Recently I’ve become more attuned to my body - and I’d like to think that by the time I’m 30 I’ll completely get it and we can work together in some sort of harmonious way for the rest of time. It’s only taken 29 years of me ignoring, disagreeing and generally hating the way my body doesn’t listen to me -  to suddenly come to the conclusion that, actually, I’m the one that needs to do the listening . Up until recently, I’ve been treating it like a small, evil mutant twin that I’d prefer to keep locked in the attic. But now I’m prepared to drag out my little secret, give her a make-over and introduce her to the world.

But this fresh understanding is by no means easy – and hormones have a LOT to answer for. Now, I know that the last thing blokes want to read about is a bunch of reasons as to why women can become irrational and down right frightening…but don’t worry. I promise not to use the words “ menstruation” or “tampon”.

And I’m not about to start using hormones as an excuse for the irrationality of women either - don’t get me wrong. Men are just as irrational and don’t have half the hormonal exuses. Twatish behavior generally, as a rule, doesn’t come down to male hormones - it’s usually the result of blokes metaphorically having no balls. Ironic given that, if they were indeed castrated, they may actually be more lovable, calm, and well behaved. After all, it works for Labrador’s – surely it would be the same for blokes? Anyway – I digress…

Whoever invented hormones clearly didn’t think it through. Considering that, as a rule, they are meant to help us multiply - anything that makes you mood swing like a crack addict, burst into tears for no reason whatsoever, and generally make you the most unattractive person to men, should surely not exist. I cry enough as it is - just give me a bottle of red wine..it’s my party trick.

And whilst I often praise myself with having a fairly low-key, everyday tussle with these things, I recently noticed that they were silently creeping in to my existence like a ninja armed with a sword of irrational feelings that I would really rather not have, thank you very much

For instance, I found myself the other day discussing…let’s call him “Mr X” for now….with my flatmate. “Mr X” and I may have shared a couple of cheeky snogs and there had been a lot of textual intercourse… but that was about it. Anyway, I was busily cleaning the kitchen (as my flatmate merrily messed it up again by splattering Thai green curry all over the hob) discussing “Mr X” and the potential we may have as a couple. I was discussing how “Mr X” is also a bit of a clean freak - but that that was OK, because so am I - so when we eventually live together all will be well….


*hand over mouth*.

Yes, you did say that out loud YOU MENTALIST.

Rob my flatmate stopped stirring and looked at me with a mixture of pity and disgust. “Oh, so we’ve already got your future with Mr X planned out have we?”


I kind of whimpered a very strange (what I thought was) indifferent noise, which must have instead sounded something more like a puppy being led to be bludgeoned to death - and promptly took myself off to my room.

What is wrong with me? Whatever THAT was…THAT was not normal for me. Sat there on the edge of my bed, feet askew - I suddenly clicked as to what might be happening. I’ve heard about this. Women talk about this happening. Please no. Not now. Not the “biological clock”?

I’ve never been one of those girly girls who had my wedding planned by aged six, or one of those women who already know the names of my first four children despite my only serious comitted relationship being with my Personal Trainer. Never. In fact, I generally try to think about things one day, and one pub, at a time. I’ve always been a “fly by the seat of your polka dot pants” kinda girl, which is why the cleaning comment really did take me by surprise.

Perhaps this is what happens when you get to a certain age, I thought…and some mongrol crossbreed of cave-woman mentality and ancient biological hormones starts to elbow their way into a very modern subconscious. That’s ok. I can deal with that - if it made any sense. But all the signs were showing that they were not entirely having the desired effect. Not only were they encouraging ridiculous future plans alongside a man with who I’d only shared saliva – but other absurd things started happening too.

For example - I suppose it’s ok for a woman of my age to start to get broody. This is the optimum time for starting a family (so I’ve been told). But my problem was that suddenly I was getting more broody about dogs than children. Seriously…I saw a Jack Russell in the park….wearing a little red jacket…chasing a little ball…looking so happy. I stopped and watched it for a bit, tears coming to my eyes… and got this little turn in my stomach. A maternal instinct…but for a canine. Great. I’m pretty sure that’s not what nature intended 

I suppose its ok. I mean at least dogs can be locked in the utility room, or outside in their pen if they get a bit annoying. Apparently you’re not allowed to do that with babies. It’s frowned upon.  So if a dog is the one thing that my body wants…that is more than fine by me. Pass me the Pedigree Chum.

