even noticed. It was that ridiculous drunk crying that has no rhyme or reason and I stopped as soon as I realised what I was doing. Me and Jen both got the tube to Bank and after saying goodbye to Jen and getting on my next tube, I was calm and content. I even tried to drunkenly read my book.
(I love it when you are really, really drunk and can still manage to read a book- your confused brain makes everything in the book seem crazily real.)

But when I got off the tube I started again- I got off the main road and onto an empty stretch of road and just started crying hysterically as the rain soaked me through, like I was in playing a crying girl in a cheesy comedy. 

I got home and just lay on the floor sobbing, then apparently went to bed in all my clothes. I don't remember going upstairs.

Jen gave me one of her tablets for vertigo, because I told her I've had a couple of incidents where I've been really dizzy for no reason and she said it sounds vertigo. Maybe it was the tablet that turned me into a hysterical mess. I was crying, but at least I wasn't dizzy.

I feel a bit crackers to be honest. I want to be calm and full of peace, warm and light with no room for anything else.

I have started doing yoga with my cousin Sophie- so far I have only been to two classes. The first week we went we got chased by a fox- at first we were pleasantly surprised to see a fox strutting about at half six in the evening, then it started running so we panicked and started running and it kept chasing us.

Maybe it was just running in the same direction as us, because it dove off into an alleyway before it got to us, or maybe it wanted to savage our legs and ankles and drag us back to its fox cave- you decide.

I've always wanted to do yoga. Some of the poses make me shake like an old man and some of them just make me laugh- keep holding your legs in the air and now lower them very slowly so your knees are by your ears and your feet are on the floor behind you K THEN.

The class is in a strange dance studio/workshop/flat in a warehouse. People live and work there, building their homes around them from scaffolding and recycled wood. I would quite like to live somewhere like that but I don't think they would want to live with someone who works in advertising. 

THIS REMINDS ME. My trip to Paris that I keep dragging out... I will just finish it off now, quickly. Me and Julia were walking down the street wondering what to do when she noticed boxes of vegetables in the street. We were debating whether they were there to take or not, when a man came of what we thought was an empty shop and told us to take them. He also asked us if we wanted free coffee, so we went inside and he told us they were a squat cafe community project thing.

We spent an afternoon there talking to the two guys about writing and art- Julia told them she was an artist and I told them I was a writer, but then I mentioned how I work in advertising and the two guys mockingly hissed and made signs of the cross against me.

Anyway. That was that. I got the coach back to London later that day and had just enough time to have a shower and get dressed before going straight to work. I wasn't sad to leave Paris at all, because it was my birthday that day and it was lovely.

That was AGES ago now. I can't believe it was over three months ago.

Enough with the past- here's something exciting. On Saturday I am going to Balkan Beats and I AM SO EXCITED and then in a few weeks I am going to Berlin.

Kimono Kaity who I have mentioned a couple of times is my secret friend, who nobody else has ever met. We were saying the other day it's quite nice to have a friend like that, almost like we are each other's imaginary friend. (I know what you're thinking and I'm pretty sure she's not my imaginary friend, I'm not that crackers.)

She left London to move to New York and now she's back and moving to Berlin, which is very exciting for her but also exciting for me because I'm going to go and stay with her at the end of this month.

In the meantime, if are dubious about the chasing fox read this article- they really do hurt people! They're not scared of humans anymore, it is literally a waiting game to see how long before they really start acting batshit crazy and tearing the city up, just because they can.

The fox that I saw with my cousin had a strangely human face as well, there was something uncanny about it.

By the way my cousin Sophie is leaving London- her and her boyfriend are moving up North. I guess most people leave eventually but I don't think I will ever leave, unless I move back to Paris. That is the last time I will mention Paris I promise (let me clarify that I absolutely do not promise). From now on it's all about Berlin, ja?

Thursday, 9 October 2014

Leaping About

Listen- in my last post, I didn't mean that if I put on weight I wouldn't be able to take my clothes off in the bedroom and leap about in front of other people*. I was just thinking about it then and realised I might sound like one of those girls who goes OH GOD I'M SO FAAAAAT when they're just a normal size.

I just meant, you know... everybody has a size they feel comfortable at and you know when you've been eating a bit too much and have gone past it and you don't particularly feel like leaping about, with or without your clothes on.


Last Friday I did some leaping about with my clothes on- and when I say leaping I mean disco-dancing- to Pychemagik, they're really, really fun.

*Maybe that's why nobody will come into my boudoir, because word has gotten out about all the leaping. 

