Me and my Snuggie – or “this is the reason I’ll never have sex again”

I got a teddy bear snuggy for Christmas. It’s pretty exciting.

As you can probably tell by my expression.


I haven’t had an item of clothing this exciting since the pink rhinestone tiara I wore every time I got in the car when I was little. Over the Christmas period I practically lived in this thing, much to Motherships dismay. When I returned to London Mr Maybe was less than impressed by my teddy bear ensemble and promised that we would NEVER EVER have sex again if I was walking around the flat looking like a long-lost member of the Care-Bear gang. Personally, I think anyone who thinks you can’t look sexy while sporting a teddy bear snuggie has a vastly limited imagination. But there we go.

A week later I ordered some groceries online. As it was freezing in the flat, out came the snuggie while we waited for our food to arrive. Mr Maybe decided this was the perfect moment to camp out under the duvet in his boxers and refuse to move. Which basically meant when the delivery man rang the front door bell it was up to me to deal with him. Without any makeup… in my teddy bear snuggie.

I could tell Mr Maybe’s strike was a misguided attempt to snuggie-shame me so I’d be too embarrassed to wear it again.

The thing is, this shit’s comfortable – and I wasn’t about to give it up without a fight.

The delivery man won’t mind, I thought to myself. I’m sure he’s seen worse!

Wrong. I don’t think I have EVER seen a delivery man look so shocked. His eyes were like saucers as he shuffled towards me, bags in hand as I stood in the doorway with not a stitch of makeup on in my teddy bear snuggie and tried to look nonchalant.

My expression clearly said: “Why yes, I do look rather sexual today don’t I?”


Apparently no, I did not.

I was shuffling bashfully backwards and forwards through the door with the shopping bags, when a box of super-duper angel-fart scented washing powder I had specially purchased caught my eye and I involuntarily blurted out:

Me: “Oh, brilliant! Washing powder!

A look of total relief came over the delivery man who said “Oh! THAT’S why your dressed like that!”

My face fell slightly.

He clocked on to the fact my face just fell.

Then things got epically awkward in 0.1 seconds flat.


Okay fine. You win this round Mr Maybe.

Adventures in Bad skin No. 2- I try mild steroids and pray I don’t grow a penis.

So, remember how before I was all “I have to come off these hideous acne antibiotics that are making me shit myself!” Well, you’ll be happy to know – I did. I can now spontaneously cough, sneeze or laugh without sprinting to the nearest loo for fear of soiling myself.

I went to see Dr Bob about it and she told me that as I had exhausted ALL my other options in the search for a cure for my life long battle with acne, I should try Isotrex gel.


We had a bit of a wobbly moment when she tried to prescribe me the one with an ingredient that would give me an anaphylactic shock and kill me – but eventually I got the right tube (thank goodness ONE of us had had their Weetabix that morning… that’s all I’m sayin’…)

I bombarded Dr Bob with all kinds of questions when she suggested Isotrex.  Apparently it’s like Accutanes little sister, but in a watered down gel form. I was expecting to be subjected to a full battery of tests prior to getting my prescription – but Dr Bob just handed it over and off I went.

Who am I kidding, I ran out of there like a fat kid with a chocolate bar before she could change her mind.

Now. I have tried ALL sorts of acne fighting creams in my time. Over the counter stuff, herbal stuff, all-natural stuff, topical creams, stuff that bleached my towels and dressing gowns because it was so high in peroxide – you name it. So it’s safe to say I was pretty sceptical about this latest gel. I had a little more hope than usual considering it was basically a mild version of Accutane, but my luck hasn’t been so great with treatments so far. I mean, last time I shit my pants you guys. When a side effect of medication includes “explosive diarrhea” please don’t make the same mistake I did and assume it can’t possibly happen to you. I’m living proof that – yes. Yes in fact it can. More than once.


