Tag Archives: Personal

Rear Windowing The Neighbours:


The view from my flat… Missing the river, of course! 🙂

Not many of you may know that I live in a block of flats. They’re not a block of flats in the traditional sense; it’s three stories high and boasts six flats in total, including mine. Mine is ground floor and the patio doors boast a truly phenomenal view, to the point where I like to sit in the rocking chairs outside in the summer and watch the river idle by. Where I live is really quiet, idyllic and peaceful and I love it. I’m not the type of person who craves drama or intrigue, I like to keep myself to myself and living somewhere that is as quiet as my flat is truly amazing.

Even though I live in a block of flats, I very rarely see my neighbours. I sometimes see the family who live above with their tiny little girl who as of late has been screaming for hours on end, breaking her little heart over something that is troubling her. I see the man who lives with his partner opposite who ignores me all the time and sometimes drives in and out of the estate for no reason, before standing outside and smoking for ages. I am also pretty obsessed with the old lady who lives at the very top of the building; I’m not sure if she’s in a same sex relationship with the lady I see around often, but either way, I think she’s the type of person who likes to get drunk on gin and tell inappropriately filthy jokes, which basically makes her my soul mate and I long to pluck up the courage to ask her or happen to accidently drop a bottle of Hendrick’s one night as she wanders past, hoping to strike up a conversation that allows her to be my best friend forever more. There’s another couple that I don’t really know much about; I’ve said hello to them both separately and I very rarely see them… until recently. Recently, dear readers, Brain and I have developed a Rear Window situation, which basically means I am the Grace Kelly in the situation and he is the wheelchair bound James Stewart… we are obsessed with one of our neighbours.

Clearly I am Grace Kelly, look at the glass of wine, man!

Clearly I am Grace Kelly, look at the glass of wine, man!

They’re a young couple like Brain and myself, which means I have often thought about them and wondered what they’re like. I do this with people who are in relationships, because relationship dynamics intrigue me to no end; I like to wonder if all couples are the same and if their concept of love is the same as mine, for example. Like, I wonder if couples behind closed doors spend as much time cuddling on the sofa, or if they like to cook together or if they chase each other round playing stupid games like Brain and I do. I’m obsessed with the closeness that couples share and if it feels the same. This sounds entirely mental, I totally appreciate that, but either way, I have wondered about this couple.

They are both young, they’re both pale and they’re both very polite, prim and I think quite proper. She is very quiet and I haven’t really spoken to her and he only says hello in passing, so I haven’t managed to strike up a friendship with them yet, to be able to outright ask them what I am dying to ask them. So instead, I have to spy. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t shimmy up the side of the building and Spiderman my way along until I can spy in their windows, and I don’t hang out in front of their door waiting or anything, it’s not that bad. Really, my spying is entirely accidental and I think that’s what makes the situation worse.

You see, every evening if I or Brain leave the house, or if we go out to our family’s house and return later on at night, or whatever, this couple are sitting in their car. The engine is running, the lights are on and they don’t do anything. They just sit there. And I am foaming about it.

Last night, we went out quite early because it was my dad’s birthday and we had gifts to take him, so we left at about six o clock and didn’t return until about half ten. When we left the house and I helped Brain put my dad’s presents in the car, the male human from this car couple was standing outside of the car putting his coat on. We exchanged pleasantries, as we always do and Brain and I got in the car. Immediately, as we do, we wondered out loud what they were doing sitting in the car, again. I mentioned that it was pretty weird and put it out of my mind, opting to bother Brain in the car by pushing all of the pushable buttons in the car and laughing wickedly as he clicks them all off, cursing me and calling me a nightmare, then we drove off, not to think of it again.

We had a lovely  night with my parents and after watching the Newcastle match, we came home. We got home at about half past ten and when I stepped out of the car, I realised that the couple were still in the car!! WHY, WHY ARE THEY IN THE CAR!!!!! I immediately started grinning, as I do when I’m excited and nervous and desperate to tell Brain some gossip and as soon as we got in the flat, we began wondering aloud what the fuck they could possibly be doing STILL SAT IN THE CAR. I’ve never known couples who do this, especially when they have a flat of their own to go into and do whatever it is they want to do. So I’m at a loss and I am so excited for night time to fall so I can watch them again…

Why are they in the car?

What are they doing?

Are they planning a murder?

Are they playing Mexican music loudly to mask the sound of them arguing?

What the fuck are they doing in the car?!

Stay tuned, because I will eventually find out. Until next time, Grace Kelly OUT!

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It’s All in Your Head… Fuck Up.

Today, when Brain left for work, I had a panic attack. It was gradual at first; my eyes pricked with tears and my bottom lip wobbled as I fought the feelings bubbling up inside of me. I ignored them, rolled out of bed with my drink, make up bag and a jumper in hand and exited the room, sobbing lightly. I walked into the hallway, felt the soft rug underneath my feet and stopped, overwhelmed by the feelings desperate to escape. Then everything went black.

When I realised what was happening, I was coughing, spluttering and gasping desperately for air, tears streaming down my face, my drink spilled on the dark pink rug, make up bag contents pouring out all over the hallway. I felt like I’d been there forever, but in reality it was only a few minutes; my eyes stung with salty tears and my throat felt ripped raw. I was making noises that I didn’t recognise in myself and my body was trying desperately to regulate my breathing, coughs and splutters getting in the way, convincing me I was about to vomit.

It’s horrible when that happens.

Today, I had to leave the house by myself. I had to get on a bus I’d never gotten on before and go to a building I’d never been to before, in a place I didn’t know existed until Tuesday.

I’m twenty six years old and I have panic attacks about leaving the house alone, to destinations that are perfectly safe but unknown.

“What if I get lost?”
“You’re not going to get lost.”
“What if I get murdered?”
“You’re not going to get murdered.”
“I might…”

Irrational thoughts occupy my mind. When I’m alone, I am constantly aware of every creak, every sound and in order to block those out I have to keep my earphones in at all times. If I hear someone enter our block of flats, my breath catches in my chest, terrified of someone knocking on my door. When I hear people wander past with their dogs or their children, taking a leisurely stroll by the river, I stop what I’m doing and wait until the voices have disappeared before I can continue. If it’s night time, that feeling gets worse. They’re entirely irrational, but they’re there.

Even if I’m with Brain, I still feel this way. When I can’t sleep and I wake up, I am convinced that I’m being watched, that someone is going to murder me. I try not to go to the toilet when it’s dark, because I think that there are burglars in the house, waiting to hurt me. I lock the bathroom door and then panic, wondering what I would do if I did hear burglars and they tried to get in, or worse, hurt Brain. I have contemplated having shoes permanently in the bathroom in case I need to run to my sister’s house to call the police, it’s that bad.

When I’m at home during the day, I look forward to lunch time, when my sister comes over because she makes my day go really quickly. We stay inside and I take comfort in the fact that she is there and nothing can hurt me. I sometimes try to stay asleep for as long as I can, so that I only have a little while go to until my sister comes over and then when she leaves, I don’t have long until I see Brain. If she doesn’t come over, then I spend a lot of my day wishing that she would.