Duck Fatty

It is suddenly so cold outside, blustery and dark. I just want to watch TV dramas (Glue on E4 is surprisingly good) and read my book in bed, with the rain hammering on the window (I'm reading Bring Up the Bodies by Hilary Mantel and it's soooo good- I wish Europe was as small as it was in Henry VIII's time, so I could skip to Paris, Antwerp and Venice whenever I felt like it, selling silks and sweetmeats and maybe meeting rough and ready pirates* on my travels).

I feel so autumnal, like a baked potato made of golden leaves, with a pumpkin-flavoured sausage nestled inside.

Or maybe just the sausage, to be honest.

It seems that the collective menfolk of London have voted in secret and the unanimous decision is thanks, but they would rather not see what's underneath my clothes. So I may as well fatten up for Christmas.

I bought a new bra for the first time in years the other day and I had to buy it in a bigger size means either:
a) I have been wearing the wrong bra size all this time
b) the consequence of my decision to roast vegetables in duck fat rather than olive oil has manifested itself in both (thankfully not just one of) my boobs
c) I am carrying a secret Jesus baby and my breasts are full of magic milk.

The thought of magic milk has just made me feel SICK so let's hope the answer is a) or b). If I'm honest I hope the answer is a) but who cares really. It is the time of year for eating and expanding.

All I want to eat is roast chicken and vegetables. Perhaps this is because I'm eating for two- not me and magic secret Jesus baby, but me and my nana. She can't eat anything for three months.

I went to see her last weekend- Olivia happened to be driving back to her parents' for the weekend and it seemed like a lucky coincidence, so I decided to go up and visit my nana.

I stayed with Olivia and her mum and dad, because my dad has left Liverpool now. I kind of knew he'd left, but because I've not spoken to him for so long it didn't really seem real until I got to the hospital. My nana was surpised to see me- I hadn't told her I was coming- and there was a little Irish nun sat with her when I arrived.

The nun left when I got there- not because I am the devil but because she had other friends to visit- and then my aunty showed up, who is really nice. She said if she'd have thought before, she would have offered me a bed at her house, so that was alright.

They asked me if I was 'courting' and I said no. Then they asked me if I had my own room at Olivia's mum and dad's and I said no and I realised they probably thought I was a lesbian, so then I started telling them about Olivia's boyfriend and how they lived together at his parents' house in a really posh part of London.

("Look at you with yer Big Friends!" my nana said, but that was more to do with the fact that Olivia's mum and dad live in a posh part of Liverpool- they have a real pizza oven in their garden. You don't get bigger than that.)

I wouldn't mind my nana and my aunty thinking I was a lesbian if I was one (I refuse to say 'if I were one', so don't even ask), but I'm not. I feel that sexuality is a part of who you are and so if people don't know your sexuality- whether it's hetero or homosexual- they don't know the real you.


My nana seemed ok, apart from the fact she has tubes in her and can't eat for three months. Mentally she was great, but I think the boredom will set in soon. She can't cook or eat- her two favourite things to do- and there's no telly. She doesn't read fiction and she doesn't want to use the mini DVD player my aunty bought her.

She was looking forward to the Mayor of Liverpool coming in, to visit his sick sister who is in the bed opposite.

"He doesn't know me, but he knows of me." she said smugly.

Apparently she has been terrorising the Liverpool Labour party for years- she cancelled her membership and she likes to show up to public meetings to tell them why. I feel proud of my nana, but slightly sorry for the Mayor.

(If you Google him though, he doesn't look like a man that needs people to feel sorry for him.)

That was two weeks ago now, I need to stop getting so far behind in my blogging. I finally got back on my C.S Motorbike (do you remember what that is?) and the episode was not without incident... but I'm not sure I can tell you the story.

When you type my real name into Google it now links back to this blog, thanks to my brief dalliance in Google+. I'm worried people from work will Google me (because everyone- and I mean absolutely everyone on the planet- is obsessed with me and every minute they're not reading my blog is spent frantically searching the internet for more information about me) and read my blog and know that I like to eat duck fat and cry about foster cats from my past.

I HATE Google+.

But I like this:

*with secret sensitive sides, though.
**I think that nowadays, if God was real and God made somebody pregnant with his magic baby, then he probably wouldn't pick a virgin, because it would be very traumatic and alarming for the poor girl. Maybe he would choose a hardy, matronly woman, who would deliver the baby herself, still wearing her apron from the chippy she runs with her husband Nige. The miracle would be that Nige has had impotency issues for the last few years.

Thursday, 25 September 2014

Early Night

I was going to blog tonight but have just found my nana is in hospital, very ill. My brother has been trying to call me but I missed his calls and so he sent a text. Now he's not answering his phone, maybe he's at work.