So I took this stuff home, disposed of my previous Differin / Duac creams (now I had traded up they were DEAD to me) and excitedly cleansed, toned and moisturised in preparation for my new super-duper once-a-day ‘hulk-gel’. When I started to apply it I was really nervous because skin peeling was a huge side effect of this stuff and I didn’t want to go into work the next day looking like I had just had a freaking chemical peel. But as I applied the stuff it just sank into my skin and tingled a bit. Not to the level of:


whata world

But it tingled. I’m not going to lie. I know a tingle when I feel one, and my face was goddamn tingling.

I paused, waiting for the moment my skin started dripping down to the floor… but nothing!

It’s been about three weeks – and I have to say I’m seeing some pretty decent results! At first Mr Maybe said that it was all in my head. But that was probably because I ran to the mirror the next morning and started squealing “It WOOORKS!” He doesn’t think I would be able to pick up on improvements that quickly, but when you have suffered with pores as big as teacups (I’m using hyperbole of course, but sometimes I swear it feels like that) – you notice when even the tiniest of improvements are being made. I could just tell that my pores were tighter. My blackheads were faded slightly too. Even a nasty volcano lurking on my chin was looking decidedly less puffy and suspicious (I bet I sound really attractive right now don’t I…)

One evening  I was cheerfully humming to myself and slapping the stuff on when Mr Maybe came into the bathroom and took a look at my new gel for himself. After taking the briefest of glances he said

Mr Maybe: “That’s a steroid gel.”

Me: *freezing mid-application* “Excuse me?”

Mr Maybe: “That gel.. it’s a steroid gel. You can tell because of the consistency and colour”

Me: “Steroid?!”

Mr Maybe: “Yes, steroid.”

Me: “As in… steroid?”

Mr Maybe: “Yup!”

So I have also been giving myself regular pat-downs in case I have magically grown a penis and beard during the night. But apparently it isn’t “that type of steroid” (chu, whatever.)

All I know is my skin looks SO much better… But it’s still a work in progress. I went from using it once every third day to every other day, and now I’m using it once every evening. My breakouts are getting fewer and fewer, my skin is more refined and clearer – but they say that you don’t start seeing proper “results” until six weeks into using the gel. So I have three weeks left to go before I am (hopefully) finally under control and can eventually see the dermatologist.

What makes me feel a little pissy is the fact that my old doctor had me on the Duac / Differin combination for the past seven YEARS when I could have been on this stuff instead. I mean, what the hell is THAT about?! Well, I’m so glad you asked. My theory is – people who either don’t suffer or haven’t suffered from acne can’t possibly understand how crippling it can be. And sometimes that includes doctors. I had it so badly on my back, shoulders and chest when I was a teen that during a school production of Bugsy Malone one of the teachers made me change my strappy flapper costume that matched everyone else’s for an Amish washerwoman getup (including hat!) – so that every unsightly inch of me was completely covered. It was humiliating. But that’s what you end up doing. Throwing on layers and hats and scarves and balaclavas and makeup to hide the spots and hope that anyone looking at you wont notice your obvious attempts at camouflaging the problem.

ewww gif

I spent most of my late teens and early twenties in turtlenecks. Maybe I looked like a cool beat-poet at the time, who can tell. I just know that I felt like I would never ever be free. Like I would never be one of those girls who would get out of the shower, put on a cute dress, dab on a touch of lime chapstick and prance out of the house like the embodiment of a carefree young woman from a tampon advert. I was doomed. DOOOMED!

To illustrate how hopeless horrible skin can make you feel – I have an older family friend who continued to suffer with adult acne until one day (at the ripe ol’ age of 45) she eventually lost it  and scrubbed at her skin with a scouring pad and a bar of soap to banish her blackheads once and for all. To be clear – I’m not advocating this. The good news is she didn’t scar – but the bad news is for the next month and a half she was a sea of scabs. And to add insult to injury, her acne came back. I havent personally tried the “brillo-pad” approach (again, not advocating this) but I DID have had some success with potatoes on occasion. I read that if you peel a potato and rub it gently on your face there’s something in the starch that apparently gets rid of spots temporarily.


Hey, don’t look at me like that, it worked!

 Anyway, the POINT I’m trying to make is – I’ll keep you posted.

