Why Self-Care Is dangerous (this one’s punchy, even for me!)

It’s a Sunday morning and I’ve just tossed aside my phone with a kind of heaviness in my heart. It’s HASHTAG SELFCARE SUNDAY and I hate it. Pictures of baby-faced models with their caffeine and hemp infused face masks lying in luxurious baths full of yaks’ milk with their impossibly long legs kicking over the side in a whimsical fashion …

How To Win The Race Of Life (or at least not crash and burn too badly)

I’m just going to come out and say this. I’m not a massive fan of the horse. Now don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against horses and wish them, nor any other living creature harm. But I just never got the whole horse thing the way some teenage girls do (I had friends who would Gymkhana every weekend but all I wanted to so was sneak off with my best mate to smoke the Marlborough Lights she’d nicked from her Mum’s ciggie packet – I was not a nice teenager.)

How To Heal (warning, do not read if you want to stay a victim of your circumstances)

I am sitting in one of those impossibly hipster cafes where nothing has ever touched an animal and the staff are trained to know precisely fuck all. I’m glad I’m spending half a month’s rent for this culinary experience. No really. Thrilled.

I order a drink while waiting for my friend to rock up. I have no idea what possessed me to do it but I figured when in Spain (I don’t really know what that phrase means) and so I ordered a drink that contained the following ingredients in no particular order.

A Star Is Born – and it was sad (not a movie review)

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.

What To Do If You Fucking Hate Yoga

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.

12 Lessons From A House Move (and life, basically)

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.

You Might Not Want To Read This (because you’ll agree)

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.  

Why Manifesting Is A Load Of Shit And How To Really Get What You Want From Life.

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.

This Is Why Being Single Isn’t Completely Shit, Actually.

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.