When I’m home alone, the blinds are always shut. Sometimes it’s because I am listening to music and dancing like a fool, but most times it’s because I’m frightened of people seeing me, then trying to break in to kill me. The blinds have to face a certain way so that there’s no chance of people seeing me through the tiny cracks and even then, I long for curtains so that I can block everything out entirely.

Sometimes I am aware of my irrational thoughts and I feel intense shame at being so ridiculous. I live right next to The Tyne and long to go out and take pictures with my new camera. Sometimes, buoyed by confidence, I will get ready, putting on my shoes, coat and hat, walk towards the door and stand there, for what feels like an eternity, staring at the door handle. Then, I take off my shoes, coat and hat, go into the living room and sit there, staring at the blacked out television, ashamed of myself all over again.

I don’t tell people about my shame, or my anxieties about being alone, or being in the outside world alone, but even when I feel confident enough to leave the house, the thoughts are still there. The anxieties are still rippling through me like a tidal wave. Tuesday, I went into Newcastle for a meeting with a really nice lady and I felt fine, other than that I was very aware of how horrible my shoes were and that they made my legs look bizarre and that people were looking at them and judging them, snorting under their breath that I wasn’t fit to be outside alone. Anxiety prickled under the surface of my skin, but that day, it didn’t’ come out. I was proud of myself and bought a book to celebrate: Books make me feel good and I felt comforted that I had done something positive.

It prompted me to lead the rest of the week confident in myself, so needless to say I was blind sighted by the anxiety that gripped me and wrapped itself around me like cling film today. I feel like an enormous disappointment to everyone, a spectacular failure.

Living with depression, anxiety and feelings of not quite, but near enough loathing is horrible, to be honest. Most of the time, they aren’t on the surface, but they’re always there, just waiting…

#TimeToTalk was yesterday and I didn’t write anything for it, because I felt that I wasn’t in the best position to. I felt confident, I felt good. Things change suddenly. Such is life, I guess.

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My Career Aspirations Growing Up.

Maybe I could be a telephone operator! No… I wouldn’t like to wear those things over my ears. I wish I had a guardian angel, you know like Debbie Reynolds had in Tammy? What do you think?

As someone who, at the age of twenty six, seems to be having a career orientated life crisis on an almost daily basis and is generally anxious about her future because she has no idea what she wants to do other than earn money and buy shoes, I thought it pertinent to add a post depicting my journey through desired career choices that I’ve had since being a small child. As you will probably be able to tell whilst reading, I had very little grasp on reality growing up and was constantly changing my mind about career choices, which is probably why I’m so cast adrift now. Thanks, child me!

Teacher – I think every girl wanted to be a teacher growing up. I wanted to be a teacher, because my teacher at the time had really nice shoes with bows on and I liked the sound they made when she walked through the classroom. Also I was persistently top of the class when I was a kid and liked being the favourite of pretty much all of my teachers and also I was always picked to read first and was colour-groups ahead of my classmates who I helped teach how to read. So really becoming a teacher was a natural calling in my life, at this point, as let’s face it, aside from the great shoes and the wages, I was a teacher. One of the career choices people constantly tell me to look into is teaching, but as I grew older, I realised that kids are little bastards and that the older they get, the more arsey they become. I genuinely don’t think I’d be able to keep a level head with some puberty ridden shit bag being a nuisance in my class. I’d end up on the front of all national newspapers as the woman who beheaded a little bastard for bad-mouthing Shakespeare. And I’d stand by it too, the little rat.

Vet – If I’m being perfectly honest, I don’t think I knew what being a vet entailed growing up. All I really knew is that I liked watching Animal Hospital and loved watching the vets talk about the animals in great detail, soothing, calming tones lulling both me and the animal into a false sense of security. I would still like to be a vet today, but I wouldn’t want to operate on anything or euthanise anything either. Really, I guess all I wanted to be and what I would still like to be, is a professional dog and cat stroker, which according to my career’s officer at school, doesn’t exist and I should probably focus on a more realistic career goal instead.

Woman who walks around museum pointing at stuff and then talking about it – I don’t think that’s the real name of this particular career choice, but all I had in my head was a “curator” which is something different; I think that’s the name of someone who gathers stuff in the museum, rather than shows groups of school kids around. Anyway, I went on a school trip when I was little and this is what sparked my initial interest. An amazingly articulate woman showed us around and I decided that I wanted to be her, so when I got home, I presented my sister and mother with all of the things we owned in our living room and spoke proficiently and seriously about how all of our living room objects were from ancient China. Maybe guess what the exhibit we were shown around was? Ancient Chinese artefacts. I needn’t have gone, given my living room was bursting with the stuff!

Librarian – This career choice was generally a no brainer for me, given my passion for books and reading growing up, but really, at the time of deciding this, all I really wanted to do was own my own library and be Belle from Beauty and the Beast, however, given my abundant intelligence from a young age, I guess deep down I knew that girls didn’t fall for hairy-wolf-men that were made that way by magical white witches, so I thought that entirely ruled out the Disney Princess option, thus librarian became my only real option. I changed my mind during my first year of comprehensive school when I realised that our librarian was a mean, cruel woman who wanted to keep us away from all of the books by not letting us in the library at all, which not only negates the idea of a library, but makes all librarians absolute wankers, if you ask me.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer – what? I did want to be Buffy. I liked the way she kicked and punched and I loved her snappy retorts to vampires and people in general. She was cool and confident, she was fierce and unstoppable and a vampire, one that filled my pre-teen heart with gooey feelings, fell in love with her! Then later on, a really bad vampire fell in love with her and become all soft and gooey too! It was very inspirational to, not only a hopeless romantic, but to someone who also grew up wanting to be the pink Power Ranger – at the time, even I knew a Power Ranger was inaccessible to a girl like me, but a vampire slayer? Totally realistic.

Singer/Songwriter or Britney Spears Impersonator – Stop judging me!! I am not at all ashamed that I went through a period of wanting to be Britney Spears. Did you see the video for Hit me Baby One More Time her loneliness was KILLING her and all she wanted was to play basketball. I may have misconstrued the point of the video, but regardless, she was a pretty amazing role model at the time. She kind of lost her shine a little bit during The Meltdown of 2007, but by this time I had already moved on to wanting to be both Beyonce and Marianne Faithful, so I really didn’t care. Anyway, at the time, I used to practice dancing and singing constantly, as well as doing my hair and make up to look like a little songstress. My parents were genuinely worried about me during this period and had a discussion with me that pretty much led them to crushing my dreams by telling me that I realistically couldn’t be a pop star/dancer. I’m not sure if it’s because they assumed it would be impossible for me to break into this world without compromising my virginity or because they didn’t think I was good enough. I should probably ask them.

Tennis Player – this was a constant one growing up, every time Wimbledon was plastered all over the television. When we lived in Holland we had this huge drive way and I would go into the garden and slam the ball against the wall, whilst making the best and not at all inappropriate for my age tennis noises. Admittedly, I did get quite good at slamming the ball off the wall and it did keep me fit throughout the summer, but I didn’t keep it up. Like all british teenagers once they get into comprehensive school and realise that doing anything leaves you open for incessant, cruel critique, so I gave up pretending to be a tennis player and put my racket down for good.

