Category Archives: Lifestyle

For a brief, lovely moment, I had my babies back

Last night, I had a dream that I was in a forest somewhere. Not a dark, wildernessy type forest, mind. Deciduous trees, vibrant green colours, a leafy glade if you will. The kind of place you go for a walk on a Sunday when you and your partner have guilt-tripped yourselves into doing some exercise, but don’t want to commit to anything you will regret later.

I was on one side of grassy clearing, and on the other side was a medium sized fire pit. In the middle of it was a big stack of wood, arranged into pyramid shape, burning nicely. There was a young man sat on a log by the fire; I was there with him, but I couldn’t say now who he was supposed to be. He was very blond… I think my brain had made him up by splicing together 3 or 4 different people from reality, as it does more frequently with places.

Also there with me were my two cats. That’s worthy of note because a) we were in the middle of a fucking forest and b) they both passed away between 3 and 8 years ago respectively, and I have never dreamed of either of them before.

Harvey and Dylan

Life was just so hard for these guys

They were just wandering around in the clearing, doing their own cat stuff. You know; sniffing things in that deeply feline way that that makes their whole upper lip area flex, eating grass which I know damn well was going to get thrown up in the middle of night for me to tread in, trying to catch out the ghosts that were ruffling their fur every time the wind gusted…

Suddenly, they both moved off in that paws-blurred, ears-back, slinky trot that cats do when they really want to get away from something, but don’t want to draw attention to the fact that they are shitting themselves. Upon investigation it turned out that a grizzly bear had appeared a way off down the path and the cats had, quite rightly, cheesed it.

As so often with the world of dreams, things got a little weird after that. I think I ended out squaring up to the bear, with a burning branch in each hand, because there was no way that either Blondie or I could have run away fast enough to get to safety. I don’t remember how it ended, but I am going to assume that it was not triumphantly – for me at any rate.

Wildlife confrontation aside, and regardless of however briefly, it was really nice to be back with my cats again. Just chilling, having a nice time.

I miss them.

I guess I understand now why some people like to believe there is a heaven.

Dylan interested

“I see you are playing World of Warcraft. Allow me to offer you some derisive remarks on how out of date your kit is. N00b.”

On death. Or life. Or both, actually.

One day I am going to die. My heart will stop beating, and my blood will stop being pushed around my body. This self-sustaining organic system that I walk around wearing will fail. After everything I have forced upon my body over the years, at some point it will no longer be able to keep functioning. It will fail, and it will stop. I will stop.

When that happens, it may come as a surprise. It may be as the result of some massive trauma; I may simply run out of blood because it’s leaked everywhere, or certain key bits of me may be compromised beyond repair.

Or… I may be aware that there is something deeply wrong with me, and my death may be the end of a medical battle. I may have known for some time that somewhere inside me, something was destroying me from within.

Whichever route gets me there, I will eventually stop. I may stop quietly in my sleep… however, knowing myself, I doubt that very much; I wake up if a moth so much as farts on the way past my bedroom window. I am fairly sure that right at the end, I will be awake and aware. Even if it is just in some primal way, I will know when the end of me arrives, and I will be scared.

In the final moments though, I don’t think I will be scared for very long. I don’t know what brain chemistry does to perception at the point of death, mind you – it might stretch time weirdly, like it does in a car accident. Although I reckon if that happens, some kind of “-amine” will be released in conjunction and it will get all trippy and 60’s-music-video on my ass.

All things considered, I’m not actually scared of dying. It’s the life bit right before that which concerns me.

(For context, I’ve just listened to Blackstar, the last David Bowie album. I’ve had it for the best part of 4 months, but have bottled listening to it until now.)

2016 has brought death and loss sharply into focus, for me and for a lot of other people around the world. I am aware that people die every day and that they are all important to someone. However this year has heralded the end of many people who had global renown, and whose impact was was felt by many more people than just those who were in their immediate lives. It can’t help but sharpen your thinking about certain things when you lose so many people in such a short period of time.

