Dear Office-drinking-glasses

Dear Office drinking glasses,

Why do you hate me? You’re always breaking, cracking or smashing. Every time I open the dishwasher and stick my hand inside I am quite frankly taking my life into my own hands.

170614 broken glass image21806142 broken glass image 2
The thing is, you aren’t cheap. Each of you is around £8 – so I would really appreciate it if you could get your shit together and stop attempting either GBH or suicide. It seems to me you might have a lot of unresolved issues you need to work through. Maybe you could try some anger management? Perhaps listening to soothing classical music even?

I’m running out of plasters so seriously, if you could do anything about your self-destructive behavior it would be most appreciated.

Kind Regards



Engagement Ring Etiquette | Who Keeps the Ring After the Breakup?

The Mottled Macaroon:

Loving this take on the age-old question…

Originally posted on Chris Brake Show Podcast:

Engagement Ring Etiquette | Engagement Ring Etiquette After Breakup


What do you do with an engagement ring after you breakup and call off the wedding? 

Spitfire Sarah breaks off her engagement with her fiancé and now she’s left wondering: What’s the proper engagement ring etiquette for who keeps the ring after thebreakup? Should females be expected to give back the engagement ring to the male after the wedding is cancelled? Or should the dude let the woman keep the ring, because he’s that nice of a guy?

Engagement Ring Etiquette | Listen Now Below!

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Engagement Ring Etiquette | Engagement Ring Etiquette After a Breakup

Engagement ring etiquette after the breakup is a pretty deep rabbit hole when you think about it. Is it okay to go pawn the ring for some cold hard cash? Or what about just hanging…

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The top five worst things about being late

In my experience being late has a cosmic snowball effect. It starts off small but come hometime you may very well be in a snarling heap of limbs, breathing heavily and bellowing at passing pigeons. I have been late many times in my life. Not because I make it a habit, but because sometimes life decides to kick you in the nuts to keep things interesting. If I’m running late there are five things that I can always be certain of.

1. No matter how fast I move – I’m still going to be late.

This is the hardest concept to grasp when you’re trying to beat the clock. Mostly because being late sucks you into a weird state of denial that makes you believe that maybe…. just maybe if you move twice as fast as humanly possible you will somehow defy the space / time continuum and manage to reach your destination in time. This is not true in the slightest. It is just the universe conspiring to lull you into a false sence of security before slapping you in the face with a traffic jam. You will not reach your destination any faster – because you are already late and rushing simply means you will get there all hot and sweaty and pissed off with the world.

I hate being late. I hate it with a passion. But I have learnt to just go with it.

melting clock

2. Other people are everywhere and they seem to all be conspiring to make this experience as painful and infuriating as possible

When you’re late the worst thing in the world is to be around other people. Mostly because they’re always getting in the way, walking too slowly or changing direction at the last-minute so that they bump painfully into you. Unfortunately, thanks to Murphy’s law, when you’re late there is a never-ending amount of these people … everywhere. They will cough in your face, stand on your feet and act like you’re Casper the friendly ghost until you arrive safely at your destination.


3. There will almost always be bad weather or other coincidental bad luck… like getting stung by a wasp or stepping in a puddle. This is because it’s National “Fuck you!” day courtesy of the world. You’re welcome.

When I’m late there are always bits of other coincidental bad luck that comes my way. This can range from smudging my nail varnish, burning my face with my hair straighteners (this has happened more than once), stepping onto a wobbly pavement slab and being doused in dirty water, getting a ladder in my tights, waking up with a GIGANTIC SPOT in a prime facial real estate location – like on the end of my nose, somehow all my clothes are magically in the wash at the same time, a zipper breaks, my hairdryer plays dead halfway through the styling process, there’s no milk, I miss the train, a bus drives right past me, I step in dog poop… The list is endless. 


4. There will be delays in public transport

There is something truly heartbreaking about rushing to get out the door, running down the street – only to be faced with the word DELAYED blinking down at you in bright amber lights and having additional obstacles to scramble over. Obstacles called ‘overcrowded public transport during rush hour.’ This circles back to point number 2. Other people. The kind of people who make a bad situation worse by running at the closing tube door and HURLING themselves at it as if attempting a long-jump win for the Olympics. Or numpties that insist on getting their coats / bags / pets/ grandparents/children stuck in the doors so the stroppy platform conductor comes over and yells at us all like a teacher bellowing at naughty school children.


5. There will always be someone who’ll look at you as you burst through the door covered in sweat and animatistic odours that belong in the circus and say “Nice you could finally join us!” or “…You’re late.”

This is the point you need to write the day off and have a chocolate bar. Or maybe two depending on the severity of the above.

Actually, you know what? Eat the whole cake. Just one slice is definitely not going to do it.


Autumn wish list – brought to you by the fear of bikini waxes

So, I really sucked at my Summertime wish list. This is what I managed to get done:

  1. “Do something crazy” – (I got ordained on the internet)
  2. “Do the London Loo Tour” (We saw a street lamp powered by methane!)
  3. “Adopt a pet” (I got a grow-your-own Triop set on Amazon)

Three things.


In my defence, I have been experiencing some unexpected side effects to my antibiotics recently – so fair is far. But I want to make up for this total failure with my Autumn wish list. I want to make Autumn majestic. Like a unicorn running through a field of multiple naked Johnny Depps at sunset. I’ve also added all the things I didn’t do on my summertime wish list as a forfeit for being so previously crap.

  1. Go to the Centenary World War Commemoration at London Bridge and buy a poppy.
  2. Become a dog walker
  3. Visit ‘Ripley’s believe it or not’ in Trafalgar square
  4. Bob for Apples
  5. Return to my local Ukulele night
  6. Go to a “movie marathon” night at the Prince Charles Cinema while wearing an ELMO onesie
  7. Tour the Highgate cemetery and pay tribute to Douglas Adams
  8. Do something cool for under £5
  9. Drink a pint of  hot spiced cider
  10. Make inappropriately shaped cookies
  11. Visit the Sherlock Holmes museum
  12. Review my top five winter books
  13. Buy roasted chestnuts
  14. Learn the “Thriller” dance and perform in full make up and costume
  15. Have a silent disco in my bedroom
  16. Eat unusual ice cream
  17. Do the ‘No mirror’ makeup challenge
  18. Make, name and fly a kite
  19. Go camping and roast marshmallows
  20. Get my hair cut at Hair By Fairy in Covent Garden
  21. Have High tea somewhere fabulous
  22. Get my ears & nose pierced
  23. Stargaze
  24. Draw my life
  25. Make three brand spanking new friends
  26. Make a coke and mentos rocket
  27. Write a book. Even if it’s very thin. Anorexic almost one could say.
  28. Paint with my body parts. Even the naughty ones.
  29. Play in a big pile of dead leaves
  30. Reconnect with an old school friend
  31. Visit vintage stores in London and get a whole new outfit from top to bottom
  32. Join the local library
  33. Interview Danny Wallace (Author of ‘Yes Man’)
  34. Plant something and keep it alive

If I don’t manage to complete this list by my December 21st deadline (which is apparently the start of British winter) my forfeit will be a full bikini wax. Front and back. I have a very low threshold for pain, which is why I have never had one before. The very idea terrifies me entirely. When I did a special effects makeup course at college the beauty department students were always looking for new victims for their waxes. The sound of the screams wafting up the halls still haunts me to this day.

Lets hope it doesn’t come to that.

Today I killed a wasp with a fork.

I think I have mentioned once or twice that I’m not a fan of the buzzing / stinging things. They make me recoil in horror – like this:


I remember going to a park years ago with a friend and her smaller, jam smeared cousins. Half an hour later one toddled up to us in hysterics while sticking out a hand with a HUGE wasp on it. This thing was MASSIVE. It was the Titanic of wasps I tell you. I immediately recoiled with horror whereas my friend bravely crouched down at face level, put her wrist around the little girls wrist and said “Don’t worry, it wont hurt you. Just keep still.” And after a few moments, the Titanic-wasp flew away. To me, right at that moment, my friend was practically James Bond. I remember squinting at her, thinking “Ugh… I wish I was that cool. WHY AREN’T I THAT COOL?!” I’m just not. Especially when it comes to the buzzing / stinging things. With age and experience I have given in to this aspect of myself and accepted it. It’s a bit like having a third nipple. Slightly embarrassing but you get used to it.

Anyway – so there I was in my flat this morning, minding my own business … eating my Cheerios and contemplating my navel (you get the idea) when suddenly I heard this weird buzzing sound. It was really, REALLY loud. All I could think was “aww crap, our boiler is on the blink!” but I opened the door to the boiler, and nothing. I closed it, there was buzzing. Opened it, no buzzing, closed it, buzzing. Hmm. Open, silence, close, buzz, open, silence, close, buzz. This was really weird.

Eventually I discovered where the noise was coming from. A wasp was laying on its back with its stinger in the air and the kitchen bin on its head. I don’t know how it ended up in this position but I think it was a little embarrassing for the both of us. As the wasp was only partially dead its motor reflexes were going into overdrive – including the wings, which sounded like a helicopter coming in to land against the laminated floor. For a split second I didn’t know what to do. My first instinct was to stand on it, but luckily I realised I wasn’t wearing slippers before I actually did this. The wasp started buzzing again, only louder and in a more threatening tone. Now what? BLUDGEON IT TO DEATH! Yes! I looked around, but there was nothing available to do this with. I rifled through the cutlery drawer and yanked out a fork. I have no idea why, but I decided to go with it.

I crouched down on the floor and smushed the wasp HARD. After all, I might loathe wasps but I believe in a clean kill – even for insects. I thought that was the end of it, until I realised that while I had successfully smushed the body of the wasp the head had poked through the spokes of the fork and its antennas were still twitching feebly.

wasp squash


Kill it! Kill it!

I mushed again. The antennae was still twitching.


Kill! Kill! Kill!


Finally, I slumped against the kitchen floor. The wasp was dead. It fought valiantly, so I gave it a burial at sea with a two flush salute.