Lawyer – Admittedly, I might have only wanted to be a lawyer because I had seen too many episodes of Ally McBeal or potentially too many movies. But to me, I loved the idea of storming into a room and being like ‘OI, I have the evidence here that proves you’re all crooks! YOU HEAR ME, CROOKS!!’ or given the fact that I am really good at arguing and love giving self-righteous speeches whilst mounted steadfastly onto my high horse, that might have also been the reason that prompted me to want to be the voice of the law. Plus, again, I also really liked the clothes and shoe choices and the tap clap tap of court shoes as they bustled through full of law-like knowledge.

Fashion Designer – No, seriously. This was a genuine career desire of mine throughout school. I loved art and design and I wanted to take those as my options, go to college and take art, before applying to university to do fashion. I had it all planned out and I did have an abundance of talent in the old art department, so it made sense. An English teacher of mind found out and hauled my mother into school to beg her to force me to take more academic subjects, because my future lay with English and all the career choices that would leave me open to (all, Mrs Walker, ALL? I literally have done zero things with my degree other than starting this blog. I am foaming about it, in all honesty!) so they coerced me into taking French, Geography and History, which I aced, because I am brilliant, but didn’t really enjoy because all I wanted to do was draw and become the next Coco Chanel. But whatever, dreams are for rookies and kids, right?

Writer – In spite of all the fashion designer business, one thing did remain resolute: I was excellent at English literature and language and writing was another passion. I got a typewriter one year for Christmas when I was really small as well as a tiny desk and I would sit in the living room tapping away on the typewriter, even before I could write or form words. Then, as I learned, I would write stories and pass them onto my mam and dad, who would read them and tell me I was brilliant. So writing has always been something that I wanted to do and probably will remain with me until I’m an old lady, embittered with literary failure, making me become the type of old person who stabs knives through the footballs of local children who dare kick it near my property. I will also be the type of old lady who spits at the youths too, but that’s a story for a different time. Anyway, I’ve always written stories and still jot down ideas for short stories, novels, children’s literature, but have absolutely no motivation to do it, due to the fact that I am overwhelmingly terrified of being an even bigger failure than I am now, or being told that something I really want to do is something I’m not very good at. Just like fashion.

I think in this day and age a little despondency in one’s twenties regarding a career and professional future is pretty much resolute. I never wanted to be some phone monkey answering phones as a career… a stop gap, a way to pay the bills, maybe, but I wanted more and I think I always will be that type of person. So until then, I guess I remain a little bit like Frenchie, except with really shit hair.


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Chapter Two – Family

A group consisting of two parents and their children living together as a unit.


In short, you could say that my birth was a success. My parents wanted a baby and they received me, so I guess you could call that a success. Then again, unless my mother gave birth to a smart car and audibly wailed at the sight of my four wheels instead of human limbs, I guess their expectations were bound to be met… anyway, suffice it to say, I enjoyed being a baby as far as photographs can tell me, but then again, tiny humans lead the best lives ever and unless they’re hungry, or tired or have just defecated themselves, they pretty much live a really cool, non-stressful lifestyle, which I am sure all new mothers will attest to, quite happily. I was also a very cute baby, which I say without a degree of narcissism; I had those chunky big baby arms and legs that you can’t help but want to sink your teeth into and enormously round blue eyes that I still own now, funnily enough. The only thing, when I look back at photographs of myself as a baby, as something I really dislike is the fact that I had an absolutely enormous head. Now, I’ve been told that I have a really small head, but back then it was huge – I think I might have been born with an adult head instead of a baby head and my body has just grown round it, lest it grew further and I was bullied throughout life for not being able to fit through doors. Anyway, I was a pretty cute baby and generally not one of those babies that parents say are cute, but when you look at them and recoil in horror, guessing that this particular baby is a face only a mother could love – I was an all-round adorable winner.

In spite of all this, my parents decided to have another pop at procreation and whilst I guess it would have been fun for all involved to have a tiny human of a different gender, they lucked out and got another female human and that, my friends, is how my sister was born as far as I know. I guess because it wasn’t about me, I never took the time to ask. Other than hearing about my dad exclaiming ‘IT’S A BOY!’ only to be told by the nurses that no, sir, that’s just the umbilical cord, I don’t know anything else, and really, after that story, what else is there you need to know? We were introduced in the hospital where she was born. My grandparents led me into the room and I walked over to my mam, who was cradling the brand new, tiny human in her arms and my response was to walk away and run up and down the corridors for the remainder of the visit. I was no longer the medical marvel, or the centre of attention; there was a new adorable human in town. I think if I’d known I was going to be meeting my very first and very best life-long friend, I probably would have made more of an effort, but seriously, what do you want from me?  I was one!

My sister and I have always been close and I honestly do consider her to be one of the greatest humans who has ever graced the planet and what makes her even more amazing is the fact that she doesn’t even know. She’s a really slight, petite and thin human which makes the tall and naturally curvaceous with bits of padding here and there part of my personality want to stab her every time I see her. She has these enormous dark chocolate, almost black eyes, stupendously high cheek bones and everything about her is just perfect and small; she’s like a doll who has just stepped out of a children’s fairytale or a masterpiece of some sort. In my eyes, she’s perfect and her hair, her gloriously long, down to her waist; curly, shiny hair is the thing I most covet in life. If she wasn’t my sister I would hate her guts.


In a pretty brilliant move, my parents nipped the ever popular concept of ‘sibling rivalry’ in the bud before it had time to grow and be nourished as our bitterness for each other grew and as a result, my friendship with my sister has been persistently rock solid for almost twenty five years. They instilled in us from a young age that when you had a sister, you always had a friend and part of me makes me think that my parents stole this from a sickly sweet sit-com they watched growing up, or they had some kind of cheesy parental handbook filled with corny one liners, but either way, it was pretty good advice, if not a bit vomit inducing for the non-saccharin amongst us. There was also another snippet of advice given from one of the parental units that has been said so many times, I can’t remember which one said it and the sentence I am about to write is paraphrased with some intense emotional intent for dramatic purposes, so just be warned, but anyway, either the man or the woman said: There is nothing in life more important than the four of us, whether you’re happy or sad, rich or poor, near or far, we will always be there for each other and there will always be a home for you with mam and dad. Which is pretty amazing advice, really. Or, depending on how you read it and if we’d decided to choose a life of crime, it could sound pretty much like a pact that is relatively tantamount to saying: If we get caught, murder suicide pact, who’s in?! But I don’t think my mother’s catholic roots would allow it. I joke, but it’s something that I genuinely wear as a badge of honour; there’s nothing more important in life than the closeness of one’s family!

