I’ve been headfirst in several books these past few months (I do adore the monthly #theyearinbooks chat on Twitter for inspiration and shared recommendations of wondrous reads) and thought it would be polite of me to share a few of those that have captured my imagination.
I promise I’m not going to write solely about the glories of pregnancy but a few little thoughts popped into my head this week as I progress from glide to waddle which may ring true for those of you starting this mum path for the first, second, third time or anyone considering the madness that is parenthood.
When I fall in love with something, I pounce, like a kitten with a ball of string.
I covet and paw over it – if it’s a film or song then I play it endlessly and the true test if something is really meant to be a lifetime soulmate rather than a holiday fling is that I can revisit it for years on end and never tire of it.
On our Sunday stroll for a spot of luncheon we chanced upon this rather scumptious new arrival on route to Peckham Rye. That's the spendid thing about my SE23 home patch - an abundance of fine eateries and cake pitstops keep evolving to dash any sniff of the word "slimming"..
I ummed and erred about writing this post. Do I want to throw my biggest anxiety out there into the big bad world for all and sunder to see? I hoped there may be some sense of offloading the angst by musing to you lovely lot though…
The thing is, I get spots.
Most of the time they’re run-of-the-mill annoyances that a dollop of concealer can hide but every so often I get a giant beast of a spot – the type of spot that can be seen from space, that rivals Mount Vesuvius in size, that is redder that a giant red balloon sitting on a red traffic light on top of a red pogo stick.
Rewind three or so months ago and I was floating in a hiatus after the joys of Blogtacular and hanging out with my fellow, inspirational blog pals. Then suddenly…it all stopped. Ground to a halt.
My blog has fallen by the wayside in a spectacular fashion. I barely check Twitter. I’m so out of sync that a post I wrote yonks ago and forward scheduled went live without me knowing – with no picture or editing to boot and it took one of my lovely blog pals to Tweet me to even realise it was up there. I don’t even know if my blog is still up and running or has been hacked and turned into an online gaming site (I should check this…)!..
I realise this is somewhat ironic, given that I am writing this on a computer and sharing it on social media, the t’internet and the whole wide world but…technology worries me.
A little memory popped into my mind whilst I stared out of the window on my morning commute the other day. I sent a little Tweet (yup, irony again) sharing my thought and it sparked more responses than my usual rants in which clearly no one but me gives two hoots.
On my phone I have a wishlist of items I’d buy if I somehow came into a windfall. No handbags, holidays, posh clothes – it’s pretty much all interior housey wants. Oh, and a house of course.
The thing is, our house is always 50 paces behind how I’d love it to look and I was slapped in the face with this annoying realisation when my lovely fellow blogger Cat asked me to be featured in her monthly Real Home Life series.
I’m not sure if it’s just an intrinsically British thing, in the same vein as always feeling compelled to comment on the state of the weather, but I wonder why people are always so interested in what you are about to eat? You waft a plate of food within five inches of a nose and you can see the cogs ticking…interest is aroused, curiosity becomes all too much and then….the comment floodgates open. Always one of these:
To the shrivelled up 3-day old pesto pasta, “ooh that looks nice,” when it clearly doesn’t.
I'm a bit of a donut when it comes to socialising.
My mind goes blank when I meet strangers and more often than not my brain is shouting, "say something interesting you moron" whilst what actually comes out of my mouth is, "BLAAAH. (silence). BLEUUGH. DOOR KNOBS. (silence). OOH ISN'T IT COLD?".
So the idea of chucking myself into a conference room filled with some 200-odd people. And not just any old bunch of peeps but BLOGGERS - that thing I'm trying to do well, to champion and which so so many of them do amazingly - wasn't top of my wishlist.
Ps - I'm off to my first blogging conference on Saturday, ooh...
Blogtacular looks set to be an immense day of creative magic being spun at The Royal Institution with an inspiring line-up of speakers sharing their wisdom and experiences. I've even managed to land a spot at the pre-event 'Photowalk' with a gaggle of other lovely people but as I'm also going to the Friday night dinner, the likelihood that I'm going to turn up with toothpaste dribbled down whatever-it-is-I-panic-choose-at-5am has increased ten-fold...
Some people may associate grey with rainy days and glumness but I for one am drawn to it like a caramel keg in a Roses tin.
I am, as a friend recently kindly labelled me, the self-confessed, “Queen of grey”.
I rather like this label. I’ve been called a lot worse and she is indeed correct that I am somewhat over-the-top in my passion for all that is grey - except the books on the subject of its 50 various shades, as Danny Leigh from Film 2015 so aptly summed up, it would make me “sorry I ever learnt to read” to include those on my grey love list.
Often things happen in life which unexpectedly stir up long forgotten memories and give you pause for reflection.
Last week I found out that a school friend of ours passed away in unhappy circumstances a couple of years ago, leaving behind her one year old daughter. I hadn’t seen this friend since I left school. We simply drifted in separate directions, no malice or bad love between us, just life scooping us up and leading us opposite ways.
I love anything sparkly – stick a piece of glitter on a dustbin and I want it I have several floral duvets and copious Cath Kidston purchases I cannot stand to participate in or watch any kind of sport because it’s so bloody boring (aside from Formula One, which is another post entirely) I am lost without hand cream
And yet I am missing many of the vital feminine pastimes…
I'm a contradictory soul - I love discovering magical new finds but at the same time I am a classic creature of comfort. When I happen upon somewhere to make my pulse race, I pounce upon it and covet it to the extent that I may as well become a member of staff. The National Theatre, Swan at The Globe, Jam Circus (my local haunt) - and now, Model Market in Lewisham.
I realise this conforms to all manner of stereotypes (I can live with the Carrie and Stamford a la SATC one quite comfortably thanks) but this is just the way it is.
The question is, can you ever truly have a close – and when I mean close, I’m talking someone you can pick your nose in front of, cry in front of, hold hands without feeling weird and call at 3am to discuss the merits of Maltesers – straight male best friend?
B.C (Before Child), I was always a dress girl. My mum said I outright refused to wear trousers when I was a nipper and whilst I’ve progressed beyond only wearing tutus and floral print, I just feel more ‘me’ in a dress.
However, all this changed when Mini B arrived.
Maternity leggings became my best friend – finally migrating to non-mat leggings at the same time as I shoved my size 100 beige Asda granny knickers back in my ‘pregnancy’ bag in the loft.
At college I was that girl who trailed around after the boys who were in bands, spending hours making mix tapes on my ancient Sony sound system and hanging out in the music room ‘playing’ the drum kit badly with a set of drumsticks I carried around in my rucksack at all times, as if constantly waiting for Radiohead to call and summon me on tour.
In the spirit of Easter overindulgence, my thoughts turn to my daily chocolate marathon and ever-increasing wobbly bits. I may consider doing something about my expanding waistline except for the mute point that I'm allergic to exercise - and please don't mention the dreaded gym.
I’m not usually one to conform to stereotypes but when I got married I thought I’d embrace my wifely duties by becoming somewhat domestic in the kitchen and learning to bake.
Let me give you some perspective on the effort entailed in this decision – I cannot cook and did not own a whisk, mixing bowl, apron or any other baking paraphernalia. My friend Lauren does little to hide the fact she is appalled that I buy ready-made mash and pre-chopped frozen onions.