Life was never this complicated when I was little.

Adventures in bad skin… And shitting my pants.

Firstly, I’m no medical expert. My illegible handwriting is just about all I have in common with a doctor – so don’t go looking for medical advice from me. If you want some dating advice or a recipe for tuna casserole on the other hand, I’m your girl.

I decided to write this post because I have bad acne and I’m a grown up and this shouldn’t be happening. This shouldnt be happening to anyone actually. I figured that (as there are millions of people on the planet) there must be others out there suffering the same way, so this will be one in a continuing series on my battle with adult acne – because you are not alone my friend! We are all part of a magical internet community and Auntie Blair is here to let you know that I’m here for you.

So… here we go.

I have had bad skin for as long as I can remember. Well, that’s not strictly true. My own brand of dermatological hell started when I was eight years old. It was around the time I started growing hair in unusual places. Not many mind you. Just one armpit hair. It looked a little lonely right in the middle of my armpit, so I named it Charles and proudly showed it to visiting relatives.

But then came the spots. First I just had a few.


But then they seemed to multiply overnight like Orcs in a Lord of the Rings movie.


To say we tried everything we could think of that would rid me of my facial infestation is a bit of an understatement. We visited cosmetic counters to try fancy schmancy / all-natural cleansing programmes, I suffered through Chinese herbal teas that tasted and smelt so bad I vomited after drinking them. I went on a detox ‘all juice’ diet, followed by a daily yoga regimen to release unwanted toxins in my chakras. I even tried lazor therapy and harsh chemicals so strong they bleached all the towels and clothes I came into contact with. I cut out dairy, sweets, processed foods, I was a vegetarian for 13 years, I went to a herbalist, I didn’t eat junk food anyway but I banished this rare treat from the menu too just in case it did any good. Nothing helped.

Sometimes my spots would even play mind-games with me.


When I reached eighteen it was clear this wasn’t going away any time soon, so my doctor FINALLY prescribed me with two topical gel-creams for the day / night. I have been on those creams for ten years. I am now almost thirty and still have the same “trouble skin” that has plagued me for the past twenty years. Which is why I have recently made the executive decision to stop the madness once and for all and go on oral antibiotics.

I’m on the waiting list for the dermatologist at the moment – but in the meantime my GP gave me a 300mg six month dose of Trimethoprim to be taken twice a day alongside my doctor prescribed face creams to see if this cures me while I wait.

When it comes to taking antibiotics for acne, you should be 100% certain of a couple of things:

  1. You have to be in it for the long haul – because stuff like acne isn’t going go away overnight
  2. It’s going to get so much worse before it even BEGINS to get a teenie tiny bit better –  so buckle up

The only thing I was really worried about was the side effects of my antibiotics. Which seems reasonable… considering one of which is diarrhea / anal leakage.


Yes, anal leakage.

I thought this was ridiculous at first. A “side-effect urban myth” – until it happened to me.

I started taking my course of antibiotics on Friday and couldn’t help wondering if my bottom was about to explode at any moment. After a few suspicious sounding rumbles south of my bellybutton nothing particularly dramatic happened, so I forgot about it. Until last night when I spontaneously shit my pants. I was walking from my tube stop to my flat, aware of an ever more increasing stomach pain – when BOOM! ANAL LEAKAGE!

I just shuffled along, wide-eyed and shocked. Had that really just happened?… To me?! But why??! The truth is, I have no idea why this kind of stuff happens to me. It just does. Apparently it really is true… Shit happens. Mr Maybe thought it was hilarious. His prim and proper girlfriend with OCD had shit her pants. He asked if I was going to start wearing incontinence knickers just in case it happened again. I did not find this remotely funny. I had ruined my favourite pair of work trousers!

I mean, was this normal? The side effects do include diarrhea – but what is “normal” diarrhea vs “abnormal” diarrhea? Surely shitting one’s pants in the middle of the street puts me slap bang in the “abnormal” category. All I know is, Mothership invited me to go to a swanky cocktail mixer thing for PA’s tonight – and for the sake of all attending I had to turn it down. All afternoon my stomach has been making the following sound:


And it only picks the quietest moments in the office to do this in.

 I went to the ladies loo in case I started hemorrhaging poop out of my eyeballs or something, and there was someone in there. Not on the loo, just doing their makeup in the mirror all care free and smiley. I on the other hand had beads of sweat on my brow and was breathing like I had just bolted up ten flights of stairs. Something bad was about to happen and possibly even in biblical proportions. I shot into the stall and made noises that would startle a horse. Noises that no living person should hear a young lady make. Noises so worrying that I heard the girl doing her makeup grab her makeup bag and scuttle out the door. I frightened her readers!

The point is, if I come off the antibiotics and wait two whole weeks for an appointment with my doctor he might just say “you didn’t give it long enough,” tell me to go back on them – and then I have to start all over again. So instead, I’m going to bite the bullet and get him to call me so we can discuss this like two rational adults.

In the meantime I’m definitely getting a taxi home.

Loo review – City of Westminister “Loo of the year” award winner

I was trundling along with Mr Maybe the other day, enjoying the sunshine on a Sunday afternoon when we spotted a sign for a Ladies loo. But not just ANY loo. It was a City of Westminister “Loo of the year” award winning loo.


I went down the steps all excited and expecting to see an attendant spritzing perfume at me from a crystal atomizer, hot towels proffered in my direction and heated toilet seats. After all, this was an award winning loo of the year!

Instead, this is what I saw.


It looked and smelt like every other public toilet I have ever been in. It smelt like arse and week old pee. What was all the more extraordinary was the fact they were charging 50p entrance for this “experience.” I was shocked. Genuinely.

I also noticed a sign hanging over the sinks that read “Hand washing only.” shitloo6

Well, duh. What else was I going to do with a sink in a public ladies toilet? Open a laundrette?

It concerned me that the kind of people using this particular toilet with any form of frequency needed to be told how to use a sink. Were they washing other body parts in the sinks perhaps? Elbows maybe? Genitalia perhaps? This made me even more curious about the state of the toilets, so I begrudgingly paid my 50 frigging pence and shuffled through the barrier. The loo’s were empty as far as I knew but I still busted open each and every vacant stall ‘Bad Boys’ style in case there were any murderers lingering within.

Of the four stalls, only one had any toilet paper – and this is what I found in that toilet.


 Firstly, I think we should all take a moment to fully appreciate the gravity of the situation.

There was a gnawed on and discarded bell pepper next the toilet.

bellpeppershitlooI guess it’s better than a used hypodermic needle but it was still really weird. I have NEVER been so hungry that I take out a bell pepper and start munching on it while I’m on the toilet. I’m almost entirely certain I can hold off on snacking until I’m done peeing, but it fascinates me that other people don’t feel the same way. The other thing that was disturbing me about this loo was currently the size of a babies arm and floating in the bowl. This was not “loo of the year” material.

There wasn’t even an attendant there! In hindsight, I should have shimmied under the barrier and withheld my 50p considering the facilities clearly belonged in San Quentin rather than the corner of Regents Park. But thanks to my middle class upbringing I worried that the universe would smote me for non-payment.

With this in mind, its safe to say I will never be returning.

Mottled Macaroon Loo Review Score?

Creepy-factor = 1 Billion

Toilet paper = -2

Cleanliness = -4

Over-all “wow” factor = -10

Would I use this loo if there were no other options and I was bursting to go for a wee? = No. I would rather use the plant pot outside.

Overall score? = -10

RIP IPhone.

I did something veeeeery stupid the other day. I flushed my iPhone down the toilet.

This was not my finest moment.

You see, I went to the pub earlier that afternoon with Mr Maybe for a celebratory weekend drink. It was a weekend “date night” so I was attempting to channel Keira Knightley by wearing skinny jeans (which acted like a corset around my bladder) and my new “What? This? I just threw it on..” of-the-shoulder jumper top. This meant that after a couple of pints of ‘Orchard Pig’ and a leisurely, romantic autumn stroll around the village I had abandoned Mr Maybe in order to speed walk back to the flat at warp speed. As I had intentionally left the house without my HUGE kitchen-sink handbag, my phone was now in my back pocket instead.  After all, I reasoned, Keira Knightley probably doesn’t carry around a huge cavernous handbag filled with swiss army knives, 12 different kinds of lip gloss and emergency toilet paper – so why should I?

I never put my phone in my back pocket, it lives in my handbag at all times lest it be stolen by passing thieves or vagrants. Or I do something extra stupid like… oh I don’t know… drop it down the toilet??!

At first I didn’t realise my phone had just slipped out of my back pocket and completed an acrobatic swan dive into the lavvy – which makes it all the more awful. Precious seconds ticked away as I flushed, washed my hands then realised that there was something dark still in the loo. Which was odd. I peered into the murky depths. And here it was. Like Sir John Everett Millais’s depiction of Ophelia drowning. Only in iPhone form at the bottom of the toilet bowl.


As I have OCD it’s a very rare thing that will make me willingly stick my hand down a toilet bowl without even thinking about it. This was one of those occasions. Sadly, I was too late. My little friend was dead. We had been together for 28 months – or, two and a bit years. That’s longer than my relationship with Mr Maybe! As a testament to this, I went through the seven stages of grief in the following half hour.

  2. Denial – “No… It’s not dead. It’ll be okay. It’s just a bit wet that’s all…”
  3. Anger – “For FUCKS SAKE WHY did I have to wear the skinny FUCKING jeans TODAY OF ALL DAYS!”
  4. Bargaining – “Maybe it wont be that bad?… Maybe if I leave it in the airing cupboard it will dry out?”
  5. Guilt – *whispers softly* “I’m so sorry little iPhone”
  6. Depression – “I’m such an idiot. I never should have had that extra half pint of cider. It was definitely the cider-pee that did it”
  7. Acceptance*stares out the window at nothing in particular while sighing constantly*

I’m particularly pissed off because I was really enjoying listening to a new podcast called ‘The Chris Brake Show.’ I’ve been following Chris and the team for a few months now, and had JUST downloaded a bunch of brand spanking new episodes to my iPhone when tragedy struck. Thanks to Keira Knightley and her goddamn skinny jeans.