You’re welcome.

Valentines Day, dildos and reaching the “Oh shit” stage of our relationship

I love Valentines Day. I know there are people out there who parrot “It’s just a bit of meaningless commercialism” Or “When you’re REALLY in love you don’t NEED valentines day. EVERY DAY SHOULD BE VALENTINES DAY! … IN YOUR HEART!

But quite frankly, fuck that.

In this crazy, ‘Type-A’ world we live in (with brimming 12 hour work schedules, a Blackberry that’s more demanding of my attention than a newborn baby, an office to run, an endless inbox, family visiting, workouts to schedule in and piles of endless laundry to battle through) there is a teenie three-hour gap between arriving home, consuming said aforementioned dinner and unwinding with my boyfriend before I pass out on the sofa in the middle of a movie and have to grumpily get up a few hours later to repeat the whole horrific process all over again. It sucks all the energy out of me until I embody a weird, robotic schedule of: work, eat, sleep, repeat.


So I really needed Valentines day this year. Especially considering our anniversary was on the same day. I needed a day to be selfish and luxuriate with my boyfriend. I also needed a pre-arranged evening of devious and slightly acrobatic sex involving whipped cream, handcuffs and squeaky toys should the mood strike.

Not one to dissapoint, Mr Maybe truly outdid himself.

Firstly by waking me up with breakfast in bed and a bouquet


And then he followed that up with champagne, steak for dinner

… and this little beauty


I’ll leave the contents of my present to your imagination, but I hope you can appreciate why the sheer effort that went into the wrapping process alone had me in hysterics.

Well played Sir.

Considering how debauched our Valentines Day / two-year anniversary was on Saturday it was funny how quickly we turned into a living, breathing ‘DFS’ advert by spending almost the ENTIRETY of Sunday afternoon in a furniture village humming and hawwing over mattresses and sofas for our next flat.


I mean, seriously.

What the fuck has happened to us?!

Yesterday it was all champagne and romance and now



It’s safe to say we’ve definitely reached the “Oh Shit!” stage of our relationship. Which is basically the point you realise you’re happy, in love and ready to settle down and do all the unmistakably ‘adult’ stuff couples do together. Like getting a savings account for example. It’s a weird but incredibly fuzzy feeling. Surprisingly made all the more romantic with the purchase of a reclining three-piece sofa. I wouldn’t have thought that kind of leather could stir the loins and set fire to the soul – but here I was being proven wrong in furniture village of all places.

It wasn’t ‘Fifty shades of grey’ so much as ‘Fifty shades of grey hair.’ But as an upshot they did keep offering us cups of free tea, coffee or hot chocolate. Plus, thanks to the sugar-high, Mr Maybe and I had a race to see who’s sofa-section could recline the fastest (I won).

We even went next door to Pets at home and fantasy shopped for our future dogs. I’ve been dreaming about getting a cocker spaniel for years, while Mr Maybe has his heart set on getting an Airedale terrier. Realistically we’ll probably end up walking past an animal shelter and taking home the weirdest/ mangiest cross-breed of dog on earth just because otherwise it would have been put down.


But there we go.

Basically, it was a pretty romantic weekend and exactly what the doctor ordered.

Nothing says romance like buying furniture, drinking champagne, mattress testing and supiciously shaped Valentines presents.

Or is that just me?

HOLY SHIT! I’M GOING TO JUMP OFF A 500FT ZIP SLIDE! (… because that’s totally going to go well)

For my 2015 ‘To do’ list, I wanted to complete three challenges for Charity. A 5k run, a half marathon walk – and then something that was a bit “crazy.” Well … allow me to introduce you to the crazy thing.

I will be completing a 500ft zip slide for charity on March the 28th. This is in aid of the Stroke association, which is a charity near and dear to my heart having suffered a minor stroke myself and also loosing my grandfather to a stoke when I was just a baby.

Now, it might not be shaving my head, getting my clitoris pierced or putting my feet in a tank with a shark – but this is still plenty outside my comfort zone.