However, this has been the tip of the proverbial iceberg – I burst into tears the other day because I couldn’t find my other shoe. At the time it felt like the most soul destroying thing on earth; what had I done to deserve such a thing?

This was to do with me being a horrible, ugly person, right?

 *cries more*

 I’m a pointless worthless human being who can’t even find her shoe.


I mean – I laugh about  it now, but at the time, I was toying with the idea of drowning myself in the bath. But the moment passed. I had some chocolate and all was well in the world.

It took me a while to realise that all of these things were going on, and that this was highly unusual. You would think I would have noticed the mood swings, the suicidal tendancies and the broodiness - but actually, it took for me to notice that my boss was behaving a bit unusual; avoiding me, hiding in other people’s offices, and that every time we were in a room together, he would give me the look of fear similar to a rabbit about to be roadkill. It was only then that I realised that something was afoot… 

Then I remembered that about a month ago, I’d changed my pill. That must be it. Surely?

When discussing this with a girlfriend  later that day, she casually mentioned “Oh yeah – changing pill makes you crazy. When I did it, I toyed with the idea of asking my boyfriend to marry me about five minutes after bursting into tears because he’d eaten all of the left over cold pizza. My fingernails grew to near talons at breakneck speed and as a result I kept having recurring dreams of my hand being a claw. I changed back and it all went back to normal”.

And, thankfully for all involved with my life, she was right…..a change of pill and a few weeks later I was back to my normal, more balanced self.

Thank god that in this modern day age we have the drug capability to reign in and control these freakish thoughts and tendancies. I know in the back of my mind that perhaps those freakish thoughts and tendancies are, in fact, completely natural and maybe shouldn’t be surpressed….but in essence, they’re not great for the social or the love life.  Dogs, emotional outbusts, odd shoes and potential boyfriends - have no place in pubs. 

So time to swig down that pill with a glass of wine. And rest assured that things are back to normal. 

Although I still would quite like a Jack Russell.





And so….it comes to that time of year again. The tree is dressed and the house is looking festive (well…my mother’s is….mine looks relatively the same apart from a deluge of Christmas Cards.)  Presents have been bought (again…my mother’s have….I’m still preparing for a final 1 hour sweep through Selfridges before I leave for home tomorrow. Betablockers at the ready.) And everybody is full of festive cheer (Sorry….I meant “cold”. Everyone is full of festive cold.)

As we all prepare to fly back to our nests and celebrate the birth of commercial indoctrination - for many of us there is a last minute scrabble around - not just for gifts and attempts at remembering the names of your extended family - but for bank statements, receipts and any other form of monetary record you can get your hands on that enlightens you on your spending habits of 18 months ago. Yes, oh yes, that joyful time is upon us when you REALLY MUST DO YOUR TAX RETURN.

Don’t get me wrong….I’ve had 6 months to do it. HMRC sent me a lovely reminder note in June, reminding me that they will get there hands on a nice lovely chunk of my earnings at the end of the year, lest I forget. And they sweetened this notification by slipping in that, if I decided not to do it - fines and perhaps prison awaits. Lovely. Thanks for reminding me of that….I can’t wait.

So I spend much of my year with what can only be described as an mathematically minded Grim Reaper looming over me. But he has no scythe – and instead, a calculator. In fact, worse - he’s more of an accountant dressed in a hoody, trying to be cool. *Cringe*. Anyway…something along those lines. A figure with a morbid sense of foreboding. Reporting to HMRC.

Of course…I don’t do it in June. Who wants to do it in June when the flowers are out, there’s sunshine and you drink yourself into a sun stroked stupor? Not me. For me it’s MEANT to be done in the darkest days of the year. You’re MEANT to sit there, counting through your statements like some sort of modern day Scrooge, days before Christmas Day. It’s sort of a Christmas institution – like Brussel Sprouts, family arguments and alcohol poisoning. Christmas just wouldn’t be the same without it.

