Below you'll find a list of all posts from September, 2018
I’m not a graceful exerciser.
I don’t have much (any) eye hand coordination (much to the delight of my brother-in-laws) so as the room step-touches one way, I’m usually galloping the other way. I was also blessed with anti-rhythm (definition : when someone’s rhythm on the dance floor is so bad that it causes others to lose their ability to dance.)
Yep, this girl just can’t keep a beat.
I used to think that manifesting was a load of wank. Some hippy woo-woo nonsense that some con-artists packaged up like a magic pill and sold to people who didn’t want to take charge of their own lives. And I still believe this to some extent.
“Manifested” a car park right outside the take-away Chinese? It’s called luck mate.
It’s a Saturday night and I’m at a party. Albeit, my Dad’s. It is the social highlight of my European summer and I say that without a hint of my trademark sarcasm.
Yep I’m 37, single and rocking out in the back garden of my family home where over a hundred of my Dad’s friends (the fact that my own Father has more mates than me both disturbs and delights me in equal measure) have been invited to enjoy an afternoon of homemade scones (because, BRITISH) and an evening hog roast (quiche and one raised eyebrow for the only vegetarian in the room).
As a parade of guest’s meander through the party, my sisters and I find ourselves air kissing and making small talk with a variety of people we haven’t seen for a variety of years.
Now, I’m not one to take life advice from a tray (although can we take a moment to appreciate how pretty I made it look with a baguette and flowers and shit).
In fact, these sorts of cutesy quotes on household objects usually shit me so it was with a snarl in my stare that I first noticed this tray in the kitchen of the house in France my family and I holidayed in last week.