It’s generous to think that I will keep living an enthusiastic and independent life well into my 80’s or 90’s, but the reality is – that might not be the case. Tonight might be my last night *cue dramatic music*

I do not believe that anything happens to us spiritually once we’re dead. We stop, and we degrade. I do not believe that we have souls that are released from a physical shell, I do not believe that there is a world beyond this one, or a higher plane, or a heaven. When we’re done, we’re done. We may get to leave a legacy behind us that impacts other people (for good or for evil), but most of us will only exist in memory.

So the real question then becomes this; if I stopped living tonight, what’s my legacy, my memory?

Does my sister know that I loved her beyond anything else? Is my houseful of shit simple to sort out when I’m not here? Was I living the life I wanted to live? Did I inspire joy and amusement in those around me? Would the people left alive behind me be able to say in confidence that I had a good fucking time while I was here?

I believe that the answer to all of the above is yes. Don’t get me wrong, I have lived through a load of awful situations in the past – and I haven’t been on the Harry Potter studio tour yet… But! Right now, at this very moment, I am living a life of enjoyment, happiness and balance. It took me a long time to get here, and it was hard-fought, but this is a state that I fully intend on staying in until I stop living.

I would encourage all of you to start cutting out the parts of your lives that cause you pain, anger, or sadness. Find ways to let go of the one-way transactions in your life, where you give and get nothing in return; the thankless jobs, the selfish individuals. The things and people that drag you down to less than you should be. If you need it, get help to be the best version of you that you can be.

Let’s be honest, you never do know when you will come to an end, and life is too short to be doing anything other than that which makes you smile while you are alive – and that which makes YOUR PEOPLE smile after you are gone.

On that note, I can confirm that after much experimentation and deliberation, Kale farts are seriously the worst farts ever.

You’re welcome.

“…oh, I wish you’d wear a dress!”

This past Wednesday, I went on a night out with my work colleagues. We don’t all get to see each other very often, since most people work in different parts of the country, and fairly typically it ended out as a drunken, raucous gathering of 30-odd bloody lovely people having a bloody lovely evening.

However – both in the corporate environment that I work in, and the town centre on a Wednesday night – I don’t really blend in very well.

What happened throughout that evening (and has been happening since I was in charge of picking my own clothes if I’m honest), is that I had series of conversations with different people all about why I don’t dress up more – because I’d look really nice in XYZ outfit, because I have such a nice figure, etc. etc.

And I totally get it; I am a scruffy mess and that is not what the majority of people aim for. Any clothes that I put on immediately look like I have slept in them. You know what? I kinda like that.

I have a gleeful pride in how little time it takes me to get ready to leave the house, how small my wardrobe is, how few pairs of shoes I own, and how long it’s been since I last ironed anything. I think it would be fair to say that a significant part of that is a joyous rejection of gender-based expectations of how I am going to present myself – which in turn has it’s roots in the fact that I really struggle to care.

The last time I was interested in a fashionable item of clothing, it was a layered denim and black lace skirt. It was 1987. I was 9 and I was in love with Jon Bon Jovi, incidentally. On top of not really seeing anything which I am supposed to like that has appealed for the best part of 30 years, my natural inclination in everything is to expend as little energy as possible – which includes my appearance. When I was maybe 14, possibly 13, I had my hair cut short. It used to take me ages to manhandle it into shape in the mornings – because I didn’t understand that my hair was in fact curly. As soon as I realised that was the problem, I just let it run free and do whatever the hell it was inclined to do. That was the last time I made any concerted effort in my appearance, and I have never looked back.

Happy happy joy joy

Zero fucks given.

There was a period of time after I left my horrible mistake of a marriage where I rushed back to the loving embrace of my metal roots, to get back in touch with who I was. I adopted a goth uniform of sorts, which was pretty much all I wore for about 3 years; black skirt, stripey socks, black mesh long-sleeved shirt with a slogan t-shirt over the top, black New Rock boots.