Over the years we did some amazing stuff together and whilst we haven’t had a lifestyle that saw us travelling to certain places on the globe and we only really had three holidays abroad during childhood, we still managed to have an amazing life. My dad’s career took us to Holland for three years and my sister and I can speak fluent Dutch and played the national sport for our local village. I did end up getting bullied and hated my life for a while, but I try not to blame my dad for that, I tend now just to blame the entire country of Holland for a few shit kids instead! As a result, my sister and I didn’t suffer some kind of childhood traumatic event that affected us well into our adulthood, but when you’re writing about your childhood you’re supposed to write about something that could potentially be construed as poor parenting, so I guess I’ll try my best to conform:


That’s a small me sitting on the sofa of our first family home. Don’t I look adorable drinking from my can of Stone’s lager? My mam is not a lager drinker, but my dad is, so it’s pretty clear to see that we can place the blame entirely on my dad and let him know that it’s his fault that I’m such an alcoholic now. Except that I don’t drink lager and I drink wine, but really it’s just lady beer, so he’s still in the wrong. I am sure that both of my parents would like me to tell you all that it was EMPTY when I put my face against it, but they were young and probably also liars, so I’ll just let you guys decide whether or not they inadvertently fed alcohol to their small human or not, were mortified, but not mortified enough to carry out a photo-shoot. This is what happens when you have kids in your twenties.


One time I hurt my leg and had to wear a cast for weeks. It was an itchy, hot cast that I can’t really remember anyone asking to write on, which is pretty upsetting. It had a heel so that I didn’t walk with a limp and when the doctor said that I’d be okay to do all the things that I could do before I had my accident, like pour myself a glass of juice, I’d be fine and my parents weren’t to mollycoddle me. Which would have been fine if I’d ever poured myself a glass of juice in my life, so when I asked for one and my dad piped up with ‘Now, now, Doris, the doctor said you could pour your own drinks!’ and I spilled it all over the bench, we really have no one but him to blame there, really, do we? For shame, father. The reason I wore the cast, you ask? Well, I fell off an apparatus at school during PE, where I’d apparently told one of my classmates that I could fly and when he didn’t’ believe me, I thought I’d teach him a lesson in both listening and believing everything I said because I was superior. Turns out I couldn’t fly and was brandished a liar (probably) in the eyes of my infant school class. I think another lesson I could have probably learned here is not to lie to people and also that my parents shouldn’t have been so supportive of my creative mind or active imagination, because look what happened!

For Christmas, roughly twenty years ago, I received my very first PlayStation. I had no idea what it was. I can’t remember asking Santa Claus for it and I didn’t know what it did. Turns out that my dad knew how to work it just fine and I guess it was the ideal gift for a twenty four year old father of two, who knew?! I didn’t know how to play games such as Tomb Raider because I was six and it was scary, I mean there were WOLVES and a DINOSAUR, so my dad played on my behalf, which was really convenient and helpful. I mean, let’s forget the fact that the PlayStation turned out to be the greatest gift our family could have received, because we would all huddle around and watch my dad play games and just remember the fact that I didn’t ask for a PlayStation and also didn’t know how to play the PlayStation – that’s the most important part. Equally so, a few years later, I asked for an All Saints CD for Christmas and received a Dave Pearce remix thereof. There was only one person in our family who listened to Dave Pearce on Radio One after the chart show countdown on a Sunday and it certainly wasn’t me, my mam or my sister… the lesson that I’ve taken from these Christmas gifts is that you can’t always get what you want. In a lot of cases, you get what your dad wants and you just have to like it or lump it.


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Chapter One: My Glorious Birth

I once said that if I was ever going to write a biographical account of my life, that I would begin with the closing chapter, so that people would be left guessing, rubbing their chins and huddling in dark corners of libraries or book clubs, pouring over the first (last) chapter, wondering if I was a time traveller, or if I had a very specific car that required plutonium, then bits of rubbish and eventually, a train, to work. Mainly because my introductory chapter was going to entail a very specific account of how I died. It would be like that chapter and also scene in The Time Traveller’s Wife where he flashes into the present and he’s bleeding profusely, causing everyone to panic. But, to save this kind of undoubted social upheaval that would pour into the media and social networking networks like a fine, but dangerous wine and vilify me as some kind of monster for the rest of eternity (oops, another plot twist/spoiler: I’m immortal), I thought I’d change tact and start at the very beginning: My glorious birth.

But first, we’re going to need a little background, I didn’t just appear in my mother’s womb unexpectedly, that is nonsense and only believable if it happened in the olden days when apparently everyone fell pregnant at the hands of THE LORD, who was more than a little cavalier at his seed sowing back then, if you know what I mean… anyway, let’s continue:

When my parents first met, they were just a couple of crazy kids living in the midst of the only decade that everyone remembers with heart-warming nostalgia for unbeknownst reasons, given the neon colours, strange pants and terribly big and crunchy hairstyles: The 1980s. Now, I’ve only heard this story from my parents, who, you’ll learn throughout the course of this process are inherent liars, so this may not be entirely true; they may have lied to my sister and me all these years, forcing us to believe in the bittersweet concept of falling in love at first sight, which is apparently what they did. Apparently, my beloved dad was a little smitten with my mam from a distance for an indeterminate amount of time and it wasn’t until he happened upon her one morning as she was waiting for a bus, did he take his chance and bedazzle her with his 1980s moustache and his own car. Anyone who knows me, knows my undying passion for romance and love stories, so undoubtedly this story is my favourite: She was waiting for a bus and he happened upon her and decided to take his chance at love. Like, if John Hughes had been wandering through a tiny, sleepy village in the North East of England back then, he would have definitely cast Molly Ringwald and Andrew McCarthy, or maybe even John Cusak to play my parents and it would have been a truly amazing piece of cinema, with an even better musical score (Side Note: For the rest of the post, I would be happy if you could hum Don’t You Forget About Me by Simple Minds, perhaps the epitome of the 80s right there).

It’s not often that my parents talk about when they met, or really, life before my sister and I, but when they do, they seem to go misty eyed and they look at each other with looks that only two people who know the true meaning of love can look at each other. It would be sickening if it wasn’t so damned romantic and when I see the love they have for each other, I can’t help but thinking that I’ve been so unlucky in love in the past because of my sheer unwavering desire to fall in love at first sight (which, eventually happens to me, but you’ll have to wait a few chapters to get to that part. Or go and read the rest of my blog, whatever) and eventually, hopefully, marry someone I would also call my best friend, like they did. To me, it just makes the fact that I exist that bit more important, knowning that I was conceived in an environment where two people were so in love that about twenty seven years later, they still look at each other all funny when remembering how they fell in love. Aside from the knowledge that they had sex, of course, it’s good to know that I’ve been bred from two people besotted with each other, which not everyone can say, I guess.

I am told that other gloriously romantic and comedic things happened during the period of them meeting and me being born, which pads out the John Hughes movie plot slightly: My mam stubbed a cigarette out onto my dad’s hand and laughed hysterically right in his face as he nursed his injured hand. He lied about being allergic to dogs, to hide a presumably un-masculine fear of a tiny little girl boxer dog (which he would own for the rest of his life, which might just go to show where I get my enormous sense of hypocrisy from! And my ability to tell lies to get myself out of situations I don’t want to be in, too, I guess!) and there’s also a story about salted popcorn being propelled down the aisles of a cinema, shoulder shuddering giggles ensuing,w hcih would be another, very sweet comedic aside for the movie John Hughes would have directed. Maybe my mother (Molly Ringwald) would say something in a voice over akin to ‘From the moment that popcorn spilled down the steps of the cinema aisle, I knew I would marry either Andrew McCarthy or John Cusak, depending on casting, and we’d have two amazing children and a very happy life together… everything became clear then.’ End scene.