I know it is a bit awkward when people announce private issues on their blog, but I would feel a bit weird posting something normal, like it was a bit disrespectful.

Apparently she has been in hospital for three weeks and my dad didn't tell me and my brother because he lost his phone. I have been pissed off at him for a while now, mainly because I decided to stop contacting him, just to see if he would ever contact me, and since the last time I called him in March, I've heard nothing... apart from a cautious text two days before my birthday saying Hello how r u

I think he half-hoped I would text back and say 'Hi dad how are you? I'm very excited for my birthday on the 7th July' but I just texted him back a standard 'I'm fine' message, giving him no clues as to when my birthday was. Ha. The day after my birthday I got a text back saying, 'Happy Birthday anyway'.

I told him thanks but my birthday had been and gone.

My mum said maybe he think texts are like telegrams and they take a few days to come through.


I received a friend request from him on Facebook about a month ago which was a complete shock because I didn't know he a) knew what Facebook was b) had an email address c) had a computer.

There was just a grey blank silhouette where his photo should be, his name and his age. I accepted his request but he seems to have since delete his account.

Also word on the grapevine is he has moved to Darlington. I thought about playing a trick on him and calling up to say I was outside his house in Liverpool in the rain, would he let me in?

And he would have to say sorry I've actually moved four hours away. I was going to tell you, never...

I guess I'm shit because I never sent my half-brothers a birthday card or anything, I never call or see them.

Have I said all this before? Lately I've been thinking it over and over and over again and now my nana's in hospital and I knew what to do. I feel like maybe I should go to Liverpool this weekend. I don't know. I can't ask my dad what to do because he won't know.

I spoke to my nana a few weeks ago on the phone, I called her out of the blue and we chatted for hours. She told me my dad had stopped with 'the ale and the funny ciggies' and had been showing up at her house every morning to make her breakfast.

I wonder.

I'm just ranting because I feel like I should be talking to someone in the family about nana but I can't. because I don't have anyone's numbers.

Here's a post I wrote a few days ago anyway.

I walked to the river, then down the steps and along the edge. Most of the way I was on my own, with nobody obstructing my view of the wide river bend. (I didn't break into the song from Pocahontas, but maybe I should have.)

It was quite a cold day, the weather report had said it would be raining all weekend but I decided I knew Paris better than anyone and I didn't feel like it was going to rain...

It did rain, a lot.

But it held off while I walked along the river, then back to Rue de Rivoli and down to the Marais. I met Abby outside L'as du Fallafel and it was just like I'd never left, both with the falafel shop- the same guys were working there and, excuse the cliche, the falafel tasted even better than I remembered- and with Abby.

It doesn't really matter how much time passes, with most of my friends it's like no time has passed at all every time we meet up, even we meet up every few years, that's how I know we're friends.

Cleo, my friend from my waitressing job, came to meet us too and we went and sat in Place de Vosges with our food. We sat on a bench and talked for ages. I miss how conversations with French people can quickly turn philosophical, or sharing of stories of friends the other people don't know and will never meet.

The only dampener on our joyous reunion was that when Abby bit into her fallafel, her tooth crumbled and fell out of her head, which has probably put her off fallafel for life.

When it started to rain, we went to find a bar and ended up in La Perle by accident. Julia met us from work and we had a few glasses of wine before heading back to Julia's. We were supposed to go to a rave festival thing on the outskirts of Paris, but by the time we got back to Julia's apartment it was raining really hard. Julia told me the rave was in a field, which put me off a little bit and then she told me the music was Pys-Trance, which put me off a lot.

Also, I was knackered from the coach. I know I say this every time I get the coach and I always go back on my word- but I'm never getting the coach to Paris again, especially not just for the weekend. Not only does it eat into your Paris time, but the impracticality of sleeping during the journey means that you have to waste a lot of Paris time napping too.

I slept for two hours, which I think makes me the worst house guest ever`. When I woke up it was quite late in the evening and we couldn't be bothered to go out. Also, at the moment Julia is a very, very poor art student (she said her lecturers actually advised them all to steal paint for their projects, when they asked how they were supposed to buy supplies) and I was skint. Too skint for Paris...

In a way it was good, because lately I've only been remembering how much more money I had in Paris and what a nice lifestyle I had, but it wasn't always like that. Remember when I survived on cake decorations and took my eye make-up off with an apple? (It wasn't very effective, but it was worth a try.)