And – like the Dickensian novel; it almost certainly provides you with some sort of ghosts of Christmas past, present and future. 

Every statement tells a story. Or alarms in some way.  The worrying thing about doing your tax return is that it basically maps out your life from about 18 months ago. Not only is it a painful reminder that you spend well over 50% of your pay in a pub of some description - but it also begs you to delve deep into the chasms of your memory and work out the more questionable allocations like: what on earth was I doing at a strip club in November 2010? And who the hell is William N Gimmack? Since when have I ever paid Arvato Financial Services, and where the hell is The Havard Bar, and why can’t I remember being there? (Plus, it sounds a bit wanky – can’t imagine I’d have been sober if I’d found my way there purposefully)

The most worrying discovery I stumbled upon yesterday was finding a rather lumpy transaction at a place called “Worldy Wicked And…” But annoyingly it stops there as it runs out of room on the statement. As I sat there flicking through memories in my head, trying to recall what on earth that might have been….my mind wandered trying to wrack my brain and recall any slut based fancy dress parties that I may have been to that May. But nope. None. They are all generally towards the end of the year. So GOD knows what on earth I was buying at such an establishment. Again, I wrote if off as a drunken stumbling / mishap.

The thing is - the process of going through all your statements from 18 months ago really does reveal a lot about your former and present self. I spent much of yesterday looking through all my transactions and found it was like looking through a lost diary. My ghost of Christmas Past sent a cold chill through the room as I realised….yes…indeed…you are an alcoholic and have spent probably about 80% of your evenings in a watering hole. No surprises there in all honesty. But looking at some of the pub names and remembering what I was doing there and who I was with, gave me a snapshot of what my life was like back in 2010. I know it’s not that long ago, but it’s amazing what stuff you forget. It brought to mind a lot of fun nights – mischief abound, questionable behaviour, walks of shame, wallet muggings and all sorts. The weekend when I have two new Oyster Card transactions one day after the other is a fitting representation of the chaos of last December.

There was also a realisation, in some cases, that there were friends then, who I don’t see so much anymore. I genuinely found myself reflecting on old times and old friendships that may have been cast by the wayside. It even spurned me into sending out a couple of texts to those who I hadn’t seen for a while.

And as I progressed into 2011 – and the ghost of Christmas present crept slowly into the room – reminders of those people I dated earlier this year sprung to mind as various date venues came up in my transaction history. There was a recollection of all the things I learnt about myself from the various car crashes that followed….

- Ah…The Scolt Head. Never date a guy who has just come out of a long term relationship – he will inevitably be keen at first, only to realise that he’d be an idiot to jump from one frying pan into another.

- Hmmm - The Prince Regent. Never date a bloke who you dated at Sixth Form and subsequently dumped because you fancied someone else in your art class…..he’s only going to get you close, then exact revenge. It doesn’t matter that you are now 28 and that it was 11 years ago – the revenge is still as sweet. If not sweeter.

- The Trafalgar. Never date a man with a full arm tattoo, still lives with his mum and who wants to get the inside of his lip tattooed because its “cool”….he clearly has a mental age of about 14 years.

And so I chuckled and reminded myself that I’d learnt quite a lot in this tax year…even if it has been a bit of a rollercoaster. My love life is probably still just as shambolic…but at least I’m slowly coming to learn to avoid similar future catastrophes.

And so to the Ghost of Christmas Future – sat here with his feet up against my desk – reading The Economist. As I finalise my return and my finger hovers over the mouse button, ready to send off my Tax Return to “Hell’s Most Revered C**ts” – I look to the Christmas Future and he gives me a knowing look. Yup – he’s right….of course I will keep on spending more than 50% of my wages on drink. Of course I will do this again next year and recall some rather questionable drunken behaviour and relive dates of hell that have happened since May 2011 and will continue into next year….regressing and reflecting via my bank statements isn’t going to make me change my life in any way (unless my tax bill is eye-warteringly large this year and I have to sell my body in order to pay it).