Anyway, back to the important part of the story, perhaps the main part of the opening chapter, considering that, without it, I’d not actually be here writing this at all, unless I went the route of the usual blogger and hired a ghost writer (oooh, I went there!), but even so, without the main event, I couldn’t hire a ghost writer, and now I’ve officially ‘Inception-ed’ myself.

I was born on Christmas Eve, which was a full eleven days before my due date and as a result, I have given my mam an amazing story to tell to everyone who mentions the fact that I was born on Christmas Eve. She grins, leans towards the person to whom the tale she is telling and states, “Yes, she was supposed to be born then, but she just needed to be here for Santa coming, didn’t you petal?!” and then she looks at me all proud, because as my mother, of course she is proud for having given birth to a human, but also because she’s proud for telling the joke like it was the first time, but also, I’m guessing, because she remembers it word for word every single time, which is actually a very applause worthy accomplishment, given her forgetfulness. Personally, I don’t mind that I was born on Christmas Eve, but other people absolutely hate it and offer me condolences and pitiful glances before telling me that it must be absolutely terrible to have been born then, because people will undoubtedly skimp on presents, given that it’s the time of giving and whatnot, which always seems a little odd to me… why would one skimp during this time? I’m not going to apologise for being born then if people aren’t going to apologise for their blatant cheapness on the day before Jesus’ birth… Bastards.

Obviously, I can’t remember anything about being born, which is probably just as well. I would feel deathly sorry for anyone who can actually remember being cast into the world via means of a vagina, screaming and crying only to me released into – depending on the birthing process, I guess – what I can only imagine being rivers upon rivers of blood and potential excrement… who the hell wants to remember that freakshow?! According to my dad, I was a really intelligent baby and general medical marvel from the moment I was eventually released from the womb and into the real world (absolutely no shit to be seen, I’m told!). Apparently, I didn’t cry at all, just looked around with wide eyed wonder (or, if I was aware of where I had just exited, absolute terror), and later on, when he was tapping my incubator with his finger, I followed his every single tap with my eyes… let’s face it, if that’s not a sign of a genius baby, then what is? I was also told that I was very long and skinny, which looking at me now seems like a genuine impossibility and I often think that I’m told I was long and skinny with a certain sense of scepticism, like my parents have active conversations behind my back, wondering if they brought the correct tiny human home with them, or if they’ve made a terrible mistake. Because, even though my limbs are pretty long, they are also significantly padded, hence their potential disbelief. But, I guess I look far too much like them for that to be a plausible explanation for having a fat twenty six year old child-woman, so that theory is a bit knackered. It’s still good to know that I was skinny once, though (and will be again! My poor, aching skeleton shouts).

In conclusion, this insightful, entirely truthful, if not slightly melodramatic for literary purposes, chapter on how I was born gives you a little taster of what you’re in for over the coming weeks, months, years, decades (depending on how long it takes you to read this), of what’s in store within my biographical process. It will be, hopefully, a good journey, as long as you remember this: You are literally reading the life story of a nobody… that’s what you’re doing right now. Think about that.

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Introduction: Confessions of a Twenty Something.

Writing about yourself is supposed to be a really difficult process, but because I am so inherently narcissistic, I found it quite easy. Also because I’m really smart.  It just goes to show that if you have a generally elevated sense of self-worth, you can accomplish pretty much anything and that it is, in fact, insecurity and a lack of faith in yourself that breeds misery and stunts any form of creative process and talents in the process… The Harlot!

In a far more realistic sense, it was actually pretty difficult and spending so much time planning pieces and not wanting to include things that would make family members disown me, it meant that I spent a long time pensively staring into the distance, wondering if I could feasibly lie throughout the whole biographical process and get away with it. Turns out that I can, which is very pleasing (not really). I had many working titles for this series of posts. One title, which I wrote about pretty much at the start of my blogging journey, when I decided that I would one day write a biographical piece that would sell millions and make me rich beyond my wildest nightmares would be: The History of Dildos: Confessions of a Wine Addict, because I thought it was a really great, historical play on words – like, some people would think that I would be discussing dildos at some point (which, let’s face it, is always a possibility) and others would think that ‘dildo’ is actually a metaphor for me as a person, which is far more correct and if you guessed that you’re probably really smart and/or went to university. I also thought about the title Be Mediocre! Because I was reading Hadley Freeman’s Be Awesome at the time and thought I was burgeoning on being a comedic genius. I finally settled on Mad About the Brain: My Journey from There to Here because it has multiple meanings (again, I’m really showing off my mad skills, here): Mostly I’m talking about the things that go on in my brain and how life has shaped me and made me the adult I am today, but, also, because my nickname for the love of my life, male human shape I adore, is Brain and it was conceived when I first met him following the little avatar he uses at work to chat to people and because, if you choose to read further (which you might not) there are certain life events that took place that, I feel, wouldn’t have made me as available, I guess, to fall in love with Brain as quickly as I did, so I guess there’s always that. I’m sickening, I know.

There will also be helpful tips and anecdotes throughout the series so that you can feel inspired by the inner workings of my mind and revere me as some kind of Geordie Goddess (move over, Cheryl!) it will, also, hopefully try to conclude in a manner that is far more successful than the current conclusion you’re reading (see, you didn’t even know, did you?) and maybe inform you all what I think that I’ve learned in my twenty six years on earth. If you’ve read my Series of Lamentations which was a half-hearted attempt before I got bored and decided to do this, then you’ll know what I’m hoping to achieve (and if you do please tell me, because I have no idea).

I hope you enjoy it, if you get through to the end, let me know and I’ll buy you a congratulatory beer. Thank you in advance. Doris xx

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A Series of Lamentations: Food

My boyfriend (Brain) is constantly admonishing me for my relationship with food; he accuses me of being picky, which tends to catapult me into an irate state of melodrama that involves me screaming “I AM NOT PICKY, I AM THE OPPOSITE OF PICKY, I AM FAT FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, ISN’T IT OBVIOUS THAT I LOVE FOOD IN ALL ITS GLORY?!” before listing items of food that I enjoy eating, that many people wouldn’t enjoy eating, either because their tolerance for dead animals and the food created from their insides is significantly less than mine (read: non-existent) or because they are vegetarians/vegans and their love of vegetables is so extensive that they would eat things that I never would without wanting to smother everything in thick layers of cheese and probably also some chicken.

However, and this is something that I have never told Brain, through genuine fear of him turning into the haughty, self-righteous know it all that he loves to be when he realises that he has bested me and that I am, as predicted, an unending example of persistent contradictions that render all of my arguments to the contrary positively inept (like, seriously, bro, how perceptive do you really need to be? Give a girl a break!) and that I did for a long time have genuine issues with food and most of my culinary discoveries only happened in the last, perhaps, one to three years of my life.