Instead of going to a trance rave in the rain, we got Thai take-away and Julia's sister came round. We chatted all night and drank gin and tonic, it was really nice. Actually, it was nice just to catch up with people, I'm glad I didn't try and do too much.

I love talking to Julia and her sister, because they always have crazy conspiracy stories and scientific breakthroughs to discuss...

Julia's sister told me when she was studying in America a few months ago, she spilt boiling water down her leg and called her mum. Her mum put her on the phone to this guy who can help heal burns just by talking to you... Julia's sister is going to be a scientist- she doesn't believe in spiritual magic things- but it really helped heal her burn and she has since discovered these 'burn people' are actually employed in French hospitals! And nobody can say how it works.

I some people won't believe this, because some people are just fucking boring and don't believe anything they haven't seen with their own eyes (which is ridiculous, it's like me saying I don't believe in Croatia just because I have never been there), so here is a link to a blog post I've found, discussing the issue further.

(Basically, if you think it sounds mental, the people who really believe this therapy works liken it to when people can walk over hot coals unscathed using the power of their minds. I obviously don't think you should stand around on the phone when someone suffers a burn- you should act fact and then rush them to hospital- but what's the harm in calling the number on your way to the hospital, if you believe in that sort of stuff?)


The next day we slept in quite late and then went for brunch round the corner from Julia's, with her sister and my friend Cleo. (Abby couldn't come because she was sorting her tooth out at the dentist.) Instead of the brunch, I had steak frites with blue cheese sauce, because that's what I dream about in London.

It was raining heavily, but in a nice way. The streets were pale grey and quiet, trees fresh and green above. After brunch I wanted to go on la petite ceinture, but the entrance we normally climb in round the corner from Fleche d'Or was boarded up.

And it stops there.

I'm going to drag my Paris weekend out even more, now I'm off to call my brother and see if he'll pick up his phone.

Sunday, 21 September 2014

Autumn Soup

Summer definitely isn't coming back for a surprise encore- it's early evening and the sky is dark, the blackberries are finished... even the nettles are gone. My master plan this month was to live off nettle soup, due to an unfortunate decision to get rid of my monthly wages in various bars and supermarkets around London by the second week of the month; however, when my mum was here last weekend I asked her for the recipe and she said nettles are no good at this time of year.

Grass soup anyone?

Potatoes are a cheap soup ingredient but I can't use them anymore after a girl at work pointed out the leek and potato soup has the same texture as... I can't write the word. (Next time you put a spoonful in your mouth, ask yourself if you're going to spit or swallow and you'll know exactly what I mean.)


I haven't had much time to blog recently. I wanted to blog about the Irish pub me and B discovered, then Kate Bush, the end of my Paris trip, which- to be honest- I know I'm dragging out, but when I finish writing about it that will really be the end and now I don't know when I'll go back. If only I didn't drink alcohol or eat food or use toiletries and the tube wasn't so fucking expensive, I'd be going back and forth every weekend.

Sigh. This time of year is when I would always return to Paris, after spending three weeks in England then one week in Ibiza. It's weird that a year ago I moved back to England for good and this year, yet again, September is nearly over and I'm still not in Paris.


I am sitting in my house, listening to last night's Craig Charles funk and soul radio show (it's on iPlayer) with my housemate  who is cooking us chilli and that's exactly what I imagined England would be like when I was sitting in that little room in Paris, needing a wee but listening at my front door to see if any of the neighbours were using it, cooking a chilli in the same room I slept in.

I've got so much space now, I could do a cartwheel across the living room, if I could do cartwheels. I could  definitely do a roly poly.

Is it weird that I think about Paris so much, even though I left a year ago?

In other news... I'm so happy Scotland decided to stay in the UK!!

Friday, 12 September 2014


Calm down, I'm not going to debate the issue of women's lady gardens again.

This is Bush as in Kate Bush as in Heathcliff, it's me it's Cathy I've come hooome.

There is so much I need to say- mainly that on Saturday me and B went to an 'IRA pub' (apparently it used to be) and danced to Irish pop music until 6 in the morning and didn't see anything wrong with it (I actually think the key to having a good time as a house and techno fan is to listen to house and techno in the privacy of your own home and then go out and listen to shockingly bad crap, high as a kite on Ronan Keating 'Life is a Rollercoaster' leaping about with not a care in the world- but for now I am too excited to write, I just want to dance around to Kate Bush.

It has just sunk in that I am going to see her on Saturday! (And I NEVER use exclamation marks.)