As it is, I may leave a yellow streak in my wake. 500ft is huge. Apparently the worlds tallest roller coaster is 500ft.



Mothership was less than amused to hear that her accident prone daughter has signed herself up to an event involving throwing herself off a zipline 500ft off the ground. She gave me the “eyebrows.” The one’s that turn her briefly into Queen Latifah and say “Child… You must be out of your GODDAMN MIND!” But, you know, it’s for charity. And… I’m not scared at all… I’m an independent, powerful woman…. I can do anything…

*breathes into a paper bag*

I know that there are going to be MANY professional people there making sure we are all super-duper safe and that I’ll be shackled to a billion safety harnesses and that it’s all completely okay. But… you always hear about that 1% freak accident. That weird urban legend… The story about the girl who shit out her intestines while ziplining 500ft off the ground for charity for example…

I don’t want to be that girl.

Anyway, my point is, because you are all wonderful people and we are all out there in one big internet / bloggy / weirdly voyeuristic family I know you have my back on this. Or at least want a front row seat as I scream and very possibly even vomit my way across The Oval cricket ground. So, please donate whatever you can to the cause. I’m hoping to raise £150 – But any spare change or beer money would be an amazing help.

The ‘sponsor me’ button is on the right hand sidebar over there ——> So, give a pound, a dollar, whatever you might have rattling around!

Mr Maybe will be there armed with a camera phone – so… this could potentially be fledgling YouTube territory we’re venturing into here.

But, lets hope not.

Do you ever start telling your parents a funny story but then realise it involved excessive amounts of alcohol, nudity or a near-arrest?

Did you ever sit around having a drink with your parents and realise that you’re finally at an age where you can start swapping war stories about life in general? It’s that golden moment they really start loosening up with you and telling you where all the bodies are buried. I’m being figurative of course. Unless your family is in the mafia – then perhaps not so much.

The problem is when you’re lulled into a false sense of security and accidentally come out with a sentence like “Oh, oh – there was this one time…” and then trail off because you suddenly realise a second too late that even though this story is genuinely REALLY funny.. it also involved excessive amounts of alcohol, nudity or a near arrest.

So you try to recover by mumbling into your drink and hoping nobody noticed.


But they always do.

The can is open and the worms are all over the floor.

Gathered crumblies: “No, go ahead. What were you going to say?”

Me: “Me?! Nothing.”

Gathered Crumblies: “No, you were about to say something!”

Me: “No I wasn’t.”

Gathered Crumblies: “Yes you were!”

Me: “I think someone’s had a little too much of the old vino!” *nervous laughter* “Oh, wait, do you hear that?… Is that my phone?!” *scurry from the room*

So, even though it’s a fabulous time to be alive and we are all able to go down to the pub for a drink and enjoy ourselves.


If you aren’t careful you too might be forced to regale a story about pooping on your parents front lawn after having your drink spiked at an office party that they were previously blissfully unaware of. However, I think this “Aww shit, I forgot it’s you I’m talking to” thing might go both ways – because I now have masses of blog posts to put in category named ‘The album of shame’ all about our various exploits. I am now aware for example that my Dad once went to a military barber and asked for an Afro like Jimi Hendrix (my Dad is not black. He has poker straight whiteboy hair that I have subsequently inherited.) Or the time that my uncle stole a costume from the set of ‘Return of the Dirty Dozen.’ Or the time that my Nanna stripped off naked except for a pair of swimming goggles at the local hospital to treat a patch of alopecia on her scalp.

Things that are hilarious, slightly mentally scarring and also guaranteed to make their way on to my blog one day.

Because you are my internet friends and you need to know this stuff.

Faces in places – The Depressed Robot

It’s been AGES AND AGES since I last posted a ‘faces in places’ picture. I think as I’m mainly going through life with a blackberry glued to one ear while completing numerous other tasks with all other available limbs, holes and orifices in the manner of a performing poodle – this simple joy in life has slipped past the net somewhat.

NO MORE dear readers! NO MORE!

May I present to you… ‘The Depressed Robot,’image