Download 2004

“…Look Busy.”

It was simple, lightweight, easy to pack, and quick to put on. I wore that until I bought my first pair of Criminal Damage baggy black jeans (or, my goat-smuggling trousers, as dubbed by my best mate) and then that became my new uniform. That tends to be my pattern; find something I like, then wear it for years until it falls apart or I find something of superior awesomeness. Rinse and repeat.

During the last relationship-I-should-never-have-been-in, I was constantly getting disparaged and sneered at for not dressing up nicely like the Eastern European women you see pushing strollers through town, or making a proper effort like the trendy women that you see strutting around Camden and Brick Lane. “Go fuck yourself, I’m outta here.” should have been what I said. I didn’t say that. I ended out wearing different clothes – skinny jeans, branded tops, women’s boots – to try and regain some modicum of respect, regard and interest from my partner. Because THAT always works, huh people? All that happened was that I further lost myself and got even more crushed under his boot heels by trying to conform to someone else’s idea of what I should be like.

I am never, ever doing that again. I don’t like skinny jeans, or having my hair in a bun, or dresses, or painful women’s shoes, or whatever bullshit some nutjob clothes designer has decided is suddenly the thing to wear this season. Sorry pal, I’m not playing.

There are a few things that I have always gravitated towards; black, red, black AND red, black and red STRIPES…

Red and Black Stripes

8 1/2 year old me. A leopard never changes it’s spots… or stripes…

…otherwise muted colours, big shoes, baggy jeans. My ‘style’, if you can call it that, is comfortable, low maintenance, and cheap. I would like to say that it’s practical because of my over-fondness of massive pockets, but if you’d ever seen me hopping about in the rain to avoid absorbing my own body-weight in puddle water into my trousers, you’d understand why I avoid that claim.

One thing my style is NOT, however, is flattering. I have become less and less interested in putting myself on display as the years have gone past. I feel no obligation to wear anything that shows off my lady-parts, or even wear ‘women’s’ clothes at all. Like everything in my life these days, I know how to play the game, I just choose not to. As I go about my business, thousands of people might look at me and turn their nose up, or not even register me at all…


They are not the people that I am interested in. I am interested in the folks that see the scruffy, baggy jeans that haven’t been ‘on trend’ for a decade or two, who see the unkempt hair that I obviously haven’t done anything with since I got out of bed, and don’t care. I am interested in the people who look at my t-shirt and think, “She likes Brand New! Awesome!”

It’s taken me many, many years to properly get on board with the idea that I am fucking brilliant, precisely the way I am. I am aware that it means I will probably spend the rest of my life batting back questions about my choices, but that’s totally cool. Let’s be honest – who doesn’t?

[Brand New really are excellent, by the way.]

Happy Sunday…

…to those who never have to deal with snoring, and get the whole bed to themselves.
…to those who only have their own glorious mess to contend with.
…to those who get to spend their entire disposable income on themselves.
…to those who never have to carry the cold stone of sickening worry in their belly.
…to those who know that the last piece of dessert will always be in the fridge where they left it.
…to those who get to go wherever they want without having to consult with anyone else.
…to those who can leave their washing on the bedroom floor.
…to those who never have to argue about who’s going to take the last beer.
…to those who are never waiting around for someone else to get ready.
…to those who never come home to any unnecessary conflict or petty gripes.
…to those who don’t have to spend a fortune on Christmas presents for someone else’s family.
…to those who never have to sacrifice space in their home to another person’s interests.
…to those who don’t have to apologise for coming home drunk.
…to those who don’t have to negotiate their way through the minefield of someone else’s headfucks.
…to those who can spend the whole weekend at home in their pants without criticism.
…to those who are enjoying a respite from drama.
…to those who never have to clean someone else’s piss off of the toilet.

For everyone who joins me in being actively grateful for being alone, I wish you a marvellous Sunday.