Argh I feel like a kid again. When my dad looked after me I used to make him put on mum's Kate Bush video and watch it over and over again. I wish music videos were still like this, and less full of naked girls holding goats:

Thursday, 4 September 2014

That Paris This Paris

I'm not being needy but, why have only two people written in my Au Pair forum? Why aren't au pairs flocking in their thousands to ask each other advice? Is it because I have overestimated the global market for a Left Bank Manc Au Pair Forum?


No, that can't be it. I suppose you are all just thinking up really good questions to ask.

Sigh. Now's as good a time as any to finish talking about my return to Paris.

So, after walking in the warm rain and the morning quiet, and after reaching Julia's lovely apartment, built around a courtyard with a fig tree growing in it, I had a quick shower and went to the au pair family's house for breakfast.

Back on the metro- that strange staring at the door handle again and feeling like it was anchoring me between all my lives, that Paris and this Paris, me Then and me Now. Then the same walk from the metro station to the family's house that I used to do twice a day, shockingly familiar, like blasting myself into the past.

I know I keep going on about it, but I thought maybe I'd somehow found myself in an old self and was looking through old eyes at my old life. Maybe I was really sat on the couch in London, vividly remembering scooting round the crowds outside Monoprix, people stopping to look at the market stalls outside the entrance, then the narrow pavement and the fruit and veg shop on my right, glancing at the raspberries that always caught my eye as I walked past.

Then walking up to their blue front door, ringing the bell...

It was exactly the same. We fell into old patterns quickly- at first I ate croissants and chatted with the mum, but soon I was back on the living room floor, playing a ball game with the ten year old (now eleven) and the toddler (now a four year old, I think).

Me and the ten year old plaited each other's hair and discussed the never-ending saga of her tempestuous friendship triangle (the latest: the other two were spending the summer flitting between each other's country houses in France and Mallorca, they didn't invite my girl- bitches).

The four year old kept showing me a photo on the iPad of him and his dad on holiday, taken from the back as they both have a wee. In the photo they are both naked. The mum pretended not to notice, which made it even more awkward.

I love how I can teach the little boy English phrases in about five minutes- I'm not just saying this because I looked after him, but he is so clever. During the ball game me and his sister would shout 'Who wants the ball?' 'Me!' 'You?' 'Get the ball!' and after twenty minutes he'd understand what we were saying and he'd start saying the same phrases as us.

I suspect the parents think I'm a bit touched, because after making awkward conversation with them for five minutes, I wondered off to talk about lions and dancing with the kids, just like I used to when I worked for them.

(They looked at me a bit weirdly and said I looked different... when I saw myself in the mirror later on, I realised that my pupils looked like two fucking moons- shouldn't have taken that Valium so close to Paris.)

The parents disappeared upstairs and without thinking, I helped myself to a glass of water like I used to and stood in the kitchen doorway, watching the kids playing. The dad came downstairs and laughed when he saw me- I forgot I haven't worked for them for a year. I was acting like it was just another night at work.

After I'd said goodbye (thinking I'd see them again one day, but who knows if I will), it only took me half a second to decide what to do next. I wasn't meeting Abby for a couple of hours, so I got the metro back to Saint-Philippe du Roule- my old metro stop.

I went to look at my old front door and as I got there, it opened. A little dog trotted out that I recognised- my old enemy- and then its owner, my old neighbour, stepped out and glanced at me across the street. I don't know if he recognised me or not. I felt like a ghost, observing a life that used to be mine.

I know, I know... I can't quite grasp the fact that things change and time moves on, but god it was so weird. I took the shortcut to Place du Concorde- the same way I would walk twice a week when I came home from my morning class in the nursery- and it felt like I was walking through ghost-versions of me, all our eyes on the trees, all our feet on the pavement, all of us/me walking simultaneously, around everywhere, blurry and almost invisible and then all concentrated in me, in that moment.

Ok I'm freaking myself out now.

Also my housemate is on her way back from kickboxing with some McDonald's for our tea.

Before I go...

TC and OJ and everyone in their disco circle went to Wilderness Festival this summer and I couldn't go due to the fact that I got back from Spain the day before (really it was because I'd spent all my money on alcohol and kimonos). When they got back everyone kept telling me about Greg Wilson's set on the Saturday night and he's put it on Soundcloud.


This is the reason I have been having private discos in my living room:

Tuesday, 26 August 2014

London Nights Out

Listening to a Spotify playlist my mum recommended to me... I'm enjoying it a lot, it makes me feel like I'm in a cocktail bar in the late 90s and it's really sophisticated even though everyone's wearing backless halterneck tops and stretchy trousers.

Let's pretend we're listening to the same thing at the same time- I'm writing and you're reading and we're both shoulder-dancing to this, yeah?