Thankfully I can still tune in via the WordPress website – but even though I can listen to the show, I never actually get to. Because despite being armed by a sandwich, cup of tea and my headphones – people in the office do not respect the sanctity of my lunch break. They must wait right until the moment I’m starting to digest my food to leap out from nowhere yelling


- followed by an in-depth catalog of disasters that have befallen the office in the last 24 seconds and the general assumption I’m about to leap to my feet and wave my magic wand sandwich-be-damned.


The upshot is – I still have my work Blackberry, so I’m not entirely destitute when it comes to being able to communicate electronically. But navigating my way round a Blackberry is far  less sexy than using an iPhone. With my work blackberry it’s all business and no play – but with my iPhone it was all play and only a LITTLE bit of business.

The iPhone is like that friend you had as a kid who was always trying to get you to shirk your chores in order to go and do something more fun. Like making a fort out of cardboard boxes.

Instead I’m stuck with this Blackberry, which is more like having Hermione Granger in your pocket 24 hours a day … for the next month.

All I hear is Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping! – as emails come through ALL demanding immediate attention. Alarms and whistles sporadically shriek at me like a car alarm or similar because I’m two seconds late responding to something. It’s exhausting. And then there’s the spell check. Which is a lot like talking to a very deaf and incredibly elderly relative determined to misinterpret everything you say no matter what.

- “okay” …did you mean “kkk”?

- “okay” …did you mean “kill”?

- “cork” …did you mean “cock?”

- “it” …did you mean “tit”?

- “Jimbob” …did you mean “jumbo”?

- “satin” …did you mean “satan”?

- “satin”…did you mean “sat ON”?

- “pens” …was that “penis”?


Oh well… at least by the end of next month I will have a brand new phone to love, cherish and download podcasts to. And I solemnly swear, future phone, I will avoid dropping you down the toilet. Promise.

Ode to a pork scratching

Oh little hairy friend

Crinkled, wrinkled and curled at the end

Dip you in sauce?

Well, of course

On that you can depend.

You crunch, you crack

Get stuck in the back

My teeth I’ll be pickin

Takes like chicken

Another round, another try

One last swill and then goodbye


Shit just got epically romantic

Mr Maybe took me out for dinner the other night. We had drinks at our local pub The Headless Angel and followed it with a trip to Pizza Express.

We ordered a large pizza with extra anchovies.

It was pretty epically romantic stuff.

The sad part is, I’m not even being sarcastic about that last part. My love of anchovy’s and Mr Maybe combined is too damned strong.

So, I tried to think of something equally romantic to do for Mr Maybe to show him how I truly felt about him. And in my family – we measure our love in food. Chocolate or baked goods mostly (perfectly demonstrated by my Mother baking me not one… not two… but THREE BIRTHDAY CAKES last year). Sadly, as our flat is so tiny the chance of Mr Maybe failing to discover me baking a surprise layer cake is pretty small. Besides, Mr Maybe is a fan of both the sweetness of desserts and the spiciness of curry. How could I possibly combine that?!

Well… I got him this:


There you go darlin’ …

Don’t say I never do anything romantic for you!

Summertime wishlist – “Do something crazy”

For the “Do something crazy” on my summertime wishlist I was a bit stumped. I wanted to do something weird and out of character but also fun, so I could look back on this summer in years to come and say “Oh yea, that was the summer I went skydiving …. or went scuba diving… or baked a cake in the shape of Morgan Freeman..” I already had “get my nose / ears pierced” on my list – so it couldn’t be that, and I’m not the kind of person to get a tattoo as I have a morbid fear of both needles and contracting hepatitis… So… what to do?…

Well, guess what I did last week? ….

I just got ordained as a minister online!

Here is what I got in an email along with a copy of my certificate of ordination.


I can marry people in the US and certain places in Europe. Or baptise babies. Or do funerals! Unless its open casket in which case you can forget it.

I feel like a superhero.

You know what I just did? I blessed my fancy schmancy Nespresso coffee just because I realised I could. I can even bless my bottles of mineral water to make them into holy water! Boom! Come the Vampire apocalypse, I’m totally sorted.


I was just browsing the website and apparently loads of famous people have been ordained on the same website too. People like:

  • Lady Gaga
  • Fran Drescher
  • Ian McKellen
  • Sharon Stone
  • Sammy Davis Jr
  • Goldie Hawn
  • Barbra Streisand – and Bette Midler!

I’m in the company of Gandalf! Now if that isn’t cool, I don’t know what is.  You can even get to choose an honorary title if you want. Here are a few of the choices (this is 100% true as on the website and I swear I’m not making this up). For just $13.99 I can be:

  • Archbishop
  • Cardinal
  • Angel
  • Master of Ceremonies
  • Time Lord
  • Sorcerer / Sorceress
  • Princess
  • Goddess
  • Guru
  • High Priestess
  • Padre
  • Shaman
  • Saint

I’m leaning towards Timelord or High Priestess. I think I could live with either, but I’m plumping for High Priestess at the moment – and I have the sneaking suspicion conversations are going to go like this from now on.

“Hi, how are you? I’m a High Priestess..”

“Hey you! Yes you! Nice shoes. Guess what? I’m a High Priestess.”

“Whats that my good man? My meal is just fine, thank you for asking. Bring me more bread sticks. Why? I’m a High Priestess.”

I’ll have to post a picture of my certificate as soon as it gets here. I got the ‘Ordination package deal’ too, which means I get a bumper sticker, press pass, certificate of ordination, wallet license, ‘clergy’ badge and a parking placard all for the reasonable sum of $28.99!

My friends are going to be so jealous. Maybe some of them will fly me out to exotic locations so I can preside over the festivities?! Then again… probably not. I seem to be friends with 88% of the commitment-phobic population. Which is also why I have never been able to fulfill my life long dream of being a bridesmaid.

So… I guess I should start unpacking that emergency suitcase for a trip to Vegas then.


Misadventures in Hamster parenting. A cautionary tale.

Anyone who knows me knows that I am scared of hamsters, which is slightly weird considering I adopted four of them. I didn’t have a phobia before I started adopting hamsters. This is something that has developed and intensified with every hamster I brought home.

My first ‘hamster-parenting’ experience was when I first moved to London and felt the burning urge to get a pet to make the whole experience less lonely. I went to the local pet store, selected a gorgeous little Russian Winter White hamster, immediately dubbed her ‘Marilyn Monroe’ and excitedly took her home with me. Only, when I got her home I made the fatal error of attempting to take my new little friend out of the cardboard carrier she had been given to me in and transfer her to the specially purchased three-tier super-cage.

The ‘Hamster Manual’ said that I should slowly put my hand into Marilyns enclosure, let her sniff it and then gently pick up my hamster and put her in her new cage. The point was to make this transition as untraumatic as possible. So – I lowered my hand slowly and Marilyn edged closer and sniffed my fingers. I felt like we were having a moment, I really truly did. She snuggled up to me with her insanely soft fur, sniffed at me some more, looked at me with her big round eyes…



-  and then without warning she sank her little fangs deep into my thumb.


For a split second I was entirely numb. I remember thinking to myself “Well… shit. Would you look at that!” And then the pain kicked in. It was like having a splinter, only x 1,000 – and the splinter is made of fire and acid and invisible lightsabers because the splinter is actually a hamster tightening its jaw around my finger.

Then this happened.



I couldn’t get her off! I eventually resorted to shaking my hand really gently. As gently as possible considering a rodent was grimly hanging onto my hand by her teeth.


I tried to scare the hamster by making wounded dinosaur noises so she would let go of me.


Then I noticed something incredibly disturbing. I had started bleeding somewhat profusely from my thumb… and Marilyn was lapping at the blood between her teeth.

WHAT THE FUCK??! I had adopted a vampire hamster!

But then I had a brainwave. Maybe she was thirsty! I just needed to get her near the water pippet.

So I walked over to her water bottle, unhooked it from her cage (harder than it sounds with a hamster hanging from your hand) and started dripping a bit of water on her mouth area. She immediately paused and looked at me as if to say “What do you think you are doing human?” But then she released my thumb and let me bottle feed her. As soon as she was done (and I mean AS SOON AS SHE WAS DONE) I plopped her on the bottom of the cage, shut the door and backed away like I was Sigourney Weaver in Alien and Marilyn was trying to attach herself to my face.

When the Hamster Manual said the aim was to make this transition as untraumatic as possible I think they must have meant for the owners. After that particular vampiric / mauling incident only ever picked Marilyn up with my thick leather gloves on. My friends and family laughed at me for doing this, but every so often Marilyn would dive at my glove while I was handling her and bite as hard as she could. Once she figured out this had no effect on me whatsoever, she would look up at me with betrayal in her eyes as if to say:

“Dude – I trusted you.”

I trusted you

Marilyn Monroe was followed two years later by George Clooney (of course), a dashing Syrian hamster in a sandy brown colour. Unfortunately, George had a somewhat massive attitude problem.

The problem being the fact that he was an asshole.

He didn’t so much bite me once in a way that put me off handling him with bare skin ever again – more like he repeatedly bit me whenever he got the opportunity. I made the mistake of leaving a pair of gloves on the top of Georges cage before going to work once. I came back to discover what looked like confetti all over his cage and all over the carpet below. Somehow George (an overweight bastard at best) had shimmied up the walls of his cage, grabbed the gloves, PULLED THEM THROUGH THE BARS and chewed the ever-living fuck out of them. All that was left was the wrist band, which George was sitting on while making meaningful eye contact. Eye contact that said: “You’re next, bitch.”

I’m pretty sure if hamsters could make death threats this is what they would look like.

George died about six months later because he was actually a really old hamster and not the young, virile thing I had been told he was. The pet store had lied to me just to get rid of him because he was so mean to the staff and the other hamsters. I think if George had been human he would probably have been a psychopath… or one of those really mean old men you see in a park yelling at pigeons.

