The Blog

Last night, I went to the cinema with some friends to watch A Star Is Born. I had two reasons for wanting to see this film.

I hadn’t heard any film reviews, nor had I seen the three older movies of the same title.

I naively went into the movie theatre expecting a chick flick (whatever that means) and so was caught offside by the torrent of emotion that the film delivered. If you haven’t seen the film, it’s a lot.

Great. But a lot.

For years now I’ve tried to enjoy mainstream yoga. I want so much to be into it and bendy like my glorious friend Emily (yep, we’re both called Emily and it’s cute AF).

But the harsh reality is, if we were food stuffs ‘on the mat’ glorious Emily would be a pretzel and I’d be a cheese stick.

Moving house SUCKS!

There. I said it.

I am surrounded by boxes full of shit I didn’t miss while it was in storage.

My back hurts from lifting said boxes of shit (and age. My back also hurts from age.)

I know where nothing is (it took me 20 minutes to find a tampon yesterday. They were in a box marked “stuff” so big thanks goes out to past Me for that one) and everything feels unfamiliar.

Now, let me be clear. I am supremely grateful for my new home and acknowledge how lucky and privileged I am. But moving house has thrown up some real lessons for me and today I’m going to share some of them with you. Do with them what you will. I trust they serve.

I love shoes, bags, accessories and all things fashion (because I’m a girl. So I also adore pillow fights and eat ice cream out of the tub without putting on weight, right?!).

But seriously, I do love leather goods, especially designer leather goods.

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.

A few weeks ago I spent an entire Wednesday eating pistachios because I was balls deep in my own overwhelm. Eventually, surrounded by empty shells and my own tears, I took it upon myself to write this blog in the hope that I spare you, dear reader the torment of your own procrastination (the number one symptom of overwhelm).

The following day, blog unfinished, I was wondering around the internet and I saw this quote which was cited to UNKNOWN AUTHOR.

So, in the interests of not wanting this little quote to feel abandoned and unloved, I’m claiming it as my own!

It looks like she took a pair of scissors in each hand and, starting BEHIND my ears, hacked in a fringe until the scissors met somewhere off centre and at different heights near the middle of my forehead.

Still, lessons were learnt (like, Mum couldn’t and shouldn’t cut hair), hair grows back and nothing stays the same.

But even though I know intellectually that nothing stays the same, I can be transported back in time the moment I step foot in my childhood home.