I still maintain that I am not picky, but that I grew up in an environment where culinary exploration wasn’t really a high priority; that set meals and an avoidance of foods that my mother didn’t want to cook was imperative and as a result, my palette was relatively infantile until I went to university and discovered an abundance of cheap restaurants that allowed me to explore food in more detail. So, if you are the type of person to read between the lines, I guess you’ve come to the conclusion that, not only do I blame my alleged pickiness on my mother, I also blame her for being fat too.

Isn’t that always the way: Slightly fat human in her mid to late twenties blaming her mother for her current state of tear inducing chubbiness that no amount of Spanx can conceal? Let’s not acknowledge the fact that I don’t live with my mother and that I haven’t done full time for the past three years and that, since the age of perhaps sixteen or seventeen, she had no actual control over what I ate for lunch or dinner unless I ate at home and no she doesn’t know that today for lunch I had a handful of Skittles and salted popcorn with extra salt, because she would judge me harshly. Quite rightly too.

You see, my mother is the true picky eater in this game of life we all play and therefore, my lack of knowledge where certain foods were concerned is because of her dislike for something. Chicken, for example, is something we very rarely ate; we would sometimes get a chicken curry for tea, but not very often because she hates touching it and thinks we are all going to get salmonella and die, which is why I have never been too fond of cooking chicken, because I’m frightened of getting salmonella and dying, fitting in all too well with my upbringing. This is also why I very rarely order chicken in a restaurant, because I will sift through the chicken, sticking bits in the face of the person opposite me asking if the chicken looks too pink to them. And that if I taste a piece of chicken that tastes too chicken-like, I will refuse to eat any further and want to order something else. And this is from someone who loves chicken.

I remember once we were ordering a very rare Chinese takeaway when I was a teenager, my sister and I opted to share a chicken curry together and my mother, who was writing down what to order so that she didn’t forget, looked at us with a face full of genuine concern and said: “chicken… Are you sure you don’t want beef?” prompting, naturally, my sister and I to burst into fits full of giggles and retort with something pithy and harsh, but all very well-mannered that no,  we actually want chicken and if we’d wanted beef, we would have said. But, her attempts at coaxing us towards the evidently far better takeaway option of beef did work, because I remember eating it thinking “this tastes too much like chicken. I don’t think this is cooked. Actually, I don’t think this is chicken at all…WHAT AM I EATING?!” and I have never ordered a chicken curry from anywhere since.

My mother has always had a genuine difficulty with handling meat (much to the lament of my poor dad! HA, sorry, but a good innuendo/inappropriate joke about one’s parents’ sex life should NEVER be missed…Let that be a life lesson to you!), and whilst we can’t class her as a vegetarian due to her love of beef roast lunches and the occasional lamb dish, we can’t class her as a meat eater, because she’d never eat spaghetti Bolognese or fish and chips if it was cooked by anyone other than the one man she trusts to cook her fish. Up until Christmas last year, she hated pork and was quite pissed off with my dad for buying a huge joint of pork and cooking it in her oven, until she popped her head around the kitchen door where my dad, myself and my sister were huddled, practically suckling the pig fat dripping from it’s delectable carcass and she actually tried some. Now she likes hot pork sandwiches. (Another great excuse for an innuendo, but I’ll let it slide.)

So, as you can see, any pickiness that I have exhibited is not pickiness at all, but a deep rooted loyalty to my mam that no one – not even you, Brain – can judge. And whilst I have always heartily enjoyed meat, rarest of rare steaks and chicken in abundance (only if it doesn’t taste too much like chicken), it wasn’t until the past few years I’ve discovered food that I like:

Haggis – as a result of my ex’s dad who played bagpipes and took me along to a Burn’s night where I had Haggis Neeps and Tatties for the first time (also the first time I realised I love turnip, but only if it is cubed) and it was divine.

Black Pudding – through walking in Tesco with my dad who asked me if I liked black pudding and before I could answer, my mam shouted, ”NO, SHE DOES NOT LIKE BLACK PUDDING!” prompting me to feverishly stuff it in my mouth next time I saw it on a menu in a restaurant, which was positively divine. I think I went home that evening, pointed at my mam and screamed “I DO LIKE BLACK PUDDING, WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS TRYING TO RUIN MY LIFE, YOU HARLOT!*” and locked myself in my bedroom because I am mature and not at all melodramatic.

Mussels – I didn’t realise I actually liked mussels for a very long time, mostly because I thought choosing this dish in a restaurant meant that I was eating the muscles of fish, which seemed an unnecessary delicacy that I didn’t want to try. I mean, I had tried sushi and some of it was lovely, I’d tried salmon and loved it cooked, but would never try it raw and the idea of eating a fish with it’s head and eyes and bones still attached freaked me out, so why would I eat a fish muscle served in a white wine sauce? Waste of wine if you ask me! Then I realised they were actual shell fish and served in a white wine sauce, because mussles go amazing with a white wine sauce, also a coconut and chilli sauce if you like spicy things and taste more meaty than I would have given them credit for (because I also don’t like things that are too fishy, another trait I owe to my dearest mama).

Admittedly, I have wasted a lot of my life thinking I hated foods when I don’t. I discovered that I love both olives and soft goats cheese this year as well as gnocchi and charcoal cheese. There are also things that I knew I didn’t like, but I tried any way, because Brain peer-pressured me, like camembert, stilton and other cheeses that smell and taste like mouldy, dead people feet. I will try to amend my lack of education in the culinary arts, but only for things I want to try like ostrich and venison and shark, but won’t ever eat pigeon or tomatoes because they are sinister looking and I hate them. So fuck you, Brain**.

*Slight dramatization. Probably didn’t happen like that at all. I’m a liar.

**I say this jokingly. For the most part. Love you, really, kidda!

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A Series of Lamentations

Today is 24th November 2014, meaning that in one month’s time, I will be celebrating my twenty sixth birthday. I’ve never been the type of person to lament over my age, instead embracing it like a new challenge, intent on living the next year of my life to the full and becoming slightly melancholy the day before my birthday the following year, realising that I have not fulfilled anything I had desired during my previous age. This was all fun and games in my teens and early twenties, when thirty seemed really far away and having one’s shit together didn’t seem as pertinent as it perhaps should have been. So, after standing in a queue in Aldi on Friday and discovering the stark, horrific revelation that my twenty sixth is not that far away (“Brain… On my birthday I will no longer be in my early twenties, or in my mid-twenties… I will be in my LATE twenties! WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME? MY LIFE IS DRAWING TO A CLOSE!”*) ((Also who has a practical break down in Aldi of all places, I AM old)), I started to lament for the foregone years that have been wasted by my general nonchalance and ignorance that age is not just a number and anyone who tells you that is a liar and should not be trusted.

I know the word lament conjures up images of abject misery and an arduous solilioquy of previously unspoken guilts and regrets, but this series is not going to be entirely miserable. I am hoping to add a dash of glitz, some well placed glamour and a bit of humour in there for you all as I discuss a degree of topics that I have decided to lament over, blame being placed entirely on other people, so I remain unencumbered by the not-so titillating fact that I’ve wasted a large portion of my life existing rather than living, and something that I am hoping to change in the next year…but actually sticking to it this time, instead of ignoring it and posting another series of lamentations next year, when I realise I am almost twenty seven and nearly at that point in life where thirty is glaring at me like impending doom; grim reaper, slowly emerging from behind waving his scythe, greeting me like an old friend about to be reunited. Anyway, I’ve decided I’m not going to turn thirty, I am just going to stay twenty nine forever until I can die.