I decided to ring the changes a bit and get two smaller dwarf hamsters from the countryside after George was gone. I called them Ben & Jerry. Because… why not? My Nanna names her cats after alcohol, so ice cream seemed like a logical next step for me after movie stars.

Jerry died from cancer about a year later…


Which is when Ben took up his little habit of staring at me. This was probably because he was grieving or something, but it was really REALLY creepy. He would just sit and STARE. Then play for a bit, stop and STARE… or be cleaning his balls – and STARE.  I began to worry if he could see dead people and they were all around me. It got worse and worse until I noticed Ben was staring at me while I was sleeping.

I could turn the light on to go to the loo or get a drink and this would be Ben.




Which is basically why I decided I would not be getting another hamster.




Triop update = Not good

You know how I was all “Yay! I have a pet now!” – well not anymore.

When I first got my ‘Grow your own Triops’ kit in the post I lovingly washed out the fishtank provided, sprinkled in the eggs and the food, made sure there was a lamp keeping the tank warm and eventually watched the little blips in my fishtank grow into… well, bigger blips.


Every so often I would come home and my Triops were bigger.

This gave me a weird and misplaced feeling of accomplishment.


The problem is – when I went away this weekend to visit my parents I had two Triops… and when I came back – I had one. Clearly the remaining Triop went on a murderous rampage and despite having access to plenty of food decided to hunt, kill and eat its sibling.



Now I’m slightly creeped out by the remaining Triop, which has doubled in size from this unexpected bought of cannibalism.

It just swims around the tank, desperately looking for more food and occasionally sizing me up.

The thing is, I fed it yesterday. It should be full by now! Especially if it also ate its brother.

I have basically hatched an aquatic Hannibal Lecter. Which is what I have chosen to name it.

Having a murderous pet isnt a huge issue considering Hannibal will be dead in a few weeks. According to the pamphlet provided, the life cycle of  a Triop is tiny. Six weeks from beginning to end to be exact – and if you want a second round of Triops all you need to do is scrape all the goop from the bottom of the tank, dry it out for a week or so, dump it back in a clean tank of mineral water… and suddenly you have yourself the next generation!

Um, No.

No thank you.

The ironic thing is that I can’t just go down to the local lake and “let Hannibal roam free” (wink wink) – because Hannibal needs to live in mineral water or he will choke and die. Besides, he wouldn’t last five seconds alone with the fish in that pond. They would literally eat him alive, shit him back out and not even think about it.

And I don’t want to sink to his level. I’m not a murderer.

I keep wondering if playing soothing classical music would change Hannibal’s temperament and make him into a more calm and gentle creature. But unfortunately, when I last synced my iPod it all went horribly wrong, most of my music library was unceremoniously deleted and now the best I can do is play him ‘Highway to Hell’ – which would probably be immensely counter-productive.

So for the moment, it looks like we’re stuck with each other…

Which is marvellous, obviously.

The two words that strike fear on a daily basis

I’m going to level with you. I have a few irrational phobias and pet peeves.

They include:

  • Clowns
  • Nuns / members of the clergy
  • Spiders
  • Putting my head against the window on public transport and getting slimed by the trail of hair gel, grease and slime left by someone else
  • Sitting on a toilet seat when someone has left pee on it
  • The sound people make when they eat bananas with their mouth open

But there is a special place in my brain for the kind of psychological trauma that is caused by the following.



This is a sticky note that my boss puts on things and then leaves on my desk for me to find.

Sometimes I get in to work and there is already a sticky note waiting for me. Silent and green and judgemental. As soon as I see this sticky note my heart feels like it’s just dropped out of my stomach.

I don’t know why, because “Lets Discuss” just means my boss wants to talk about something. It’s just that I always feel automatically guilty when I see those two words.  I automatically assume I have done something terrible and my boss is about to fire me.

Scenarios scuttle through my brain like ants as I inch closer to my desk with a fixed toothpaste-ad smile. Have I murdered any children lately? No. Did I poop on the floor? No. What the fuck did I dooo?!

I start practicing my defense in my head. The kind of defense that makes me look like Perry Mason.

I even go to the ladies toilet and practice it in the mirror.

All because of those two little words. They whisper at me from the paper.

“Lets Discuss”

Actually… its more like


 … and then it turns out to be about stocking up on kitchen roll.

Summertime wish list – I adopt a Pet

I, Blair Roxlin, have an addiction to puppies.

I’m pretty sure this is the best way of describing my condition.

You know how people follow celebrities on twitter or instagram? Well, I mostly only follow peoples pets. Some pets have their own channels or Twitter handles – and guess what? I subscribe to them. I even tweet them when I’m feeling gripped by a particular state of whimsy and patiently wait for a response…

…From a dog.


They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and waiting for a response. Which is why I’m not going to tell you how many times I do this a week in the vain hopes that the other furry children will one day reply to my feeble attempts to befriend them via social media the way Mr Marbles did.




Ever since the sad departure of Ben and Jerry, my faithful little hamster companions, I have been incredibly broody. Most of my social and work-related peer group seem to feel the same way, but the major difference is they want babies and I want my long-sought-after cocker spaniel puppy.

Where some of my friends are staring at babies squealing “Ooooooo! Isn’t it CUUUUTE!”  I’m staring in the opposite direction at an adorable little Sheltie going “I know! I know!”

I swear, its gotten so bad lately I would become a dog walker in my spare time… but I don’t want to get stuck with something really aggressive that’s going to use me as a human squeak toy. Give me a well-behaved dog and I will entertain it, groom it and play with it for hours!

I’ve told Mr Maybe that if he ever proposes he doesn’t need to fanny about with an engagement ring, he can just get me my cocker spaniel puppy. I think it’s a far greater show of commitment anyway because I’ve always wanted a dog and would take one over a stupid diamond any day. Can you walk a diamond? No. Can you teach a diamond to roll over or fetch? No. Can you buy a diamond a whimsical polka dot bow tie collar? No.

Besides, how many people have an engagement dog?

I rest my case.

Our current flat doesn’t allow pets. Which sucks. I understand why – because the landlord put a fresh cream carpet down for us just before we moved in and he doesn’t want muddy paws or poop-scrape stains all over his floor. Also, he has to take in to account the batshit crazy (and apparently not dead) lady living next to us called Rose – who cornered me yesterday just to tell me that I better not get used to how quiet it is around here at the moment because the school next to our apartment building is about to start its new term and we are in for a world of noise. Rose apparently calls the school every day to complain that the children have the nerve to play during break times – and sound like they are enjoying it too! I have a feeling she would not do well around animals, so I don’t really blame our poor, long-suffering land lord for not allowing us to have pets.

Well, not much.

I still need to find a pet to adopt this summer for my summer wish list. But obviously this pet will need to fall into somewhat strict criteria. I need to adopt something that doesn’t:

  1. Smell
  2. Poop
  3. Bark or meow
  4. Require a lot of space

So… I guess that means my options are as follows:

  1. A pet rock
  2. A sock puppet
  3. Sea Monkeys

I had a pet rock before. But to be honest they’re slippery little buggers and I kept loosing it. Also, I bought it in the countryside at some form of garden centre run by an elderly couple and one of the two of them had carved a really creepy face in the side of it so it always looked like it had just done a sneaky fart.

I don’t really know what happened to that rock. I think I murdered it by throwing it into a lake on purpose because it was staring at me. But honestly, I promise you it had it coming.


I just looked on amazon and FOUND MYSELF A PET.

YES readers! I did! I am now the proud owner of… A Triop!


Don’t stare at me blankly like that. It’s like a sea monkey only BETTER because (according to Google) they are one of the oldest species of crustacean in the world, having been around for 200 million years. They’re basically older than the Queen. Which is impressive.

I’ve adopted a freakin dinosaur people! Apparently I have to rehydrate their eggs and then they start to hatch noticeably grow after a couple of days.

My new little friends will be delivered today. I’m so excited. I may even tackle the mailman in the process.


It came! It caaaaame!


itcamein thepost


Okay. So. I sat down with my Triop pack this weekend and set it up.

This is the result:


Apparently my pets are very well-to-do because surviving on anything other than mineral water will kill them. Which reminds me a little of the old boarding school pals I had during my childhood.

I sat there staring at it for hours hoping to see something hatch. Which was ridiculous considering my Triops would be impossible to see with the naked eye for at least a couple of days, if not a week. But still. I sat there. And I waited. And my nose fogged up the glass. I’m pretty sure I scared any Triops hatching shitless at the time because I must have looked like a dragon.

The next day… I did the same thing. Face pressed up against the glass. Cup of tea in hand.

I was just about to flick a few choice hand signals at the tank and spend the rest of the day having a Netflix marathon – when I saw it.

can you see it

can you see it2

The first Triops to hatch!

Granted they are reeeeally hard to see what with all the crap I had to chuck into the tank along with the eggs. But they are the tiny wiggly things currently floating around! I have a new pet!

Summertime wishlist – London loo tour

On Sunday I went on The London Loo Tour. The whole week running up to the tour I was driving my friends and family crazy with how excited I was about this. On the one hand, I can understand their confusion over why I was so giddy. It was a tour of toilets… in London - so the concept itself was slightly weird, I realise this. But then again (if you’ll pardon the pun) I didn’t give a shit .

This tour had been covered in TimeOut, Meetup and The Telegraph. We would basically be trundling around London, checking out historically and architecturally interesting toilets and at the end we would be going to a cocktail bar for a quick knees up. It all linked in nicely with my “stop being a hermit” / summertime wishlist thing I have going on. What could possibly go wrong?!

Well… for starters… I got the location for meeting up with the London Loo Tour group entirely wrong. I was SURE it was Westminster. I strongly remember it said Westminster on the webpage. I told Techboy (a friend from my servitude days as a receptionist and chosen companion for the evening) to meet me at Waterloo and then we would walk to Westminster. Only when we got to Westminster I checked my Meetup page – and it said Waterloo.