You may have noticed that I have set up a forum on here for au pairs to ask me and each other questions about au pairing stuff. You may also have noticed that nobody has fucking written on it, so I might delete it. I get asked for help all the bloody time in comments and on Twitter, yet now I've put myself out there as an Au Pair Agony Aunt everyone seems to have solved their own sodding problems, or at least they've suddenly decided Left Bank Manc is not the place to seek help...

It is!


I can't MAKE you write on my forum, but if you have any queries/questions/qualms about au pair life... write on my forum svp.


I haven't done a 'writing about my weekend' for ages, it seems really self-centred and manic somehow and yet-

-that is how I started this blog I suppose, so I am going to try and get back into it. First let me go off on a strenuously-linked tangent...

My cousin Sophie's friend Becky, who I have met many times over the years, has been reading my blog for a while (in fact Sophie said she is a FAN of my blog but that's not really for me to repeat and act like a smug dick about) and once she told me that what she loves about my blog is the Random Nights Out I describe.

(Hold on, I am going somewhere with this, I'm not just relaying compliments, I promise.)

A few weeks ago I was on a Random Night Out with Glasgow Laura, which had started out as a picnic with Clare and her new Gentleman Friend and a couple of his friends, which had started out as a lovely day with Ruth from Paris- she hadn't been in Paris the week before when I was visiting, but luckily happened to be visiting London the weekend after- and basically a whole day of drinking turned into me and Laura alone, stumbling through the ridiculously dark dance floor of The Nest trying to make out if we were stood next to any boys or just stranded on our own in the middle of a midnight-black club.

I honestly haven't had the desire to 'pull' on a night out for years and years and YEARS, but that night for Some Reason we were both determined to meet a couple of Likely Lads and take them back to my house- to do what with, I have NO IDEA, but certainly not what you're thinking.

Needless to say, we didn't have any luck and soon I was in a sulk, drunk and squinting in the dark. I suddenly remembered that I hated both men and crowded clubs, so suggested to Laura we called it a night.

Laura asked me to try one thing before we went home- she asked me to go across the road with her to a bar called Birthdays and see if that was any better...

It was packed with boys, as far as the eye could see. They were all going down into the basement but they'd stopped letting people in without a stamp and the bouncers were refusing to give out the much-coveted 'basement stamps'. As we found this out, I noticed someone walking past in the crowd...


It was Becky and her friend- they were having a bit of a weird night too. We ended up combining our nights out and Becky became a part of one of my Random Nights Out she's told me she likes reading about so much. We went back into The Nest and danced for hours. Laura started 'snogging' a boy on the dance floor, old-school style, until a very irate girl bounced up and screamed at them both.

Being Lovely Girls, me and Becky asked her what was wrong and she told us she was supposed to be seeing the guy Laura was 'getting off with' (I cringe talking about these things, now I am so mature and spinster-like). We told her that Laura would never do that in front of another girl, so we told Laura and she walked away.

We are such nice girls.

The guy was really angry and kept saying he hadn't been seeing the girl for ages...

Oh it was all very silly.

That's why I don't like going to clubs anymore. We all went back to mine (me, Laura, Becky and her friend who had just moved to London that day) and got fucked, which is my new favourite thing to do. I love living in a house where we can bring people back and have mini-discos in the living room.

Becky and her pal left at 7am and Laura stayed over. The next day we woke up at the same time and both of our phones had run out of battery. As we waited for them to charge up, we discussed plans for breakfast and spending the day watching shit TV.

We didn't realise the day had already been and gone- when my phone came on, it showed the time as 7pm. I thought there must be something wrong with my phone, but then Laura's phone switched on and said 7pm too. We checked the TV downstairs and it was indeed 7pm- we'd slept for 12 hours and missed the whole of Sunday. Laura had to get the train home (she lives on the outskirts of London now) and I had to get ready for work the next day.

So, there you go. That wasn't what I set out to blog about but I feel like I've caught up a little bit from the last few weeks of my blogging hiatus.

Now I just need to tell you about the rest of Paris and this weekend- I went to SW4 and carnival with Nat, with no sleeping in between, just a mini disco in the living room, my favourite London venue.

Saturday, 16 August 2014


If my mind is a make believe magazine, then here are the top stories I would have been running this summer:


I have been meaning to share this for a while. I'm not sure if it's because this story is genuinely as funny as I think it is, or whether it's due to a lack of strenuous partner-based physical activity that has rendered me in a near-constant state of hysteria: but I cannot look at the photo without laughing uncontrollably.