But there is something rather nice in reliving these old moments and laying them to rest just before Christmas. Whilst death and taxes are the only sure things in our lives – that may hang like a foreboding noose in the corner of your mind – try and exact a little bit of positivity from the painful process of the dreaded tax return. Money is just an object the filters through our fingers all too easily. Memories are the things that should always be kept safe. And for helping me revive some of these; HMRC…I thank you.




Christmas shopping is one of a few things we humans do that, if explained to an alien species, they would pause…look at each other with one or all of however many eyes they have…and in their own native tongue would ask “What the f**k…are you joking?” This, along with the use of the Underground at rush hour, and the queuing system when boarding a Ryanair flight- are those insane human experiences which, if described to someone not from this planet, seem utterly unbelievable and the behaviour of mentally disturbed creatures that should be put out of their misery.

Have you ever looked over Oxford Street or Regent Street the week before Christmas? Swarms of people tripping over each other, bumping shoulders, screaming kids. If we herded cattle into a similar situation we’d be reported for animal cruelty. And yet, some people WILLINGLY CHOOSE to experience this…and some downright loons look on it as a “fun” experience.

Last week a friend suggested to me that we get all dressed in Christmas garb, go out for a nice Christmas lunch and then “go Christmas shopping”. I found myself slowly backing away from her as the final words left her mouth. Festive dress…I can do. Although woolly hats and jumpers seem slightly overambitious given the current warm weather – but I can deal with sweating out 4lbs of water retention ready for the holidays. The Christmas lunch I can most certainly do – as long as it doesn’t involve reheated turkey and as long as there’s a glass of wine or four involved. But the shopping? No. Not a chance.

My repulsion for Christmas shopping has increased more and more over the years – and it’s not helped this year by the fact that, once again, the shops started forcing Christmas down our throats earlier than ever. I look forward to the time when we start having fake snow in windows in July and pretend that it’s cold enough outside to don ridiculous woolly hats when the Indian summer comes along.  Those days will be hilarious….and at least then we can all admit that we, as a nation, have finally lost it.

Until that day, we still have to put up with the delightful premature experience of the Christmas advertising campaign in which the shops, like whingeing spoilt children, come up with all sorts of ingenious and crazy ways to get our attention and may as well be squealing “Like me! Like me!” I don’t know about you, but I don’t like those sorts of children. Seeing those sorts of children is the best form of contraception a girl can have. There is NO way I want one of those things. And these ad campaigns are strangely having a similar effect.

For those of you that have the delight of being my friend on Facebook – you could only sit back and watch the venom drool from my mouth earlier this week with regards to what in a court of law could only be described and Corporate Emotional Rape. Yes – the John Lewis advert. And not just the John Lewis advert but the slew of corporate advertising campaigns that try and try to sweet talk… sorry…let me rephrase that; BRAINWASH us into going and finding that perfect, thoughtful, individual and inspired gift for your loved ones at…urm….Littlewoods. 


I mean, call me a snob or just a plain idiot, but I don’t even know what Littlewoods is. For some reason I had it down in my head as a betting shop, but now it’s apparently giving Argos a run for its money.

The John Lewis advert works at first. You get sucked into that lovely festive world. The little boy with the big doe eyes…he delicately pulls on those little heart strings of yours – only until the last five seconds when John Lewis decide to go all guns blazing and try and wrench those heart strings to the moon. BLEURGH – he’s not counting down until he gets his presents…oh no…he’s been waiting all this time to give him mum and dad a really shoddily wrapped box. Seriously? Really? They almost had me. Almost. But whereas before I had no problem crossing the John Lewis threshold – I now dordle outside and wonder…do I really want to sell myself out to this crap? 

To be fair, I don’t really have warm cuddly memories of going Christmas Shopping. In fact the memories I do have are rather nightmarish and usually involved me being dragged kicking and screaming by my mother around M&S which, at the time, seemed the most insipid place on earth. Remember, this was before “YourM&S” where the adverts of mince pies and custard make you openly salivate and want to nestle in a snow bound cottage in the countryside. This was OLD M&S; when the clothing section felt like you were walking through all of your primary school teacher’s wardrobes at once; where the colour scheme was brown and beige and the only fun thing for a child in there was collecting all those little square multi-coloured size tags that were on all of the coat hangers, and hoping that if you accidentally swallowed one or shoved it up your nose it would end this godforsaken experience and mother would take you back home or, even better, to A&E.