I might end my lamentations on a high note and write a list of things I would like to do before I’m thirty, but I might not because I am consistently inconsistent and also have written far too many lists lately, making me question my own sanity.

Anyway, enjoy and if you are in the same boat as me, send me some of your lamentations and we can share our misery over a few glasses of wine and a tearful Skype chat.

*Slight dramatization, but I was pretty upset.

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The Time I Could Have Started My Musical Career, But Was Foiled By Everyone in Life Who Are Clearly Jealous of My Talent

When I was very young, I decided that I was going to be a very famous singer and actress. Passion set ablaze from the very first moment I saw Sandy from Grease emerge from good girl nerd into a tight pants wearing, big hair owning, pouty lipped smoking girl all the bad guys wanted, I made an important decision that that was going to be me. It was practically written in the stars from the moment I sat down in the cinema upon its re-release, to going home and bursting into tears when I realised that Danny and Sandy weren’t married in real life, because they were ACTORS. Grease had a profound effect on everything that I wanted to be in my future. If I was a 1950s mobster performing a poorly written soliloquy in front of the audience of my life, I would have said things like ‘actor, hmm… interesting…We’ll see, WE’LL SEE!!!’ before going off stage to plot my diabolical life plan.

Apparently, pretty much from birth, or so I’m told, I have always had a penchant for both dramatics and singing. When I was a toddler, I used to sing along to the Milkyway advert (the red car and the blue car had a race… Yes, I still know it, shut up!), up until the part where they couldn’t drive anymore because (queue small me standing in front of the TV, blocking everyone’s view, putting my face to my hands in order to convey the sheer upset and shock when I shouted…) ‘OH NO, THE BRIDGE IS OUT!’ and that, ladies and gentlemen, was my first public performance; in my living room, in front of my parents. As I grew a bit older, I was always picked in school plays to be the head angel in the nativity play, which I felt was a teacher’s nod to my scholastic aptitude of awesome and also the fact that everyone thought I was an angel (because let’s face it, I am). I was also once picked to be Mary, which was less glamorous because I didn’t have a staff of tinsel and also I was wrapped in swathes of what can only be described as a curtain from the 1950s (smelled that way too) and also because Mary has to be my least favourite biblical character. Mostly because even as a small child, the idea of someone lying to her husband about cheating on him by saying a deity impregnated her with his mind seemed a little far-fetched and also, she ruins Christmas for Joseph by making him travel round Bethlehem on Christmas Eve looking for an Inn. Like, seriously, Mary, why so selfish?

Because I was a girl, Disney movies played a huge part in my desire to be a singer and an actress, eventually becoming a princess like Belle, not even minding that I’d have to be kidnapped by a giant beast first, because, let’s face it, it’s sexy. I remember seeing Pocahontas and wishing I was an American Indian, minus all the suffering and just span and span around my living room singing Just Around the River Bend until I toppled backwards and knocked a load of washing off the corner of the sofa (where it was standing just a little too precariously, MAM, like some kind of set up to tell me off for spinning). I also spent a lot of time constructing huge, elaborate stories for my Barbies’ to partake in, with the help of my equally imaginative sister, who mostly tried to cause death when all I wanted was a peaceful family wedding followed by my favourite Barbie performing an a capella solo of her favourite song. Then, when we started going on family holidays and discovered the beauty of the karaoke, I took my performances to a new level. My mam has a cassette tape (yep) of me and my sister singing Mama by The Spice Girls and it is perhaps the greatest thing my ears have ever encountered; I even do the ‘Mama, I love you-oooo’ bit that Emma does, its sheer magic.

In hindsight, I should have perhaps encouraged my parents to sign me up for dance classes or singing classes, or acting classes or anything that allowed me to pursue something that I may not have had talent for, but showed increasing enthusiasm for. S Club 7 happened and I would spend hours in front of my open window with the lights on so I could see myself reflected in the window, dancing and singing along doing all the moves, Destiny’s Child would creep in there too, anything that involved excessive dance moves and kicking my legs above my head whilst my mam tried to do some form of house work around me was killer.

Suddenly, in the summer of 1999, my entire life changed. Britney Spears emerged into my life like a phoenix emerging from the ashes; Baby One More Time, became my JAM! I would make up dance moves and stick a straw behind my ear and I would just sing exactly like her and kick and prance around for my mam and show her just how great I was at singing and dancing and professed there and then that when I was older, I was going to be a singer, an actress and a dancer. I remember her smiling and laughing in agreement, like it was one huge joke, because she’s clearly foolish and didn’t want to live off my many riches that multitudes of MTV Awards would bring. GOD, MAM.

Eventually, I think she realised that I did, genuinely intend on becoming a singer, so much so that I would actually practice my pop star make up (always baby blue glitter and super pouty, shiny lips) and stand around practicing speeches and not doing my homework, so she sat me down and had a conversation about what I wanted to be when I was older (joke’s on her anyway, because you can’t *be* things these days and that is why I am not anything. Other than a failure. Which is her fault cos I could have been a famous singer by now. With seven breakdowns under my belt. Benefit of hindsight, eh, mother?!), and I told her outright that I wanted to be a singer, dancer and an eventual award winning actress.

“But you can’t be those things! Do you know how hard it is to be a singer? It’s not a career, sweetheart, it’s a hobby. You can’t be those things, pet.”

And that was it. She left me and I planned to run away, but I lived in Holland at the time and had nowhere to go, I mean, how would I get back to England and become the singer I wanted to be? I had no money and also no idea how to get to England from the south of Holland.

Anyway, you might be wondering, why is she bringing up this cruel and harrowing part of her life? Her dreams were crushed, she is but an empty shell of a human in comparison to who she could have been had her parents allowed her to pursue her life long dream! I know, right? Well, I bring this up, firstly, because I spent this morning listening to The Corrs and remembered that they were one of those people I would listen to and absolutely buzz off, but also because when I was at her house the other week, drunk on wine, I was singing with vigour reserved only for the truly pissed and she turned to me (equally pissed) and said ‘oh, you really can sing!’ and I think when our eyes met, we were both transported back to the time when she told me I’d never make it and part of me wanted to slap her and tell her that I totally could have done, but Brain was there and he would have needed too much context and after the preamble leading up to the slap, the moment would have gone and the slap would not have been as vindicating for me. So I decided to complain and write about how everyone ruined my life instead. Fuck you guys.

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#BloggersPJDay // OOTD // Children in Need 2014

This week, Rachel over at Happy Little Syllables asked me to join in on a Blogger’s PJ Day for Children in Need alongside some other brilliant blogging babes. I initially accepted the challenge, fully under the illusion that I’d get to indulge in some fun blogging/sleepover antics – braiding each other’s hair, pillow fights, practicing kissing, underage drinking…You know, the stuff of sleepover dreams. I have since been told that it isn’t at all as I imagined and Rachel’s invitation did not entail anything of the sort, so as you can probably guess, I’m a little put out about the whole thing. Either way, I’ve still decided to take part as it is all for a very good cause and am now offering you all a little insight into how I spend my pyjama days. How lucky are you? Let’s get going.