After a hurried bus journey and a mad dash through the station with pigeons flying everywhere we got back to where we started from and quickly located Rachel (our tour guide) thanks to her somewhat conspicuous looking toilet plunger and bright blue t-shirt with “Keep Calm and Carry on … at your convenience” emblazoned upon it.


It was time for our evening to commence.

I wont spoil the tour for you by listing every loo that we visited. I’d probably be breaking some kind of toiletologist code of ethics or something if I did that. You’ll just have to go on the tour yourself to find out! But I will show you a few snap shots of my favorite ‘London Loo tour’ loo’s.

1. The “Batman Loo”

batmanloo batmanloo2

This loo is located outside Embankment tube station and is easily missed during the day – because it pops up from under ground. Yes, you heard me. A nocturnal toilet.

I couldn’t find a video of the one we visited in Embankment on YouTube, even though I’m promised there is one out there – so take a look at the video of the Watford pop-up loo instead. It’s a bit long, so you might want to skip ahead.

2. “The Savoy Poo Lamp.”



It’s a lamp. Powered by the pure energy of London poop. In fact, mainly one could argue by the prestigious poop that comes out of The Savoy. So, in theory this lamp could have at one point been powered by The Beatles at one point! The plaque is an added bonus, because I don’t need to know anything more than this to know this is my favourite street lamp in all of London.

I didn’t ever think I would have a favorite street lamp. But now I stand corrected.

Poop lamp… You will always be my favorite.

3. “The Cellar Door” loo

The Cellar Door loo was extra cool because the loo itself had a glass door that was clear to begin with, but would frost when you locked it. Unfortunately because the Cellar door bar was so dark and the camera on my phone was so crap in these sorts of situations, you can’t see the door frosting in any of my pictures. BUT the “before” picture (taken through a clear door) was pretty cool… Observe.

loo19 loo20 loo21 loo22

I think the fact I couldn’t find the front door of the bar and got lost in some long velvet curtains next to the bar because it sort of looked like an exit might demonstrate how dark it was in there. The bartender had to rescue me. It was pretty embarrassing. BUT they give free popcorn as a bar snack and I got my cocktail in a vintage teacup. So, Cellar Door – I forgive you.

All in all, a brilliant (if a little weird) night out on the town!

If you’re in London and fancy doing something unusual and original for a first date – why not give it a try?!

*whispers* No, seriously. You should do it.

I join “Meet Up” and possibly stop being a hermit

Bio writing is really hard. Anything you put, no matter how innocent, screams “YOU’RE A DICK!”

With this in mind you can see why I was nervous about setting up my ‘meet up’ profile.

It’s basically the worlds largest network of social groups. You join, set up a profile, click on activities that interest you (outdoor activities / theater / reading/ sky diving/ sunset watching etc…) and then check out what social groups there are around you that you might want to join.

A friend told me about the site. Mostly because he was worried I had become a hermit and forgotten how to have fun. He said if I wasnt careful I might be discovered in years to come, slumped over in my flat – a flat filled with cats and economy sized digestive biscuit tins from M&S. This is when he scribbled down the name of the website and told me to set a profile up for myself.

Which brings me back to writing a bio and sounding like a dick.

This seems unavoidable no matter what the bio is for or who writes it. For example – I set up a bio for myself on LinkedIn and I sounded like a total douche; then HR set one up for me on the company website recently and I sounded like I had had my personality surgically removed at birth.

So… What should I put?!


“Hi, I’m Blair. I’m a twenty-eight year old Scorpio who loves puppies, kittens, bubble baths, Pina Coladas and getting caught in the rain. Looking to meet people in london. Please dont lure me into a forest and try to murder me.”


“Hey. I’m Blair. I want to meet new people. Mostly because I got bored of the old ones. Call me.”


“Hi! I’m Blair! My favorite colour is Bubblegum pink, I don’t eat carbs and I dot my i’s with little hearts! Lets hang out! I’m LOTS of fun! LOL! OMG you’re such a bitch, I can tell you’re rolling your eyes! … No… Seriously! I am – honest!”

Hmm, maybe not.

And then, what kind of profile picture should I put up? I can’t put up anything too “sexy” (like this)

– because I’m with the delectable Mr Maybe. But equally, I can’t put up anything too weird or eccentric for fear of scaring potential new pals away.

These were a few pictures I decided not to go with:



Which I think is pretty self-explanatory.

Once you’re done whoring out your personality, ‘meet up’ then ask you what your interests are. They have whole long list of them. I didn’t want to miss out on anything, so I clicked almost every box. Well, fifty of them to be exact. I just sat there, clicking away like Rainman until they ran out of categories for me.

I found a group.

In fact I found 12 groups.

Some of them were for:

  • Social Londoners between 20-35
  • A ladies book club in Clapham
  • Ladies in London who want to make new friends
  • A society for watching sunsets
  • Self defense
  • Unusual things to do in London
  • Alternative nightlife
  • A tango and salsa class
  • and ‘Outdoor adventure’

Basically I was about to enjoy the shit out of life.

The thing is… As I scanned the list of upcoming events I realised didn’t really want to “commit” to anything just yet. Mostly because I couldn’t just RSVP yes and then not show up if I was being held hostage by the procrastination monster. Because they expect you to PAY MONEY to attend events.

I’m not talking millions of pounds here. £10 tops. But there I was, haggling away. This is ironic, because I will happily download an episode of ‘Charmed’ from ITunes for £1.89 or buy a scratch card from the corner shop for £2 without so much as blinking – but I wont, say, do something valuable with my money like RSVP for £8.90 to go see Shakespeare’s ‘Comedy of Errors’ at The Globe without freaking out internally that it’s too expensive.

I started feeling my inner hermit trying to convince me that I didn’t want to go out and DO stuff. I should just stay in the flat and read a book in a bubble bath… for the rest of my life…

BUT … then I found something.

Something FREE, something I would ENJOY and something happening next week!

An after hours guided tour of the Natural History Museum!

And then another!

A Sunset appreciation society gathering at Primrose Hill!

And then… another!




And now I sit. And I wait. And I probably rub my hands together too for dramatic emphasis.

The move, Rose and learning too much about your neighbours

Some of you have been asking me what happened with the move at the beginning of the month.

I’m not going to lie. Despite the leaky toilet, the front door with an unfrosted porthole of glass, the wooden floor that bowed like an accordion and the threat of electrocution from almost every household implement in our old flat… It was weird packing our life away in boxes (yet again).

Moving day mainly involved a shitload of blood, sweat and tears. But mostly tears.

Needless to say it was stressful. In fact, I felt like I was going to have an aneurism at any point and I’m almost certain that by the end of the day one of my eyeballs was bulging out of its sockets slightly.

It didn’t help when things like this happened.


Come moving day I hadn’t even seen the new place yet and we would be living there in just a few hours! (Hows THAT for some serious trust in your boyfriend, ladies!)

Mr Maybe and I spent most of the day running around shoving stuff in boxes and bags, yelling:

Mr Maybe: “Why the fuck do we have to much STUFFF??!”

Me: “Idontknow!! Idontknow!!”

It was crazy. Mr Maybe hired a small white van but somehow our van turned out to be part-clown car. We just kept hurling stuff in there and it never quite looked full. Sofas disappeared, the bed melted into the background… you name it, the van absorbed it. I was expecting to find Narnia during the unloading process. And I don’t mind telling you – I was a little disappointed when I didn’t.

In hindsight we could have turned a pretty stressful situation into a positive – by turning it into a drinking game.

Anyone who says “FUCK!” – Take a drink

If someone stubs their toe – Take a drink

Debate how much longer / shorter / cheaper the commute will be? – Take a drink

Utter the words: “deal breaker” - Take a drink

Mention how sad it is not to have real wood floors? – Take a drink

Box too heavy? – Take a drink

Cant find the packing tape? – Take a drink

Phone Dies? – Take a drink

Notice / point out cracks or faults in the walls? – Take a drink

Loose something? – Take a drink

We could have had ENDLESS FUN if we had just had the forethought to pre-pack a bottle of tequila, a salt shaker and some lime wedges in the moving van.

Instead, we were wedged into the cown-van and left to scuttled up and down two flights of stairs with all our worldly possessions for the best part of a day. Which was obviously marvellous.

I also got a glimpse of our neighbours that fateful day. A little snippet into the future of life in the new building whether I wanted one or not – and it came in the form of Rose.

roseRose had clearly been waiting on the other side of her door until the noise of boxes being moved and people tramping up and down the stairs had subsided to come out and intentionally “bump” into her new neighbours in order to introduce herself.

I wouldn’t have minded but I was juggling a large carton of broken down boxes and bubble wrap when she bared down upon me. Obviously I wanted to make a good impression upon the neighbours… but… I had shit to do! Couldnt I just pop over to introduce myself with a bunt cake when I wasnt pouring with sweat? Apparently not.

Rose was not budging.

Rose: “You must be the new tenant!”

Me: “Yes! Nice to meet you.”

Rose: “… How are you liking things so far?”

Me: “Oh just fine thank you. Early days but fine so far.”

*sweeping what she can see of our flat from the doorway and missing nothing*

Rose: “You’re lucky, they have given you a brand new carpet!”

*Looking down as if I have never noticed this before even though I’m standing on it*

Me: “Oh really?”

Rose: “Yes, the old tenants didn’t have a carpet at all!”

Me: “Oh, I see. Lucky us!”

*awkward pause*

Rose: “I suppose I can give you the ‘low-down’ on all the other tenants here couldn’t I? … Since were neighbours.”

*trying to make a joke of it because this was all getting a bit weird*

Me: “Yes I suppose you could.”

*suddenly very serious*

Rose: “There are two couples upstairs with children who run around all day. They have wooden floors and a crying baby…”

*my face starts to fall slightly*

“Your landlord lives just down the corridor (you’re so lucky to have him near by) – and then there’s me and on the other side of you there’s an accountant! Imagine!”