And the experience of losing my Care Bear one Christmas at the Metro Centre has only made it very difficult for me, in my adult life, to visit places like Westfield, where losing your teddy bear is the least of your worries. I’ve regularly lost shopping bags, boyfriends, friends and my sanity in that place. Lost and Found must be a zoo. Although, the bonus of Westfield is that, if all else fails, there is always a champagne bar. With every cloud…

And unfortunately – I think that is the only way that you can make Christmas shopping more bearable. Drinking. If I HAVE to go and take on the Christmas crowds I would rather do it inebriated. Maybe then I will become one of the rude, bumbling people that I frequently get shunted by in Waitrose who literally walk into me like I’m invisible. I’m sorry, do I blend into the Brussel Sprouts? It seems that if you don’t care, you can robotically make your way around the shops without your pulse or blood pressure twitching an inch. As far as I can see, this zombie like status of which I see many people burdened with on the high street, can only be reconstructed via two ways; you either spend the morning in the company of two excitable children who won’t sit still, put down, stand up or behave. You therefore lose the will to live, speak and breathe by the time you hit the shops and as a result walk around with a crazed half smile on your face with two youngsters tugging at your cuffs. OR – you get drunk.

I refer you to paragraph 5 above. The first is not an option. 

So – cheers to that. If I do have to set foot on the pavement this winter – I shall have a mulled wine in hand, a hip flask in my pocket and I will be partaking in a new sport which I have lovingly called “Shopping Split Training”. 

            Visit one shop.

                        Visit one pub.

                                    Visit one shop.

                                                Visit one bar.

                                                            Visit one shop.

                                                                        Visit another pub….



I never used to be the sort of person who used to believe in bad luck. I didn’t believe in good luck either, so I therefore thought I was void from either one and I would prefer to keep it that way…

However, I write this whilst casually glancing over towards my bedroom mirror, which is cracked and half shattered thanks to a freak hairdrying accident back in May. When I look back at the incident itself, I do realise it reflects the slightly haphazard life choices I make which may actually be responsible for the cursed 6 months with which I’ve been encumbered with since: balancing a mirror precariously on a radiator next to an open window on a windy day, whilst having my hands busily entertained with a hairdryer, hair, brushes, hairspray and a cup of tea - seemed like the logical thing to do at the time.

I do also realise that having a broken mirror hanging on your wall 6 months can be viewed as ummm….crazy. Or lazy. But I’ve grown to like it and look at it as a self made art instillation. One of those cool art pieces named something wanky like “Reflective Chaos” - that you ask “Wow - what does it mean?”

 Well, when a certain person left my bedroom, pointed at it and said “Wow. That’s shit” – it clearly means I’m an idiot, that’s all it means.

 I digress…

 The thing that has annoyed me about this damn mirror is that it is seemingly proving my bad luck / good luck theories wrong. Seemingly no amount of denying that either exists can help you avoid it. I have tried and tried to explain away life’s little mishaps - but I just can’t seem to shake the nagging feeling that all of these things started to happen when this mirror fell and half smashed / mangled itself on my bed end. One or two incidents, I could maybe accept as just one of those things. But, seriously - when you hear the tales of woe that have happened since, you will start to realise why I’m starting to think that bad luck DOES exist and that I am apparently living out my own sequel to Final Destination. (That would make it Final Destination 7. Or Penultimate Destination…or…anywaaay…)

 I will not go into too much detail…but here are the events that stick out in my mind from this year’s summer of love…

 EARLY MAY – I can’t remember the exact date – but early May was what we shall term “THE Mirror Incident”.

 15th MAY 2011 – Car crash in Cannes. I was in the back seat of a car being driven by “those that shall not be named”. We had been on a boat. And there may have been a lot of wine drinking on that boat. Who knows if said unnamed driver had let the wine pass his lips…well, actually – yes. I do. Because there would be no other reason why a sane person would put his foot down and career the car at break neck speed towards a tunnel which could barely fit the width of a car. I shall leave the rest to your imagination.

