FFAQ – questions nobody actually asked me about things you probably don’t give a shit about

I decided to post an FAQ. Because, why not?

To make it more interesting I decided to make it a fake FAQ of things that nobody actually asked me and you probably don’t give a shit about either.

So, let’s get this party started.

Q1. Okay, so – why did you start blogging?

Ans: Well, how sweet of you for asking! I started blogging because I had just suffered a bad breakup from Mr Wrong and needed to keep myself distracted from the gaping hole of misery and loneliness opening up in front of me. And it worked! I have since managed to negotiate myself into a somewhat functional relationship with Mr Maybe, front-runner for the title of “Mr Right” (an imaginary competition he is completely unaware he has been entered into so shhh okay you guys?)

Q2. Why did you call your blog ‘The Mottled Macaroon’?

Ans: The name I wanted was ‘The Mottled Oyster’ – but someone else had already snapped that up, so I went for the next best thing.

Q3. So – you work as a PA in London. Is that a glamorous job?

Ans: My working life is a never-ending pile of ‘to do’ lists, chores, typing and silent discos in the ladies toilet when things get a bit too much for me. It’s a lot of work. I was hoping my job would be something similar to Moneypenny from the Bond films. Consisting mainly of rolling my eyes at people while filing my nails and taking notes while looking effortlessly glamorous. Instead I’m pretty sure my fingers have gotten shorter from the amount of typing I do. I will be covering the highs and pitfalls of life as a PA / office monkey in an upcoming post. So keep on the lookout if you want an insight into the wonderful world of personal assistance. My advice? Don’t do it unless you hate yourself.

Q4. Sping, Summer, Autumn or Winter?

Ans: Autumn. I do not do well in the heat. I melt like the witch from ‘Wizard of Oz’ at the slightest whiff of it. Autumn is also an excellent excuse to cuddle up on the sofa with Mr Maybe with a bottle of wine and a blanket. Plus, there are HUGE piles of leaves to run through. Besides, my birthday is in November and Autumn means I’m one step closer to a day of being worshiped by my minions – and (most importantly) presents.

Q5. Best Macaroon?

Ans: Laduree- hands down. Specifically the rose Laduree macaroons. They are my version of crack. When someone offers me a macaroon and instead of the one I’m expecting I get the sort that resemble a chocolatey coconut cowpat I become very disappointed.

And when I say disappointed I of course mean violent.

Q6. Worst date?

Ans: There have been so many. Thankfully none of them with Mr Maybe. There was the time I was on a blind date, had arranged to meet the guy in the local Costa’s – but we both showed up at different locations in the same town centre. We both thought we had been stood up, only to eventually realise the mistake and have a good laugh about it later. At the emergency room. Because my date had recently had surgery on both of his knees and the incision had been infected. The first time I lay eyes on him he was sitting in a wheelchair wearing a superman t-shirt with swollen kneecaps.

I ended up dating him for three years.

Sadly, this is a true story.

*hangs head*

Q7. Worst interview?

Ans: The time I was so panicked about getting a job I really wanted that I gave myself a migraine during the interview. I started slurring my words and ended up talking about Vogons in an addled attempt to try and appear normal. Which is when the migraine really kicked in, I missed my mouth with my glass of water and slopped it down my face and clothes.

In case you were wondering. I didn’t get the job.

Q8. What do you like to do to relax?

Ans: I have bubble baths, yell enthusiastically at the tv – and do a bit of target practice with my rifle.

But not all at the same time.

Q9. What was the last thing you purchased?

Ans: Twenty litres of multi-purpose descaler – and a MAC lipstick called ‘Hot Gossip.’ Make of that what you will.

Q10. Do you have any pets?

Ans: Yes, Mr Maybe.

Q11. If you had $10 million, would you still be working/going to school?

Ans: Are you insane? No! I would be drinking French Martini’s and burping happily through the rest of my life on a desert island.

Q12. What was your worst vacation experience?

Ans: Probably the time my family went to Portugal when I was eight. I got sand up my butthole when I was knocked over by a wave after Daddyo convinced me that the sea wasn’t in fact evil and I should venture forth into it without fear of being eaten alive by sharks. I emerged from the waves with the crotch of my swimming costume hanging down to my knees because it was filled with sand. It was swinging around like a saggy old testicle while I cried hysterically and clambered back to my parents. Mothership made me sunbathe face down and naked from the waist down, and to preserve my modesty she put a towel over my back / head. Then she fell asleep reading a book and later broke the news of my bottom-centralised sunburn to me the best way she knew how. With ice cream.

There was also an incident with some smuggled paella shells / gigantic ants that may or may not have been my fault.

Q13. Have you ever cried because you were so happy?

Ans: Once. When Mr Maybe gave me a really thoughtful birthday present the first year we were together. It was one of the most embarrassing experiences of my life and to this day Mr Maybe still loves telling people that story.