*she leans in conspiratorially*

“He’s gay you know…”

Me: “Oh… I see.”

*Rose coughs a little and looks shifty. She clearly wants to bring something up*

Rose: “Look, I don’t want to push. But I thought I would also mention that the walls are paper thin in this building.”

*dramatic pause*



“Even at night”

*Pause a bit more in case I dont get that what she’s trying to say is “Please keep the shagging down”*

“So… if you are going to put your television anywhere please put it on the far wall that we don’t share.”

*awkward fixed smile on my face*

Me: “Okay, no problem.”

Since moving day I have neither seen nor heard Rose. Her flat is the one at the top of the stairs that we scuttle past for fear of awaking the Kraken within.

It’s all just too suspiciously quiet from number 11.

The lights are not on, no sound escapes from it. Its just … silent.

And to be honest, a part of me suspects she might be dead.


Summertime wishlist

I finally gave in and commuted to work in a pair of sandles today, so I’m pretty sure it’s safe to announce the firm arrival of British summer time.

To celebrate this momentous occasion I have scribbled a list of things I want to do this summer.

Only, I want to actually DO them. I want to reclaim my summer again!


So much of it has been spent curled up in a ball on the sofa because I have been reluctant to go outside for fear of bleeding from my eyeballs thanks to hayfever; moving house (again) or spending the day inside doing things like *excited intake of breath* laundry.

Honestly, I like a lazy weekend as much as the next girl. But I recently played a game of “Who would play the role of you in the movie of your life” with a friend of mine when it hit me. Although it would be Jennifer Lawrence (hands down) what the hell kind of a movie would ‘the movie of my life’ actaully be? Judging by things of late it would probably climax with a shot of my grave stone, which would have the following six words carved into it.

“Here lies Blair… She did laundry.”

No, no, no. If Jennifer Lawrence is going to play me in the movie of my life I have to make it Jennifer Lawrence worthy.

I want explosions, high-speed chases, romance – the whole shebang! I want it to be like a Die Hard movie mixed with a pinch of ‘New Girl’.

So, I made the following list.

Here it is:

1. Make, name and fly a kite

2. Have a silent disco in my bedroom

3. No mirror / ‘My-boyfriend-does-my-makeup’ challenge

4. Make inappropriately shaped cookies

5. Eat ice cream

6. Go to the seaside and make sand castles

7. Swap books with a friend and review

8. Go camping and roast marshmallows

9. Rollerblade in Hyde Park

10. Do something crazy

11. Learn the guitar

12. Pay tribute to Douglas Adams at Highgate cemetery

13. Do ‘the London loo’ tour

14. Have high tea

15. Get my ears / nose pierced

16. Stargaze

17. Write a book

18. Draw my life

19. Adopt a pet

20. Make three new friends

21. Have a movie-marathon night

22. Attend a ball

23. Play ultimate frizbee

24. Make a coke and mentos rocket

25. Paint with my body parts

26. Reconnect with an old school friend

27. Join a library

28. Interview a celebrity

29. Say “yes” more

30. Plant something and keep it alive

I just googled ‘the end of british summertime’ and apparently I have until October the 26th to complete this list.

Game on summer time.

Game on….


The Worst Thing In Life – You’ll Be Missed Robin Williams

The Mottled Macaroon:

So very true. You’ll be missed Mr Williams

Originally posted on Bucket List Publications:


We live in a sad world surrounded by people who are questioning themselves and the importance of their lives, gripped by depression. We need to reach out and provide positive encouragement, support, and love before it’s too late.

View original 509 more words

“Hell is other people” (On the tube)

Jean-Paul Sartre once said “hell is other people” – truer words were never said my friend. Especially when it comes to the underground.

I don’t know about you, but I hate commuting.  Unfortunately I still have to do it twice a day and this involves getting on the tube. Now that its summertime and we have been experiencing some suspiciously summer-ish weather, getting crammed into a sweltering tin can with a bunch of other people is not my idea of a good time.

In a hot tube carriage there is really ONLY one place to stand. As close to the drop-down window as humanly possible.

tube seat 3

In fact, it can get so hot on the underground that you might be tempted to poke your head over the side of the window until the G-force of the train threatens to suck the hair right off your scalp.


But you don’t because that would be depriving the whole carriage of a well deserved breeze, so instead you edge as close to the window as possible without coming off as an asshole.

Sadly, the majestic pleasure of an unexpected whisper of air is ROBBED from me on a daily basis. Invariably by a huge hulk of a person not adhering to the above social niceties and blocking the air from reaching anyone else with their freakishly large head / neck muscles. These bulky mole-people never seem to get off the tube during the summer – because no matter what time of day they are always stood there, smiling smugly and enjoying the discomfort of everyone else around them currently turning into large puddles of skin.

No breeze




Another situation that enrages me to the point of mass genocide is the fact that as soon as I get on the underground I suddenly become invisible. People walk into or push in front of me constantly.

Let me paint you a picture.

It’s been a long day. I get off the tube at my stop. There’s a queue of people lining up for the escalator. I obediently line up too.


I’m about to get on the escalator I have waited patiently in line for – and then someone comes out of nowhere and pushes right in front of me.


Not so much as an “excuse me” is uttered. I just get a mouth full of knicker sandwich as the person shoves their butt in my face and reverses wildly. Happily, some of my makeup is usually now smeared on the back of their clothes from body-slamming me like I’m a human bouncy castle.

Question: Where’s the fire Kimosabe?

Are you such a frantic hurry in order to:

  1. Get to a hospital in order to see your wife give birth to a beautiful baby?
  2. Dismantle a nuclear bomb in the manner of Bruce Willis?


The answer is:


Basically, the underground is where good manners go to die.

As far as I’m concerned, teleportation can’t get here soon enough

Mr Maybe is a chilli saucerer

We have all had moments of abject poverty in our lives but nothing is more depressing than moving house when every single penny is being sucked out the door by deposits / admin costs / hiring a van / packing boxes etc.

Mr Maybe and I couldn’t be bothered to go shopping last night because we were so exhausted from the mental game of chess that is moving house. So (because we are survivors and the only alternative would be breaking open the jar of PMT emergency Nutella and taking it in turns to lick the spoon) we raided the cupboard / freezer / fridge and dumped what we had left on the kitchen counter.

  • Baked beans
  • White rice
  • Chillis
  • Salmon fillets
  • Silverskin onions
  • Cornichon gherkins

Not exactly “normal” ingredients for an average Monday night dinner. But then again, Mr Maybe is a total wizard when it comes to throwing something together in the kitchen.

Which is when this happened:


 Baked bean chilli-salmon-curry with silverskin onions and cornichons.

Just like my blue potatoes and ham sandwich – I have to say it was a thing of beauty.

I might not be any fun to sit next to in the office today, but it was totally worth it.

House viewings – why it’s all bullshit

I’m moving house in exactly six days.


There’s paperwork to do, boxes to pack, contacts to sign, cleaning, organising, phone calls, emails, faxes,  more packing, faxes, faxes, faxes, keys to swap, credit checks to complete, moving men, driving, unloading of vans, more panic – and hopefully some very strong sleeping pills and a large glass of wine once the whole nightmare is over.


Basically this whole situation is a shit sandwich with extra f-u served up to us by our landlord – who apparently needs to gut and rebuild our dilapidated  flat from scratch in order to bring it up to code again and eventually sell it under false pretenses to the next poor suckers that come along.

Thats fine by me because Mr Maybe has been electrocuted more than once on the cooking hob alone. However I still really didn’t appreciate our landlord telling us to clear out. It’s a bit like being dumped by someone you didn’t even want to be with anymore.

It’s the PRINCIPLE OF THE THING goddamn it.

So. As we’ve been almost entirely at the mercy of greasy estate agents seemingly no older than my favorite bra – Mr Maybe and I have been frantically running around for the past month, viewing a succession of downright nasty flats.

All we wanted was something that met our (clearly) lofty criteria:

  • The new flat must be in a non-rapey area of London
  • The new flat must also be within walking distance of the tube

Unfortunately for us, this was a very bad time of year to be looking for a new place. Mostly because students were flocking to London in droves and snapping up any and every single cheap flat available. It was a real estate bloodbath. A bit like the last scene in saving private Ryan with all the limbs flying everywhere. Only more dramatic, obviously.

In our desperation to find somewhere to live by the end of July we finally turned to a fancy schmancy estate agency that had most of the “nicer” flats that were listed on the internet. They asked us to come in and meet the suspiciously cheerful sounding estate agent I had been emailing about a couple of flats we wanted to view. Now, I’m going to give her a different name to both protect her identity and best reflect her personality. So… Lets call her ‘Crystal.’

In all seriousness she looked as if she was about to head out to a nightclub in Mayfair. Crystal was wearing a skin-tight, strapless bodycon dress… with no bra. She also had one of those chelsea-bred public school voices that made me  99.9% certain she had a gay best friend called Mongo and that her Daddy owned a time-share in Tampa.


If Crystal was aware that we were staring at her in a way that clearly said “You’ve got to be shitting me” – she didn’t show it. She just swished her hair over her shoulder coquettishly and teetered towards the door in her five-inch heels.


The places we were about to view were only a short walk from the estate agents office – but Crystal decided to spare her feet the pain and drive us there instead. Which was slightly alarming because I wasnt entirely sure she was old enough to have a license.

When we got to the first flat the bathroom was bigger than the bedroom, the bedroom had a double bed rammed in the corner that took up all the floor space, the kitchen was squished to the side of the bed, the oven was being used by the current tenant to store her shoes – And this was at the top of our budget.

The next flat was bigger, but you could only locate the front door by walking down a scary alleyway and gaining access through a weird little reverse-backgarden, which is probably occupied by the meth addicts and local drug lords after 6:30. The flat was dark, it was leaky, it smelt like feet and there were damp stains up the walls – and at first Crystal couldn’t even get the door to open because the lock was rusted slightly. Probably by the previous occupants blood.