28th JULY 2011 - Bike Accident – idiot cyclist took the inside line on me when I was clearly turning left. I went over handle bars. Scuffed knees, quivering bottom lip and the joy of picking out gravel from my hands. I felt like I was 12 again.

 25th JULY 2011 - Helter Skelter Accident. Yes. Helter Skelter. We were at Secret Garden Party. It was sunny. There was cider. And this Helter Skelter had been gleaming and glinting in the sunshine and calling it’s merriment to me over the duration of the festival. We were about to leave…but we had time for one Helter Skelter. So off we went. Out of all of the things on a Helter Skelter than might cause injury – you would THINK that it’s the shitty little doormats you have to sit on. They have “carpet burns” written all over them. Well, let me tell you this…THEY ARE THE LEAST OF YOUR WORRIES. It’s the stealthy rubber seal that runs on the inside of the slide that’s the master of the dark arts. It’s meant to protect you. Fine. If you have a t-shirt which covers your BARE SKIN. I did not. I had a singlet….and this rubber seal rubbed off a good few millimetres of my skin all the way down the back of my shoulder and on other parts of my arms. Gaping wounds which didn’t heal for weeks. They stuck to my bed sheets and everything. It was not pretty.


Not sure why no-one else had the same problem.

Oh, hang on – that’s right – they weren’t cursed by the broken mirror.

 31st JULY 2011 – Random plank falling on head. Yup. At a house party, minding my own business…chatting to someone at the kitchen table. Random plank, which had apparently been propped up in that same place for months without twitching, decided to fall directly onto my head FOR NO APPARENT REASON.

3rd AUGUST 2011 – I found a random half dead man on my doorstep. Literally, on my doorstep. This doesn’t happen to normal people, right?

 10th AUGUST 2011– Rogue staple in my trainer – jumped onto treadmill at gym. Use your imagination.

22nd AUGUST 2011 - Bike stolen. From a lock up at work. With 24 hour surveillance and a Security Guard. Little shits squeezed through a gap the size of a loaf of bread. Or thereabouts.

22nd OCTOBER 2011 – Cycling to football training. Late as usual. Cycling at warp speed down the delightfully named “Shoot Up Hill”. Front mud guard comes off and buckles into my front wheel, sending me flying. Luckily, I’d jumped a red light so there was no traffic next to me. Oh, but wait. Fate won’t let me get away with things that easily becaaaaause….

3rd NOVEMBER 2011 – pulled over and fined by police for jumping red light. Doh - *slap forehead*. Of course I’d get pulled over for a red light when one earlier saved my life.

5th NOVEMBER 2011 – Random Rastafarian asks for my bag, and I give it to him. Otherwise known as a mugging.  Tussle next to the canal and potential knifing persuaded me not to put up a fight. Favourite bag and all its contents GONE.

Which brings me relatively up to date…

There have been other incidents that probably aren’t worth mentioning – like the time I was larking around with a pair of mounted fake antlers and raised them to my head to pretend to be a deer, only for there to be a nail through the other side which almost impaled my head. And there are also the slightly more general overarching issues; don’t get me started on how much of a train wreck my love life has been these past six months. It’s so bad that I’m getting comments like “I’d definitely make you the godmother to my child”. Great. You know why? Because they can see I’m going to be the constantly single best friend, who is never going to get a bloke, will therefore have lots of surplus cash and will therefore give better presents to the kid THATS WHY.

At first I thought, these things come in threes. But then I went over my quota.

Then I thought maybe I had 9 lives. But then I went over that too. (…plus I’m not a cat.) 

So I’ve run out of excuses. Despite my machinations that good and bad luck doesn’t exist, it  looks like I’ve been proven wrong and that I’ve got 7 years of bad luck coming my way. Or, more spcifically - 6 years 5 months and (approx) 24 days.