Q14. Do you speak any other languages?

Ans: I’m fluent in sarcasm

Q15. Do you sing in the shower?

Ans: No, I spend my shower time wisely by winning pretend arguments

Q16. Do you drink coffee or tea?

Ans: I’m English. Obviously, tea. Great big pots of it.

Q17. Do you play video games?

Ans: I sometimes play Grand Theft Auto with Mr Maybe. I like driving motorbikes and Mini Coopers – Mr Maybe saves those bits for me but mostly that’s his thing. He gets plugged into the Matrix with his headset and a mountain of snacks and I leave him to it.

Q18. What is the best piece of advice you’ve received?

Ans: “Fuck ’em.”

“You can’t polish a turd”

I use a mixture of the two principles in my daily life.

Q19. What is your favorite food?

Ans: Sushi, and my parents cooking.

Q20. What is your favorite ice cream flavor?

Ans: Probably Raspberry Ripple. It used to be Gino Ginelli’s tutti frutti when I was little.

Q21. Are there any foods that you dislike or will not eat?

Ans: Yes. Halal, which is bullshit.

Q22. If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?

Ans: Other than London – Vancouver, hands down. They have great food, beautiful scenery and Micheal Buble. What more could you possibly want?!

Q23. What type of kid were you (e.g. spoiled, rebellious, well-behaved, quiet, obnoxious…)?

Ans: I was probably the weird kid. I insisted on wearing a pink rhinestone tiara and waving at people from the back seat of our family car, had an invisible friend who was a hit and run victim and my favorite thing to play with was a cardboard box. But I had to fight our  cats for them.

Q24. What did you want to grow up to be when you were younger?

Ans: Paleontologist / writer. I used to run around wearing Daddyo’s fedora with a skipping rope curled at my hip while digging things up in the garden. I once found a cows skull in our paddock, washed it off and displayed it proudly on the kitchen table. Mothership was not best pleased

Q25. Why don’t you look like the cartoon you draw of yourself?

Ans: Because I had a bad haircut when I started cartooning myself and now I don’t.

Q26. What is your favorite Podcast?

Ans: The Chris Brake Show is a big favorite. Then there’s How stuff works , Stuff You Should Know, Freakanomics and TED Talks.

I also have a big soft spot for ‘Wait Wait, don’t tell me!’ and The Hollywood Rockin’ Wrap Up.

Q27. What are your favorite websites / blogs?

Ans: The Oatmeal, Jenna Marbles and Hyperbole and a Half.

Because, well… obviously.

Q28. Pet Peeves?

Ans: The sound people make when they eat bananas, people who say “Lol!” and anyone I don’t know or don’t even like touching me without a written invitation.

Q29. What’s the worst thing you ever did when you were pissed (drunk)

Ans: I pooped on my parents front lawn. Right in the centre. And vomited on the door step.

But my drink was spiked and I was delirious for most of that experience. However, it was a bit hard to explain the next morning.


So, there you have it! The Mottled Macaroon fake FAQ.

I’m bet you glad you asked me.

Food Envy – one woman’s fight against lunchbox mediocrity

There is a serious amount of food envy that’s going on in our Mayfair office right now – and it’s all directed at me. This is because quite a lot of the Mayfair elite live on a steady diet of cocaine, cigarettes and Earl Grey. The last time they ate a proper meal they probably threw it up ten minutes later.

I can’t help that I’m the queen of the packed lunch. I’m a creature of comfort, and that includes food.

Obviously, I’m used to this level of insane food-jealousy having regularly posted my food on instagram like the secret asshole I am.

Chicken soup, caesar salad, spanish omelette, grilled vegetable cous cous, spicy salmon soup with spiralised carrot noodles – my lunch is made with a side helping of love. Which is why I inwardly growl at anyone who ventures too close to my desk during feeding time.

It’s the smell that draws the twiglets in. And by twiglets I mean the lollypop girls with designer handbags in size zero suits from Chanel the populate the office.

My food smells good. Which is why they gather around me, trying to look disinterested while idly asking me what I’m eating. Even if it’s obvious. Like – soup. Or cheese. Or an apple.

They are living vicariously through my lunchbox and this disturbs me greatly. It gives them crazy eyes.

I’m waiting for the day they throw both caution and juice diet to the wind I am subsequently mauled by a dozen half-starved twiglets. Forcing me to sprint like a rugby player across the office with my food tucked safely under one arm lest I be set upon by my emaciated coworkers.


I could try and make my food less interesting to deflect said impending attack.

But I have standards.

The exquisite and sadistic pain of writing a book

blood inkT.S Eliot once said that “The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink” – this guy knew he was talking about. There is something truly masochistic about being a writer at times. You could sit down, all pumped up about having enough free time to bang out a few chapters but then your brain switches off and all you hear is white noise inside your head.