But she still cheerfully bounded ahead of us reeking of enthusiasm and gesturing at tiny showers and mould patches as large as small toddlers with an expression that said: “I know… right?! And at no extra cost!”


It was clear that Crystal was not the estate agent for us.

When we broke the news that we didn’t want to live in an overpriced and leaky basement flat Crystal pouted and asked why. Then (when we stood our ground) she got defensive, told us we wouldn’t find anything as good as what she was currently offering us – and drove us back to the office in near silence.

For a moment there I was starting to worry that Crystal was right, maybe we would never find a flat in time and would have to move into nasty houseshare that smelt like cats and damp laundry with ten students. BUT (THANKFULLY) Mr Maybe is a genius and recently managed to find a flat. One that is both in an unrapey part of London AND is close to the tube (extra brownie points to you sir!)

Now we just have to go through the credit checks and signing of contracts etc. Which is extra nerve-wracking. I hate the thought of people rifling through my receipts and getting background checks on me. I mean, will buying that novelty-sized vibrator that one time ruin my chances of real-estate happiness? Who can tell?!

I’m caught somewhere between willing it all to go smoothly with the powers of positive brainwaves and at the same time being riddled with a sense that something uncontrollably horrible is about to happen and it will be all my fault.

I hate being a harbinger of doom, but you know, sometimes I just can’t help it.

Migrane – like putting your brain in a blender, only less fun

I had a migraine today. I hate having migraines. It’s like sticking your brain in a blender and cranking the settings to ‘liquidize’.

I used to get them a lot when I was at school. Mostly because I was a very “intense” child – but that was because I was bullied for three years straight by a teacher who had no soul and hobbies that included psychological torture. So I wrote poetry, read ‘The Hitchhikers Guide to the Gallexy’ and drank pots of tea with my pinkie sticking out. I also wore a top hat when I was at home like Jo from Little Women. But that’s another story.

I have never had a “normal” sort of migraine (if you can ever call a migraine ‘normal’). I have always had the super-freaky tripping-out kind of migraine. The kind that leave me blinded, unable to speak, with a numb tounge, a numb hand and the general appearance of having had a stoke.

Allow me to demonstrate:
Before migrane


If I get stressed and resist it, it only gets worse. The thing is, I feel like I’m pretty stressed 99.9% of the time. I’m just super-good at suppressing my feelings like most other British people.

Unfortunately, I don’t know I’m having a migraine until it’s too late. One moment I’m trying to complete every day tasks and the next I’m completely incapable of coherently telling you what my name is. I look and sound like I’m completely pissed, but I’m not. I’m just dribbling slightly from the corner of my mouth and wondering what I did in a past life to deserve this kind of shit happening to me.

It’s scary when you’re in a professional situation only to suddenly realise you can’t string a sentence together. It’s especially unfortunate if you’ve picked up your bosses line only to make a bunch of “yummy” sounds instead of speaking coherently.

Yes, this actually happened.

I don’t know who was more uncomfortable, the person on the other end of the phone or me. The upshot is?… they called back. Only, I picked the phone up again in some form of Pavlov’s dog response rather than doing what other normal people would do and hiding in a toilet cubicle until the brain goblins left me alone again. the conversation went a little something like this:

Me: *tounge swollen* “H-EE-LL-O?”

Them: “Errr. Hello?”

Me: *trying to form words correctly in the manner of Eliza Doolittle in ‘My Fair Lady’* “HEL-O”

Them: “Ah.”


So, I stumbled into the kitchen and made some tea.

Well, I tried to. As I was partially blinded by a gigantic omnipresent blob blocking my vision I had to duck and weave my head around like a pro basketball player in order to make use of the small gap of untarnished eyesight in the corner of my eye before it was blurred over again. This went on for easily half an hour. And then I needed to negotiate the cupboards / childproof tins and kettle full of boiling water required to complete this task. It was going to be a very long Tuesday.

And then I had a sneezing fit. Unfortunately my boughts of hayfever have been getting more successively violent for the past three years. I only mention this because Hayfever + migraine = Dear god please make the pain stop. During the summer I’m usually prone to having a sneezing attack every other hour – and having one of these during a migraine made me seriously consider knocking myself out with a heavy object. It felt like invisible samurai’s were stabbing me through my ocular cavities with their swords. Which were evidently also covered in salt and lemon juice.

You can probably picture how pathetic I looked, huddled at my desk, dribbling slightly, making vague vowel sounds to myself like chewbacca and cradling my mug of brown water with the teabag left in it.



This is the moment Mr Maybe called me. I was so overwhelmed with love, relief at hearing his voice and the frustrating incapability of communicating what was wrong that I now know exactly how Lassie must have felt when little Timmie fell down the well. After a few moments of hearing me slurr, mumble and clap he told me in his wisest and kindest “boyfriend voice” (probably exclusively reserved for when I might at some point decide to hold up a bank) “Babe… maybe you should go home…”

Yes. Maybe I should go home. But that involved walking for five streets beside a main road while negotiating an obstical course of pedestrians, tourists and old people – and then (assuming I even got that far) getting on the tube without falling onto the tracks in my blind enthusiasm and getting cut cleanly in half by a speeding train.

Sadly, it was far safer to stay exactly where I was and hope nobody asked me to do anything too difficult.

Like saying my own name.

Or answering the phone.

Or… blinking both eyelids at the same time…


And they said life would get easier as you got older.



Mr Maybe seemed slightly distressed at how floppy and lifeless I have become and asked me if I felt any better today. I told him that I feel more like myself but I still have a lingering headache two days after my migraine.

You know what he said after pausing thoughtfully for a moment?

“Maybe its a brain tumor and you’re going to die?…”


Aaaand maybe you might wake up to find your eyebrows shaved off!

Sweet dreams…


The Rosy Moth Can….

The reason the Rosy Maple Moth is my favourite insect?
Well really thats very simple.

Who can paint a rainbow?….










Wrap it in a sigh…











Soak it in the sun and make a groovy lemon pie…









The Rosy Maple Moth can…







The Rosy Maple Moth can…
The Rosy Maple Moth can
‘Cause she mixes it with love
And makes the world taste goooood!



Cold Callers

Since becoming the office manager / PA of a small office in Mayfair I have unfortunately inherited a ‘war-and-peace’ long list of cold callers and hard sellers all hell-bent on either making a “deal” with me or selling me an “exclusive” 2% off stationary contract.

Now – take note obnoxious cold callers of the world, because I know you’re out there.

If you want me (or anyone actually) to become a customer and buy whatever it is you might be selling, blocking the phone line with daily calls to try and wear me down is DEFINITELY not the way to do it. At that point I would rather chew broken glass than order so much as a toilet roll from you, let alone a years supply of staples.

It also doesn’t help if you repeatedly and creepily say my name over and over in the conversation like a demented parrot. This just makes me feel uncomfortable and hyper-aware that you are working me over by reading from some cheezy script.


As a mindless act of rebellion I will occasionally scribble the caller’s name down and drop it into the conversation as often as possible in an overly cheerful and hyper-sarcastic manner so they get a taste of their own medicine.

“Hi Brian. Yes Brian. Unfortunately Brian, we have no use for a six months supply of fair trade tampons and stationary products  – okay Brian? Sorry Brian, wish I could help Brian. Bye Brian!”

Childish? Yes? Satisfying? – You betcha.

The callers I loathe the most are the callers that are 100% HARD SELL SELL SELL – because the moment they sense that you aren’t interested in their product or services they immediately change tack and try to make you feel like a complete idiot for not complying.


Idiot Sales person: “Hi! My name is Brian! How are YOU today?”


Me:  “Fine…”


Idiot Sales person: “Can I ask who I’m talking to?”


*through gritted teeth because A) this person is definitely a cold caller and B) I know whats coming next*

Me:  “Blair…”


Idiot Sales Person: “GREAT! BLAIR! NICE TO MEET YOU! So… I’m calling from ____ office supplies and I want to talk to you… yes YOU! about getting a great deal on your office supplies”


Me: “I’m actually really happy with our current supplier”


Idiot Sales person: “Well Blair, you might think that you are happy – but how will you KNOW unless you shop around?! HAHAHA. Listen Blair… Why don’t I make an appointment to come to your offices and crunch a few numbers with you?”

*So, now he is inviting himself to my office to annoy me in person*


Me: “No thanks, I’m not interested, but thank you for calling”


Idiot salesperson: “So, you’re telling me that you aren’t interested in saving your company a considerable amount of money?”


Me: “Yes, this is what I am telling you.”


Idiot salesperson: “So, you’re telling me that you want to stay with your current supplier who is making you pay through the nose for something we can offer at a cut price?”


Me: “Yes – this is what I’m telling you”

* click*

Now, this reoccurring conversation pisses me off for a number of reasons.

  1. The cold-caller is making the assumption that my current supplier is essentially ripping me off – with no facts, figures or numbers to back this up.
  2. My current supplier is not in fact ripping me off. They’re giving me a great corporate discount, deliver on time and are always prompt with invoices – so the cold caller is basically implying that I don’t do my homework and need some greasy salesman to tell me how to do my job.
  3. By stressing you’re telling me the salesperson is channeling his inner “wolf of wall street” by using a psychological sales tactic to make me feel stupid so I will simply go along with what he is trying to bully me into doing.


If I am telling a salesperson I’m not interested in their product I don’t need them to repeat what I have just said back to me in a snarky tone.

I have never gone into – say, Selfridges and had a salesperson snap condescendingly “So – you’re telling me that I cant convince you to buy the perfume I just blinded you with as you walked past me??” That’s called alienating the clientele and it’d the last bastion of a desperate salesperson.

Don’t misunderstand me though – these guys like to ring the changes a bit on occasion.

Sometimes a cold caller will start their assault by barking:



Sometimes a cold caller will say:



Or they might say something like this instead:


Idiot Sales person: “Hi! My name is BARRY from PENCIL WORLD and I can get you a great deal on (YOU GUESSED IT) … PENCILS! I’ll put you down for 24 dozen –  Now, what address can I invoice them to?!”