So – I don’t get bad luck. Well…I do (clearly)…but I don’t “get it”. Is it here to make life more interesting…to keep you on your toes? To make you feel more alive? Who knows. But one thing I have noticed is that as a result of some of these incidents, I’ve seen and expereinced some amazing acts of kindness and generosity from friends, family and randoms, which otherwise wouldn’t happened. That makes me think – that maybe bad luck does have it’s uses.

One of my favourite film quotes is from Vanillas Sky, which is maybe quite apt here.

“Without the bitter, the sweet just aint as sweet”



Seriously. Blogging. What does the word even mean? And why on earth would anyone in their right mind want to keep  “a blog”?

Remember those teenage diaries that you came across last time you dug into the depths of your memory box / “junk drawer”/ wardrobe/ attic / hoover cupboard/ sofa (delete as appropriate)? The ones which you started to read, but then slowly closed again once you started to hear the 13 year old spotty you discuss your serious crush on Mulder from X-Files? Yes – well, luckily those naïve little words will forever stay bound in that diary; your high school crush on a guy who now has seriously receding hair and a bit of podge, will never to see the light of day or the eyes of others. You can rest, safe in the knowledge, that you can send that dusty diary back to the black hole at the bottom of your drawer with the numerous numbers of tweezers, random socks and the odd £5 note that have vanished over time. But blogging? Nope. Not so great. You utter those words, you press the button…and a whole host of friends, family, work colleagues, and mental patients (with internet access) can read whatever you happen to write.

So – really….what on earth is it all about? Is it born of a very simple human necessity to engage with others? Is it a modern form of cave painting or art – simply a “hey, I was here” scribble on a virtual wall? Or is it an opportunity to play with words and create something that is just….you?

I’ll be honest – I love a bit of human engagement, I love a bit of finger painting, and a love a good play with words…but blogging I’ve always managed to circumnavigate with a slight sense of fear. An expose of “me” can only lead to trouble. And who would read it? And who would care?

But it doesn’t take much to notice that I’m slowly getting sucked into this whole thing. We are all starting to blog in one way, shape or form – whether we embrace it or not. The amount that I live my life through Facebook is rather shameful. The amount I know about friends and the ease in which I can put together a social overview of everyone without even speaking to them, is frightening. The amount of times where a friend has complimented me on a top or dress which I was wearing in a photo posted 3 months ago, is kind of…ummm….alarming. We’re all online, we’re all sharing, tweeting, liking, tumblring. So why not give blogging a go?

And here’s where I’m going to be really honest. Because I’m like that. Honest. My inability to lie is well known. It has caused problems in the past. And I’m sure it will in the future. “Liar, Liar” did not get it wrong; when you can’t lie – life is a fucking MINEFIELD.  So rub your hands with glee and await the many faux pas that will come your way. Why do I want to give blogging? Well – here goes…

Not only do I like playing with words; I think the rhythm of writing, I like the formation of sentences and paragraphs. I like thinking about things from a different perspective and writing about it. But – what blogging and tweeting and Facebooking also does for me is….it fills a gap.

Work, social life, exercise, sleep – life is a million miles an hour at the moment. And being a single woman in London…there is a distinct lack of someone to tell about those everyday, individual experiences that you have all the time. Those experiences that make you smile, laugh, cringe….the intricacies of life that you want, and should, be able to share with other people. But it’s not just a remedy for - dare I say the word - loneliness. It’s more than that….

Life is beautiful and frightening, textured and simple – everyone’s experience is different and individual. Why not share it, blog it and read it? The fabric of all of our lives can be woven together and understood so easily through the vast array of blogs and tweets and Facebook posts. Is it not an opportunity to explore the richness of life in all one place?

And when you think of it like that - instead of regarding blogging as an opportunity for a bunch of self obsessed nutters crying out to be heard - blogging can actually seem a rather wonderful thing.

 I’m well aware that it sounds like I’ve talked myself out of a paper bag here, and that there’s a distinct sense of irony in the title. But, this is where I start. Blogging. I don’t get it. I don’t really have a clue why we do it. It’s a little bit scary and god knows I’ll probably regret it.

But that’s not going to stop me giving it a go….


Those moments where life seems inexplicably beautiful…..

Honesty means nothing to those that were born liars.
Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.
Oscar Wilde