Valentine’s Day has always rankled a little, even when I have been in relationships. I resent the idea that at some point, a group of corporations has dictated a day when we are guilt-tripped into spending money to demonstrate the extent to which we care about someone – and as a society we’ve just gone along with it.

So as a nice, solid, two-fingered salute to a capitalist drive to exploit love, let us celebrate with gleeful joy the vibrancy of this exquisitely sweary ode to pure hatred by Frank Carter & the Rattlesnakes;

You’re welcome.

If you EVER hear me complaining…

Every now and then, I get a really poignant reminder of how excellent and simple my life really is.

A few minutes ago, I was sat on the bus, on the way home after a couple of quiet pints in the pub watching the football. I was considering going back to bed for a few hours when I got home, before maybe listening to some music, or playing a PC game, or even just chilling out and catching up with some Youtube subscriptions that I am behind on.

Just then a woman – a little bit younger than me – got on with four small children, one of which was in a wheelchair, wearing a soft helmet, and methodically chewing his way through a section of carpet underlay. The other three, whilst being reasonably well behaved from what I understand about kids, spent the entire journey winding eachother up and testing their mother.

I haven’t always had things easy; I am not privileged and I have experienced my own fair share of trials. I have also fucked a lot of things up in my life, but I am deeply, DEEPLY grateful for the choices that I have made and where they have brought me to now.

Self-Defined Morality

You are walking down the street and you see a dog run across the road and get hit by a car. The car doesn’t stop, and there is no-one else around. You have a choice to make; maybe you don’t feel obliged to do anything since it’s not your dog, so you walk the other way and don’t get involved. You could be really scared and decide not to stop, but you call an animal protection society to come and help while you’re on your way to wherever you are going. Or, you could run over and help the dog. You could do any one of these things – and no-one would ever know either way. It’s entirely up to you how you respond.

Let’s say that you choose to go over and help the dog. There’s an infinite number of possibilities of what you are going to find when you get there. The dog could already be dead… He could be hurt so badly that there is no way to save him… She might just be stunned and you can get her to the vets, and she’ll be fine… You could end out covered in blood and crying your heart out because you really tried and there was nothing you could do… These are all the things that you could face as you wade in to try and do your best to help, to do the right thing, whatever that might be. Regardless of the horrible possibilities in front of you, you do it anyway.

Now let’s say that back while you’re assessing the situation, you remember that your parents are hugely into animal welfare, and will be so proud of you for helping, that they’ll probably take you out for a lovely free meal at an expensive restaurant when they find out what you did. You decide to go and help out the dog, because whatever the outcome, you know you will get a truly awesome dinner experience, just for doing a good thing.

The net result is the same; the dog gets care from a stranger, which it might not necessarily have had otherwise. It might have even been the dog’s last moments, and you were there to stroke its head and try to impart some comfort… You might be upset, but you can take some personal positives from having been there and done your part.

You did a good thing.

…but don’t ever try and suggest you are better than the person helped anyway, without the promise of a lovely dinner.

Catholic Faith

Alcohol turns me into my own dumbass flatmate

  • Drunken Amazon Obsession


MUST HAVE ALL THE THINGS. Life is a constant round of surprise gifts from Drunk Me. Consequently, my home is now a shrine to bubble wrap, padded envelopes and other packaging that won’t reasonably go in the recycling.

  • Poor Alcohol Management


Who does this? That’s not even a whole glass. Fuck am I meant to do with that?

  • Being sociable


Drunk Me gets all enthusiastic about Going Out and Doing Things and makes promises for us both. Sober Me has to deal with the fallout.

  • Trail of destruction




Seriously, like I need any help making a mess.

  • Pizza


Drunk Me likes pizza way more than is reasonable or healthy. I found this under some clothes in my bedroom. Being able to order pizza without getting out of bed or talking to anyone is a bad idea.

Go home, Me, you’re drunk.

Oh, wait…