I'm actually not ready to look at it yet and I want to delay your gratification, so I'm going to insert the photo at the end. First you can have a description and then finally you will see that the real thing is 100 times better than what you were imagining.

A few months ago, scientists made a teeny tiny pair of 3D glasses and stuck them onto the face of a praying mantis (with beeswax, not superglue), their reason being that praying mantises are the only known insect that can see in 3D. Don't you think their time would have been better spent making 3D glasses for insects whose ability to see the world in 3D has yet to be discovered?

You know praying mantises can see in 3D, why did you need to make him a little pair of glasses?

Claire pointed out that there is absolutely no scientific reason for the glasses to be cut into a shape resembling human glasses either- they could have just stuck one big lens on his face. The two-lens shape was just to take the piss.

I described the experiment to Claire and Jen but they couldn't imagine how ridiculous the actual photo would be, which is why I hope you don't accidentally see it until the end of this post. All I will say is that they showed the praying mantis a 3D film of flies coming at his face and he obviously LOVED it.


If you don't know what Normcore is, it's people wearing shit clothes like unflattering 'mom jeans', shit trainers and t-shirts with 'unhip' logos on. It's all about throwing any old crap on and not caring what you look like. Of course this doesn't bode well for the magazine industry, so many of them tried to say that Normcore was a minimal way of dressing- white shirts and tailored trousers rather than leggings and a faded top that has happy cartoon bananas on it, or something.

Normcore isn't really a subculture or a trend or a new way of dressing, it's just a group of cool people who don't care what they look like, or rather, they do care what they look like, but they know they'll look cool in anything and so take advantage of this fact and make a point of wearing really shit, boring clothes.

Before I heard the word Normcore, I saw a girl at a party in Paris (it was the one in the mad little house that had once been a brothel and still had velvet and mirrors everywhere), with no make-up on, wearing a t-shirt that looked kind of like a crop top- but you could tell that really, it was just too small for her- and unflattering jeans. Me and Julia agreed that she looked like she'd found the clothes on the floor and thrown them on, which is what made her look so. achingly. cool. 

You can't copy that old fashioned, arty, sloppy, 'out there' cool. You either have it or you don't. But magazines can't sell that, so they pretended that Normcore was a thing and created everything from Normcore home decor to Normcore weddings and honeymoons to Normcore sandwiches (granted- that was a piss-take, but I can't remember any other examples right now). Even The Daily Mail got on board.

I myself have jumped on the bandwagon and created Normcore Photography. Here's my first collection. It's called 'Pics'. 





I was going to ask if Vice were interested in publishing Pics, but I see Normcore has already evolved into Avant Bland.

 I know what you're thinking- isn't Normcore just how people dressed in the 90s, except back then you were allowed to wear what you wanted without having to create a media buzzword to describe it?



I don't know why more people aren't worried about this. Hoverbikes EXIST, there are sneaky robots that can assemble themselves from flat pack and they are planning to build fucking cities that float on the sea, like in the terrifying film (to me as a child anyway) Waterworld.

Also, this week I went to see the Human Harp at the Roundhouse- it's an instrument that musicians attach to a building and to themselves, then play the strange music of whatever giant structure they are attached to. Lauren got free tickets to a preview of Imogen Heaps' Reverb festival and took me for the free food and drink I mean THE CULTURE.

I've never listened to Imogen Heap but she did a couple of acoustic songs on the piano and I like her voice. I don't know if the Human Harp is really beautiful or really creepy (it doesn't help that the name reminds me of the Human Centipede)- I couldn't believe the eerie notes were coming from the structure of the building. The notes were deep and cold, like the metal structure of the building I suppose. I wonder what it sounded like when they played the Brooklyn Bridge?

The atmosphere was only ruined slightly when one of the 'moveicians' (as the artist who created the Human Harp called them) became detached from the instrument. He just carried on moving about on his own, as if he had just walked into the space and decided to randomly perform a piece of modern dance.

Anyway. Everything's gone a bit sci-fi. What's next, praying mantises in 3D glasses??

Wednesday, 13 August 2014

Me, myself and Jonathan.

There's a scattering of leaves on the pavements and blackberries in my backyard and I think this is the longest time I haven't blogged for.

It's been almost a month. I've been on holiday for two weeks with my mum and my brother, a proper beach holiday, in Spain. My mum booked it ages ago, luckily before I was offered a job otherwise I wouldn't have been allowed to go (no holidays during the three months probation period, which coincidentally is up this week).

I never even finished blogging about Paris. It's too overwhelming to work backwards and write everything I've been meaning to blog about these past weeks, so I'll start by typing up something I scribbled down while on holiday. I might make notes on it too, as if I am the editor, commenting on my own thoughts as I write them down and read them back to myself at the same time, like a Mental.