NO power on earth could give you an idea right now.

You’re more likely to have a Capuchin monkey jump out of your nose and slap you round the face.

I have learnt that inspiration does not take kindly to command performances, so instead I try to pretend I don’t need it. I try to trick my brain into thinking that things are going really well and I don’t at all regret adding that transvestite private detective in chapter four…

This unfortunately never works. This is because inspiration can also smell fear.

Getting a book down on paper is like catching Mexican jumping beans with your bully button. It’s harder than it looks. I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I blame Daddyo for this. He used to tell me bedtime stories but always forgot where he left off the night before. Out of pure frustration I started to write them all down in a big notebook as a prompt. Which is when Daddyo suggested I start writing some of my own stories. I have been scribbling and typing away ever since.

What I love about writing is that you create a whole world that nobody else knows about. Characters, worlds and scenarios start to take form using the power of your imagination. You can commit murder, find true love, fight an epic battle – and showers are almost exclusively reserved for reenacting scenes and testing dialog. To the point that I’m pretty sure my boyfriend thinks I’m schizophrenic.

Unfortunately, with the onset of adulthood HAVING the time to write is a miracle in itself. With a full-time job as a PA and all my spare time gobbled up doing the other 355,000 inane little tasks I am required to do on a daily basis – it gets really hard to find a few moments out of my day to tell everyone to go fuck themselves because I’m doing something for me. So I write wherever I can. On toilet paper, napkins, my phone, notepads, on my palm and I bunch it all together and offer it up to the literary gods. My desk is a veritable shrine as I burn incense, light candles and all but smear on war paint and dance naked under a full moon.


It’s exhausting.

But when all the planets are in the right alignment I can lose a whole day glued to my keyboard.

Two chapters become three chapters become four chapters.


This feels a lot like finally dislodging a bit of apple from between your teeth using nothing but the power of your own tongue. Glorious. Inside my head, I’m making orgasm noises. Believe me – it’s a welcome change from beating my head against my desk.

The initial beginning of my book is entirely different from the beginning I now have. Which is a relief, because in retrospect the original was total crap. The upshot is that’s what first drafts are for. My problem was reviewing what I had written over and over until I never really moved past that page to the next section of the story. I was so hung up on being perfect that I didn’t let it all hang out and flow on the page. It’s SUPPOSED to be crap. Not totally crap, but there’s supposed to be about 77% of cringe in your first full draft. The point is writing the damned thing from beginning to end. Don’t stop, don’t look back, don’t review – just plow on until you reach that goddamn end then go back and review. That’s the best advice that I have ever been given and something I am currently sticking to as we speak.

Don’t get me wrong, there are moments when I want to throw my computer through the nearest window… but I’m being strict with myself and it’s actually working. All I know is I need to finish my manuscript. Even if it kills me, I am finishing this goddamn thing. I’ve reactivated my Watpadd account and I’m trying to get a decent chapter published on it by the end of next week. Something meaty that potential readers can get their teeth into until I manage a few more. You can find me under AnnieRoxlin if you ever decide you want to buckle up and join me on this particular emotional rollercoaster ride.

In case you were wondering, I decided on a ghost name because I’m deeply mysterious like that.


wattpadd devlin succession

Excuse the initial shitness. Like I said, I just reactivated, started writing and I’m ploughing through to the end before I allow myself to glance in my literary rear view mirror. What you see now is what I believe is called “raw material.” Which sounds like a big, gaping, pussy sore – and I guess that describes it perfectly actually.

I have a handful of followers already. Only eight – but one of them seems to be a bit of an old hand at this, with 15 published works under her belt and 1.4k followers to boot. Amazingly she messaged me to say that she liked my work and was looking forward to reading more. This is both encouraging and terrifying at the same time.

I mean, no pressure or anything.

An actual author wants to read more of my stuff. How the hell did that happen?

It’s a good sign, right?…


Well, I guess we’re about to find out.

GCSE results day – Advice I would give my former teenage self

There is panic on the streets of England today.

Panic for a certain kind of people.

Teenage people.

This is because today they are getting their GCSE results.

Kids all over the country will find out if they did well enough to get into the college / uni of their dreams and pursue the career that they want, or alternatively will have to get a job at the local MacDonald’s and have lots of babies named after novelty alcoholic beverages.

As we speak, throngs of unwashed students are huddling like zombies around their former schools. There will also no doubt be teachers smugly wandering through the wasteland of their former students wearing expressions that clearly say “not my problem bitches!”


while Fanfare for the Common Man blares in the background.

