For my five hour train journey I prepared myself thusly:

One (1) copy of Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom, as yet unopened. Described by the New York Times as “a compelling biography of a dysfunctional family and an indelible portrait of our times”, and by my mate Martin as “Yeah, it’s hard work and a bit dull”.

Two (2) magazines, of the trashy variety (see: Closer, and Stylist). Likelihood of finishing these before even contemplating cracking the spine of the above? Even.

Three (3) audio Cantonese lessons. Because the learning never stops. These are there for show and will be returned to the library unloved and unlistened to.

Four (4) – gigabytes worth of music, to provide the soundtrack to my life as I stare forlornly out of the window and pretend i’m in Party of Five (or, more likely, to lose myself in the fantasy that I’m performing on stage, letting my inner Sasha Fierce comes to the fore as all my peers and coworkers – and anyone else who has ever judged me – look on with awe and wonderment, saying to each other how they never knew I had it in me, but man that girl can sing! Who knew?… Does anyone else do this? This is a fantasy that is in danger of getting out of hand – if myself and my coworkers should ever find ourselves in a karaoke bar, I may forget what is
real and what is in my damaged head, pushing others out of the way as I get up on stage to give an embarrassing and awkward rendition of Lady Gaga, complete with inappropriate and badly thought through choreography).

Five (5) episodes of Modern Family, for lolz.

And a massive bag of chocolate.

Suffice to say, I don’t deal well with long journeys. I’m the kid who eats her packed lunch as soon as she takes her seat. And then continues to eat at half-hourly intervals just to stave off the boredom of being with myself and myself alone in a limited space and no wi-fi. I fidget. I sigh. I wear uncomfortable clothes and then huff and puff as I try to pull the skinny jeans away from my misshapen thighs which only seem to get bigger from the blood and cake that starts to settle on my legs as I sit.

Good luck to you if you’re sharing my table.


where were you when…?

on the 29th april, like everyone else, i overdosed on patriotism, pimms and good cheer (anyone know a suitable word beginning with p??) – getting my red white and blues out for the lads.

and then the next morning, like everyone else, i woke up with a hangover. not just from the shots (although ultimate power ballads night is not one for sensible decision making) but from excess jubilation. and much like if someone handed you a tequila shot the morning after, any images of “The Dress(TM)”, pippa’s peachy posterior, or the balcony moment (and yes that includes officially the cutest moment in the world, starring a noisy crowd and a grumpy bridesmaid) induced a slight nausea and headache and the yelp “get that thing away from me” before heading back to bed and hiding under the duvet.

however, time has passed and i am fickle. and lord knows i’m a sucker for a love story and a huge wedding. so here are a few images from the day i spent celebrating with the rest of the world:

guards on patrol:

trying for a better view:

patriotic baking:

mid cockney knees-up:

and telling it like it is:

i saw this whilst on a tube the other day. i hadn’t remembered a book to read and so was frantically reading all the adverts and signs around me to stave off boredom and desperately trying to avoid the awkward situation of making eye contact with a fellow commuter.

and so it begins…

I’ve been umm-ing and aah-ing about whether or not to start a blog for a while now. And yes, I do realise that I’m approximately 12 years too late (and 12 years too old?) to join this game, but there you go. There’s probably something very narcissistic and navel-gazing about all of this, and it smacks of me thinking I have some as-yet-undiscovered talent to entertain via the medium of the written word, but hey. Where millions lead I am to follow. It is not for me to question why, and all that.

So, I suppose I should start by introducing myself. I am a man of wealth and taste. No not really. That’s a song lyric, fool. What I am, is a 30-year-old girl (technically a woman I guess, but that feels too much like a John Lewis advert) who lives with her boyfriend in east london (although no fixie-bike and drainpipes for us). My interests are varied – mainly cause I get bored easily (I am writing this whilst I impatiently wait for a document to load and it’s taking far too long for my liking). Film, theatre (especially musicals), exercise, dance, reading. Baking. Lots of baking. (Which leads to the need for the exercise. ‘Tis a vicious cycle.) I mostly
like catching up with my friends over a few bottles of wine – who wouldn’t?

I don’t have a niche topic for this blog being, as I am, a jack-of-all-trades and a master-of-jack-shit, but let’s see where this thing takes us. I suspect there will be musings about celebs, pop-music, baking, and some random pictures from my wanderings around the big smoke. I’m not sure what has driven me to start this, apart from the fact my internal monologues were getting a bit noisy, and also, if others can do it, then why not me?

In hindsight I will probably decide that it wasn’t the best idea to do this when hungover.