Before I begin, here is how you can help:

You can go to our Just Giving Page and donate there, or you can donate by texting the words BLOG74 £5 to 70700

Here is also a list of the other beautiful bloggers taking part in the event, if you want to take part, follow us on Twitter and use the hashtag: #bloggerspjday

Snapchat-6581428320443379822There are multiple certainties in life: Santa won’t come if you’ve been a shitty person, when life gives you lemons, you sell those lemons and you buy wine, and that women wearing pyjamas isn’t at all as glamorous as the movies would have you believe. It’s not all tiny shorts and matching camisoles – and even if it is, it’s neither as smooth nor as tanned or as wobble free as on the big screen. Me, I am a huge advocate of comfort; I have worn shorts and matching camisoles and they’ve done nothing for me – I’ve attempted the whole sexy lingerie thing and laugh at the outcome; I am, therefore, a huge advocate of sleeping in comfort – not only in material/size, but also in terms of what type of comfort an item can illicit in one’s mind. Therefore, I choose optimum comfort for my bedroom attire of choice and you can, without a shadow of a doubt, guarantee that like my underwear, eye make-up and legs after I’ve epilated – they won’t match. It’s not that I don’t own matching pyjamas; every Christmas my parents and favourite auntie will buy me comfortable sets of PJs to enjoy over the winter months and every Christmas I will wear them once and then lose the top or bury it at the bottom of my pyjama drawer, promptly forgetting its existence. Matching isn’t something I’m very good at.
The top is a Jimi Hendrix t-shirt that I have stolen from my boyfriend, Brain and claimed as my own forever. It’s not only nice, big and comfortable, but it makes me feel safe and warm when he isn’t here. Like I said, I’m all about clothing that can elicit positive emotions in your mind as you wear it, and wearing the clothing of the human you love is one of those things that make me feel good. Also, even though it is super comfortable to sleep in, it’s also great for a pyjama day, because I can slob around eating chocolates and things that are bad for me without feeling like I’m going to rip at the seams*. Also, I feel pretty awesome when I wake up on a morning wearing Hendrix face on my boobs. I mean, who wouldn’t? other bedroom attire includes Bob Dylan t-shirts, a Green Lantern t-shirt, a Hulk Smash t-shirt and both an Arizona Cardinals official football jersey and long sleeved top with the logo on it, they are my team after all… apparently. These are all mine and I have no intention of giving them back, because they make me feel good, so don’t bother asking for them back, Brain, because that makes you selfish. But, if you would like to wear any of my clothes for bed, all you have to do is ask.

The pyjama bottoms are giant trousers that were bought as part of a set when I was a significantly larger human. They are ‘oriental animal print’ and come with a shirt that makes me look like an obese Doris Day / granddad, but they are silky and feel both lovely to rub and very soft on my tush, so as you can see from my smile, they’re very comfortable. My favourite PJ pants, Marvel super hero pants, were not available to take part in this charitable event, but they send their best regards.**


Despite what my pyjamas of choice may have you believe, I am a huge advocate of all things pink, girly and generally chintzy; my room is a plethora of floral patterns, pretty boxes, lilac painted mirrors and feathered lights and these are all things that make pyjama days even better, because my pyjama days tend to involve long periods of lounging in bed, half-heartedly carrying out various activities that I enjoy. These include: reading, writing and watching television, therefore, being in a happy space is imperative to getting the laziness to productiveness ratio just right. Here are some pictures of my bedroom for your general disinterest:


Next to my bed, as you can see, I keep a photo of my favourite human, which was taken one day as I was blogging and he was playing his pride and joy (like seriously, he loves that thing more than me. If there was a fire and he had a choice, I would perish. It’s awful, being second best to a piece of wood. Although then again I guess he’s second best to a piece of wood IF YOU KNOW WHAT I’M SAYING, LADIES!) I also have a picture of my sister and I when we were kids, an alarm clock that is totally pointless because when I take my glasses off I can’t see (and also I think it has stopped) a few books I flit between (alongside the five that I have to flit between in the living room) and a notepad, so I can jot things down that appear in my noggin.

My pyjama days also tend to involve watching movies, which, on rainy days like today, always include Doris Day and Cary Grant – my two favourite souls – and my favourite lighting goes on too, so I am bathed in a pink and feathery glow. I sometimes get up and meander to the kitchen looking for treats or I’ll go and sit in the living room with my laptop so I can listen to the record player and vinyl of choice. Today, I decided to meander in here because I wanted to eat leftover pizza for lunch (what? Don’t judge me), so I chose to listen to my limited edition, twentieth anniversary edition of Grace by Jeff Buckley, which is not only an amazing album, but it is a purple vinyl! IMG_20141114_113841Look at the goodness!! I love vinyl music on rainy, pyjama days because they can literally cast you back in time; I love the crackle of the of the needle and how even on brand new records like this one, a word can stick for a little bit before finding its way again. I also imagine that band aids, from back in the day, also wore mismatched non-pyjamas with pictures of their heroes on it, so essentially I am the Penny Lane or Pamela des Barres of my time, even if my favourite musician only ever plays in the house and when he thinks I’m not paying attention. I also don’t have a t-shirt with his face on (but his mam does, which is weird…especially as he gifted her it. Don’t get me one.).

As my blogger’s pyjama day ensues, I will undoubtedly do more writing as I have a bit about femme domme sexual relationships to write for a fellow blogger/magazine editor as well as various social commentaries that I’ve written notes on, before I finally have to get ready for my Friday evening with my favourite humans: Brain and the parental units. We will be tuning into Children in Need and donating via the Just Giving page set up for Blogger’s Pyjama Day. Whilst you don’t have to, if you would like to, we’d be more than grateful for you to click on our link and donate. We know this won’t make a huge dent in the eventual grand total and Terry Wogan won’t talk about me on the show (but it would be awesome, so if you’re reading, bro, give me a holla!), it’s still something I am glad I’ve participated in: I’ve helped raise awareness/funds. We really live in such a lazy generation where people will happily say ‘what’s the point in baking a cake or not wearing make up or taking part in a blog about your pyjamas’ and I guess I know where they’re coming from; what I’m doing isn’t solving world hunger… But, by taking part, I am helping, even if it’s only a miniscule effort.

There are so many horrible people in the world; people who are insistent on hurting others for their own gain, people who don’t enjoy seeing joy in people or people who kill their people in the name of religion. There are Ukip supporters and poppy burners, there are rapists and murderers who inflict pain because they have to or because they can or because they want to. Children don’t do that – children aren’t born wanting to cause harm to others. We as a society have a responsibility to allow children to grow up in safe environments where they can get a proper education, where their childhood and experiences throughout childhood can be nurtured and supported in positive ways. We shouldn’t sit by and watch as children die because they don’t have access to proper food or water, or medicines that can fix them so easily. All it takes is one click of your mouse, one minute of your time and one pound of your money to make a difference.


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