Students will then form distinct tribes. The most irritating of which is obviously the “I’M GOOD AT EVERYTHING” clique who  grab their sealed exam results like weapons in the Hunger Games cornucopia before sprinting to the toilets, where they spend the next two hours sobbing their eyes out, convinced that they have gotten bad grades and wont be able to live their dream of going to Oxford University to develop a coke habit. Only, they then open their results, find they have gotten all A’s and smugly spend the rest of the time demanding to see lesser students grades.


This day is all the more relevant to me because Mini Maybe (my 16-year-old potential step-daughter) is getting her results. She’s really worried about what they might be, because her friends seem to be like something from Children of the Corn with straight A averages and coordinating 5 year plans. So, being the considerate potential step mother that I am – I tried to think of the right thing to say to make this day go a little better for her. With this in mind, I jotted down some advice I would give my former 16-year-old self if I had the opportunity.

Dear Young and Impressionable Blair,

Welcome to hell.

I say this with love.

Seriously, you think everything you’ve just gone through is the end of your struggles – and that now you are an adult life will be more fair and enjoyable? Think again. Say hello to taxes, heartbreak, betrayal, disappointment, weight gain, occasional boughts of alcoholism, megalomaniac employers, mean-girls that have turned into mean-women – and eventual death.

Don’t get me wrong, there are some good bits.

But they either cost a lot or make you fat.


Your future self.


– Well, at least I tried.

Guess what?! We’ve moved house. Again *eye twitch*

Some of you have been wondering where I have been for the past month or so. I’m sorry I seem to have dropped off the face of the planet – but unfortunately I had some adult / real life responsibility shit to do.

Mr Maybe and I have moved house… Again.

moving day!

This is my ninth move since I first relocated to London. NINTH. In the last eight years!! And I’m done. This is it. I have drawn a metaphorical line in the sand. This is where I am and I shall go no further.

… For at least a few years anyway.

I hate moving. I hate it with a passion. It’s a whole other circle of hell inhabited almost exclusively by arguments, cardboard boxes and estate agents. You lose sleep, you lose belongings and you also drastically lose your standards of hygiene. I get so stressed out during moving time that my yearly quota of migraines happen during this period. Coincidence?… I THINK NOT!

My advice? If you can avoid moving – DO IT. That annoying thing your neighbour does? Not as annoying as anything you are about to get through. I promise you. Get over it and stay put. You will thank me some day.

The reason we are relocating (again) is Mr Maybe’s moving 16-year-old Mini Maybe in with us at the end of August – and we need the extra room somewhat urgently for all the fangirl posters we are about to inherit. Luckily we found somewhere not too far away from our original flat that was perfect for us. Didn’t even have to sleep on it. The unending quest for the perfect home was enough to make us briefly glance round and bellow “WE’LL TAKE IT!” before someone else took it. However, to complicate things further in our quest, we couldn’t just move in to the flat we finally found. Oh no, what would be the fun in that?! We would have to move out, wait two weeks and then move into our new place.

In the meantime Mr Maybe and I had to figure out what to do during our period as temporary hobos. Luckily for us, we had some relatives to stay with until we got our shit together again. To make this arrangement even better – they had two dogs. One called Billy with no concept of personal space:

And a 10 week old dachshund called Paddy who was clearly under the impression that he was a Doberman with gigantic testicles.


Move number one (the move from our studio to storage) was stressful… but a lot less stressful than it could have been. I think moving out is always the shit part. The part were you have to pack your life up, fill a truck with it, drop off keys, attempt to negotiate your deposit back from a tight-fisted landlord and try not to spurt blood from your ears in the process. I have no idea why this move was better than the others that I have endured, but then we did have a bottle of Jack Daniels on hand, so this could explain it.

I’m not going to lie. I felt a little smug about being bang on schedule. We were doing so well for time! We were being responsible, functional adults! We were taking that next terrifying step together by merging our household with my boyfriends offspring! We had managed to fit our lives in a van and transport it to a temporary holding pen until we repeated the process all over again! We even returned the keys on time!

Only… it was at this point Mr Maybe found his juggling sticks and got a bit distracted…



Oh dear…

Fast forward two weeks, and it was time to move (again). This time from storage to the new place. Could we pull it off?

As it turns out – yes. In exactly eight hours of non-stop back-breaking work.

Here is a montage of the day:


Mr Maybe – thrilled to be the Captain of his very own starship…


Filling the van with anything that would fit inside…

Chucking it anywhere in the new flat…wpid-dsc_2635.jpg

Getting lots of exciting new bruises in weird and occasionally disturbing places…

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And collapsing at the end of the day with just enough life left in us to crawl to the pub…




Mr Maybe even took a break in amidst of all the moving chaos to help a little old lady across the road.


 Which is just one of the reasons I love that man.

Our move was fulled by alcohol and determination – but at least it was a success.

And I’m definately not dead yet…

So hakuna your tattas people.