Maybe I will develop split-personality disorder and my all-encompassing egotism will segment my identity into the writer, editor and reader of a make-believe magazine, a relatively new title called My Thoughts. I could even write in letters of warm praise and hatemail when moved to. Let's hope I don't.


Talking to mum about her sex life while we stood in the sea (ed/me: I really hope she never reads this), having the careful conversation a teenage daughter and her mum would have, only not exactly in the roles you would expect. I had nothing to contribute to the conversation, only the mysterious smile I have perfected, which I throw at my nana when she says ARE YOU COURTING? YOU WANT SOMEONE WHO'S KIND, A KIND FELLER. I CAN'T TELL YA THE LIFE I HAD WITH HIM. EY? SO ARE YA COURTING? 

How to say I am all dried up? 25 and all dried up and finished? I have let my belly hair grow wild and free (ed: true), why not? My best option now is to work really hard and Concentrate On My Career so that one day I can afford to keep a young gentlemen. 

I won't need him all the time, but when I do he'll bloody well be there. That's what I'll expect from all the holidays, new clothes and headshots I'll be shelling out for. Of course he'll be attracted to me as well (ed: keep telling yourself that sweetheart)- but the financial incentives mean I don't have to worry about him being unreliable. We have an arrangement. At least, that's what I'll yell at him one day from the shadows of my villa in Monaco. 

Not at first. I'll try to be breezy, at first. 

I'll swill my drink around, so the ice cubes clink together like a diamond in a loose setting (ed: nice simile, pal).

"Leaving already?" I'll ask.

It will be intended to sound casual but will come out grudgingly and accusatory. He'll reply, trying to placate me in the beginning and then fuck it, he's had enough now, he's told himself he can't do this any more. He can't quite believe it as he grabs his bag and walks away from-

"The best thing that ever happened to you!" I'll yell.

"Jonathan? JONATHAN????"

But he'll be gone and I'll be alone, with just his name hanging in the air for company, before it fades forever. (ed: my heart bleeds)


At least I don't have to worry about that for a few years yet. Talking of dating or NOT dating...

Before I left London I met B in Regent's Park after work and we lay in the sunshine, working out how to set me up a Tinder account on her iPhone. Eventually B cracked it and we had hours of fun, swiping yes to the right and no to the left. We started chatting to people we'd matched with and carried on all the way home on the bus. Suddenly it was time for B to get off the bus, taking her iPhone and my Tinder account with her.

"B, you'll stop chatting to boys now as me, won't you?"

"I might have a little play." she said.

And she did!

Bloody hell, I've gone on a bit. It goes on for pages and pages... mostly talking about how I was ill before I came on holiday. I'll tell you in a couple of sentences what I have somehow managed to stretch into hundreds in my notebook.

The night before I went to Spain, I was supposed to get the train to Manchester. Thirty minutes before I finished work, I felt really dizzy and my balance went funny. My vision was blurred and I got really confused. I tried to walk out into reception and couldn't walk in a straight line, then I fell over a bit. I started to panic because I was worried about getting the tube in rush hour with my big case.

The girl on reception and the office manager saw I was ill, sat me down and called the NHS helpline. Then someone tried to make me eat chocolate (in case I was low on sugar) and I had to scramble to the toilet to be sick.

They called a car to take me to the station but traffic was so bad and we almost didn't make it. The driver was overtaking everyone and getting yelled at by taxi drivers. He shouted back at a couple of them "She needs to be at the station for 6!"

I made my train and fell asleep straight away. When I woke up I felt better for about five minutes until the itching started. I've had it since my birthday and it's a mystery. Sometimes it wakes me up in the night and I can't sleep, it's like a burning sensation all over my body there's no rash, no redness, nothing.

Sometimes I'll wake up in the middle of the night and spend an hour looking on the internet, searching for 'itch with no rash pins and needles'. So far I've convinced myself I am diabetic or anemic and in the cold light of day, I'll think I'm probably having an allergic reaction to something I've eaten.

As for the dizzy sickness...

The day before I had my episode at work I'd eaten a piece of chocolate cake that was ten days old, so it could have been that.

On the bright side I am very tanned and I had a lovely holiday!

Oh and by the way- I deleted Tinder as soon as I got back from holiday. It is definitely not for me. I don't want to chat to people I don't know through weird messages. When people ask me 'how are you doing' and 'what are you up to' I really have no idea what to say.

These are the fundamentals of conversation and I just cannot be arsed with them. Roll on the villa in Monaco.