Basically, cold callers are the reason hearing my phone ring makes my eye twitch like Captain Darling in Blackadder and I would sincerely love to put them all in a rocket ship and fire them directly into the sun.

The end.

100 twitter followers! You guys rock!

My love of twitter is as infinite as it is sporadic. I will spend countless hours on the Twittersphere at random intervals, retweeting and favouriting as I go – but unfortunately I hadn’t recently had the time. Since I started my fancy schmancy job as an office whipping girl a PA I have been running around like a blue arsed fly on a near constant / hourly basis – and so my Twitter time has been strictly limited to the four hours between getting home and blacking out on the sofa from exhaustion.

So imagine my shock when I saw this:


I had 100 followers! Holy shitballs! 100 FOLLOWERS?! Now, that might not be a lot to some people. People like Katie Perry, who have 53.8 MILLION followers – but given that she’s an international pop icon and I’m a twenty-eight year old London blogger who writes a loo review -100 might as well have been a billion.

The point is – you guys rock.

You rock in many wonderful and fuzzy-feeling-generating ways. So thank you for making my Tuesday afternoon all the more fabulous.


I just checked again and look!

 102! I’m practically famous!

Not to push my luck and cause a mass exit – but don’t forget, you can always tweet me if you have any questions, cute kitten pictures or blogging requests.

Just keep it clean people. There is only so much genitalia I can take before 10:00am.

The Webcam knows too much.

You know when you’re unconsciously doing something that’s a little bit embarrassing – but you look around you and (phew) nobody saw you?

Well, I just realised that I have had this thing staring at me all day while I’m at work.


It’s a camera that I can use to Skype with people in other offices.

You know, because I am a grown-up and I do that kind of stuff now.

My point is – it’s been a witness to everything. The faraway stares, the yawns, the v’s I flick when my computer stops working – everything.

It knows too much. Besides, what if I’m being watched or something? This thought is even more terrifying when I consider the kind of sad bastard that would willingly be on the receiving end of this incredibly fascinating broadcast. Some sort of sweater-vest, mouth-breather type person who sits alone in their flat with a flask of Ovaltine, rubbing their knees and breathing heavily.

The kind of person who hacks into random webcams to watch people eating their lunch or being distinctly uninteresting. Until they go nuts and decide to sever their victims head and wear it as a beret.


 So, I have developed a full proof and highly technical device to stop this from happening.


Fuck you possible Webcam stalker. In the words of Gandalf the Fabulous:




Hiding Mr Maybe’s Cigarettes – Yet another Fail.

Despite my efforts to deter him – Mr Maybe has gone back to merrily puffing away at cigarettes again.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love Mr Maybe whether he smokes or not - but while I’m not the kind of person to guilt trip or nag about it, I’m not saying I will make it easy for him either…

So, I have continued on my quest to hide my boyfriends cigarettes in a plethora of cunning hiding places. The problem is, our flat is the size of a tea-cup. And I suck at hiding things.

I figured that hiding something in plain sight can sometimes be the best method, so following this train of logic – this is where I hid the latest box of death-sticks.



Yes, that’s right. I sellotaped it to the ceiling.

It was, needless to say, a total fail.

Friday Challenge: Spot the unicorn

Well if you hadn’t gathered by now – I woke up this morning brimming over with whimsy.

This is the result.

It’s like ‘Where’s Walley’, only with unicorns instead of a socially awkward man in a striped jumper and beanie hat.



£5 Challenge – a tale of chicken feet and concerning behaviour

So, we were sitting around the flat with Mini Maybe the other day and a little bit bored – so I came up with something for us to do. The £5 challenge. It was lovely Saturday morning and Borough market is only a hop, skip and a couple of streets away from our flat – so I suggested we go there and try to find the weirdest thing that we can find for £5.

It probably wont surprise you that the challenge was accepted and we happily pottered down to the market to see what we could find.

Here is the result.

Mr Maybe got Mini Maybe this:

chicken feet


a bag of chicken feet and a fish coaster.

(As you do)

Mini Maybe got me this:



A ginormous chocolate chip cookie and a honeycomb donut

…and I got Mr Maybe this:


A bag of ham bones to make soup with. Because even in the face of a challenge like this – I was thinking of soup recipes.

Would I recommend this game? You bet your sweet bippy I would. It’s far more fun and inexpensive than psychological profiling for starters. Think your friend / potential lover / step child / mailman might be a borderline sociopath? Take them to Borough Market with a crisp £5 note – and if they bring you something like swan testicles – you have your answer.

I think all things considered Mr Maybe might win this round.

Because any way you look at it – there aint no way to beat a bag of severed chicken feet.

I salute you sir.


I’m in the process of clearing out my wardrobe. I’m talking major exorcism-style stuff here.

There are still clothes lurking in there from my college days that I haven’t had the heart to part with. Like the baby-blue ballgown that I’ve only worn once for example – because (despite what Disney led me to believe) adulthood for me has unfortunately meant a distinct lack of opportunities to attend a ball … Unless I want to buy extortionate tickets for a bizarre charity event in honor of an endangered species of pigmy raddish that is.

Not to mention the “ball” I attended was actually just an 18th birthday disco.

…In a village hall.

The birthday girl put “ballgown” down as a dress code, so I cashed in my savings for a gorgeous gown – only to discover that (to her) “ballgown” actually meant an A-line mid-calf prom dress with sequins and spaghetti straps. There was me in full bustle and corset, looking like Gracie-Lou Big Bonnet from ‘Gone with the wind’ while all the other girls were slithering about like Kate Moss wannabe’s in slinky little dresses from Miss Selfridge.

Oh well, I might have been over-dressed – but I looked FABULOUS.

I have a ridiculously large assortment of unworn scarves and pashminas too. Some were flamboyant 50% off impulse purchases, some were bequeathed to me by the all-powerful matriarchs of the family… and the rest just sort of appeared in my wardrobe like fabric hobgoblins and I never knew where the hell they came from.

I also have:

  • Seven pairs of jeans that all look suspiciously alike (one was even purchased in a tremendously optimistic size eight for me to one day “slim into”)
  • A mountain of strappy tops and blouses (some of which still have the price-tags on)
  • A dusty pile of shoes I never actually wear but like the IDEA of wearing  …
  • This:



  • …And a hidden treasure trove of handbags under my bed. Some are beautiful and others are quite frankly utterly hideous and have bits falling off them, but I’ve still dutifully hauled them to all seven of my different London addresses as I pinged from flatshare to flatshare.

Mr Maybe is being very encouraging of the overhaul. Mostly because he has a very “fung shui”-style capsual wardrobe and doesn’t understand why anyone would have a collection of over forty-five scarves that they never even wear. But then again he lived with a gay fashion designer who was his in-house shopping adviser for a couple of years so he has a somewhat unfair advantage regarding style.

My new mantra? Out with the old, in with the new.


I got so fed up battling through a forest of mirage-style clothing (“Does it fit me??!! Yes, this could fit me!” *two hours later, after repeatedly attempting to negotiate my thighs through a particularly tight pair of skinny jeans – I eventually give up* “Fuck”) I HAD HAD ENOUGH. I put AC/DC on my iPod, shoved my headphones in my ears and within half an hour the bedroom floor was littered with items that were destined for the charity shop and I was in the center bellowing in my best and most scary Odin voice:



I even went through my knicker drawer and threw almost all of it towards the “burn it” / “What was I thinking?!” pile.


When it comes to knickers, you can’t get sentimental – rip that band-aid off and do it quick I say. I’m building up to a big bra shopping expedition though. Mostly because I’m still a little fragile after the intense wardrobe detox I just went through – and I think an old, bearded woman with cold hands cupping my boobs would probably tip me over the edge.

By the time I had finished, I was surrounded by four bin bags worth of charity shop fodder and one bag brimming with things that needed to be hidden from the world (much like the Jumanji board game) for fear of inflicting more tragedy on another poor unsuspecting soul in the same manner.

It was refreshing. I felt like I had had a clothing enema and came out the other side clean as a whistle.

This is what my wardrobe looks like now.

Wardrobe 3

Much better.

My wardrobe now consists of magical words like: ‘crisp white shirts’, ‘jean-shirts’, ‘smart blazers’, ‘summer blouses’, ‘cigarette cut trousers’ and ‘day dresses’.

It’s still a work in progress, but goddamn it, at least progress is being made.

Under Construction

Dear Readers,

The Mottled Macaroon is currently under construction.

For starters – unbeknownst to me but unbeknownst to someone else, it went missing  from the Internet for a whole week even though I had recently renewed my URL / domain subscription. It was like the internet ate my blog. I didn’t even realise I was MIA until a couple of followers contacted me via my twitter feed to complain that my blog disappeared entirely.

Never fear – it hasn’t actually disappeared, promise. It just went a little squiggly for a period of time. But now I’m back and have decided that this little absence is the ideal opportunity to review my posts, update my layout and hopefully at the end of it present THE MOTTLED MACAROON MARK 2 which would be entirely more fabulous than ever before.

Just to prove this point, here is a picture of a dinosaur.

Dino cartoon






Me = 1 / Life = 0

I woke up at the weekend to the majestic wonder that is SATURDAY morning. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping – and I was about to stuff my face with a mug of tea and some of my Mum’s homemade jam on toast.

Well, that was the plan. I blearily staggered into the kitchen and managed to locate the bread and the butter but… Where was the jam?

Mr Maybe: “What are you doing?”

*head shoulders and waist in cupboard*

Me: “looking for the jam… I had one pot left! “

Mr Maybe: “Maybe you don’t”

Me: “But I dooooo!”

*face falls as I admit defeat*

Mr Maybe: “Sorry babe. No jam”


So I looked in the cupboard for the next best thing. And then this happened.



Mr Maybe: “Is that barbecue sauce?”

Me: “Yup.”

Mr Maybe: “You’re having barbecue sauce on toast for breakfast?”

Me: “Yup.”

Mr Maybe: “You wanna talk about it?”

Me: “Nope”