As I sit here in my little foldy up chair, we’ve just finished putting the tent up and are now bathing in our bag of glory.

The perfect food to test out your new camping stove is a cup a soup, which seems to be advertised towards the busy housewife, with slogans such as “just finished the ironing a soup” whored all over the packet. As I don’t believe that this is how housewives really behave, I’ve thought up my own alternative names.

1) “just been fucked over the dining room table a soup”.
2) “I’ve spent the last ten minutes sitting on the washing machine a soup”.
3) “the builder came round to start on our new conservatory but ended up showing me his tool in the bedroom a soup”.
4) “my husband is obviously fucking his secretary a soup”.



When I was little, I was pretty damn adamant that I was going to become a writer.

I loved writing short stories, and i’d always be given top marks when it came to creating a tourist brochure for a foreign country (my year 6 teacher Mr. Thomas loved the time I used a clip art version of the Eiffel Tower as a substitute for the letter A). I was good at using descriptive words and writing poetry, but soon the teenage years came and I could no longer muster the brain power or the motivation.

I’ve always had a little problem with words. Verbally, anyway. I’m the worst person to come to with problems, because all the brilliant advice that I know I have in my head suddenly vanishes, and i’m just left with vaguely sympathetic comments.

And then there’s “love”. There’s been a few break-ups in my past where there’s been a million and one things i’ve wanted to say, but words stick in my throat and I can’t say them. My head is so full of clarity and my mouth just won’t cooperate. I’ve had people say that they don’t feel cared for by me because I don’t tell them I care for them. This, to me, just doesn’t make sense.

I’m not a words person, i’m an actions person. If you’ve ever got up in the middle of the night to get me a glass of water because i’ve drank to much, made me a cup of tea even though it was my turn,  made sure I had enough quilt, listened to me whinge, made the effort to come and see me, then to me, that expresses far more love than words ever could. Words do nothing, actions do something.

When I have problems, I don’t really talk about them. I mean, i’d love to, but I just can’t. The words don’t come out. I have a livejournal which is set so that only my best friend can read. Anything and everything that happens to me goes in here, if I feel at all worried or upset. It’s my little place of solace. I don’t have to worry about being laughed at because of what I say or feel, I don’t have to worry that i’m wrong. All the things that I think is subconsciously going on in my head when I try and tell someone how I really feel inside. That’s why the words don’t come out.

I don’t say the L word very often, to friends, to boyfriends, to anyone. But fuck it. It doesn’t matter. If a word means so much to you, we’re more than likely not that compatible. If you’re happy enough with me making you a cup of tea or changing your bedsheets, sit down and we’ll talk.


The other day I was looking at various pictures and videos i’d taken over the weekend. One was of James and Mark doing some song on Singstar, when WHATTHEFUCKISTHAT.

I don’t believe in ghosts or the paranormal, i’m a total skeptic, but seriously, what. the. fuck. was. that.

I saw a face. I’m sure I saw a face.

I put it on YouTube to see if anyone could give me logical, rational explanation for this scary.

The best comment left on Facebook was: “Someone is smoking near the camera”. Then I remembered, I was totally having a fag at the time.

My iPhone

2 weeks ago I woke up and my first thought was “i’m going to buy an iPhone today.”

Obviously, the fact that I am a poorly paid slave worker didn’t cross my mind. The man in Carphone Warehouse put up with me as I barked orders at him, pissed off that I was spending money on something that I really wanted but couldn’t really afford. Man, if you’re out there, i’m sorry. You were quite hot and under different circumstances things could have been better between us.

Anyway.  Here is a list of goods and bads about my shiney ring ring.


  • I have free texts. Well, I say free. I have to pay for the courtesy. Apparently they’re unlimited, but according to the “fair usage policy” the maximum is 3,000. I’m planning to excede this just to piss o2 off.
  • 1. Take picture of dog on the bed
    2. Upload to twitter
    4. Profit!
  • Foursquare. It’s an app where you tag where you are. The more places you go, the more points you get.  The bad side of this is that it tells me how many times i’ve been at work in the past month. Like I wasn’t as depressed by that enough already.
  • I can boast about my amazing phone whilst not mentioning the price.
  • The little vibration as you turn the silent button on. Mmmm.


  • By the time my contract is up, I will have spent the equivalent of my soul.
  • The horn i’ve got as my text sound frightens the dog and makes her run out the room.
  • Fuck you iTunes, FUCK YOU.  I LOVE YOU.
  • Look at that horse! Look at it! I want to take a picture of it! I can’t! It’s too far away and I don’t have a zoom! Wait! I have an app that lets me zoom! Imma use it! No! The zoom is digital! Horse is nothing but pixels! PIXEL HORSE!!
  • It’s an Apple product. But that’s okay. I’ve never said “it just works” or “did you know there are no known viruses?” or “i’m still a virgin”.

They grow up so quickly. And noisily.






Post Postcrossing

It’s always a strange thing when you stumble across a website, by chance, and wonder why the hell you’ve never seen it before.

A few weeks ago a friend on Twitter mentioned if anyone took part in Postcrossing. Thinking it must be some kind of infamous sexual act, I didn’t reply but instead searched Google for some blackmail-rich information.

That was when I found Postcrossing.com and wondered why i’d never seen or heard of it before, despite it being online for at least 5 years.

The aim of this website is “to allow people to receive postcards from all over the world, for free.” Basically, you ask to “send a postcard” and Postcrosser provides you a random name and address of one of their 116,769 members. You then write your postcard, send it off, and wait for another randomly picked participant to send one to you. Brilliant.

The best part of the website in my opinion however, is the fact that when you are given a random address to send to, a small image of Google maps appears, showing how far your postcard is going to travel. Wether it’s going to Finland or America, it’s still great knowing that this small picture of your hometown that you’ve scrawled on the back of is going to be on another part of the world in a few days time.

Try it. Yes, you will tens of postcard littering your desk from then on, but if you’re lucky enough to receive one from me, it’ll have Hello Kitty shiny stickers on it and everything.