It’s okay to not be okay

“I’m fine” – this is something I say a lot. It’s a reflex. The “bless you” to your “achoo.”

However, sometimes I am not fine. In fact, I’m the opposite of fine.

One of the reasons for this knee-jerk reaction is that the people who ask “You okay?” or “Hey, How’re you?” don’t actually want to know. They say it quickly and in a rush hoping you’ll respond with something short and cheery without making much eye contact.

Society has become so voyeuristic and pumped with Schadenfreude that you have to be very careful who you bear your soul to, because most people don’t really give a shit and it’s hard to tell the woods from the trees. So as far as the general masses / social media are concerned – your job is great, your life is great, you’re feeling great and you’re fine.


I have two good friends who know me well enough to call bullshit on my “everythings fine” façade. And I can’t tell you what a relief it was when one first turned to me and said “You know… you say that a lot. ARE you fine?” Because when I stopped and really thought about it, I wasn’t. At all. But I didn’t know that NOT being “fine” was even an option.

I mean, I was pretty sure THEY didn’t want to know that I was chewing my pillow at night because I was so stressed from work – so best deny the whole thing, pretend it isn’t happening and say “I’M FINE!” with the conviction of Mary Poppins on Valium.

No thank you, no emotions for me, I’m British.

Let’s strap on that stiff upper lip and have a cup of tea instead.


As a kid you’re sold the Disney-esque lie that when you grow up everything will be great and if you work hard and are a good, honest person you will be rewarded. This isn’t always true. In the world of cops and robbers, sometimes the robbers get away with it. And more often than not it was an inside job to start with. It isn’t fair, it isn’t right… However it’s still reality. This where the disillusionment and depression starts to set in.

But the truth is IT’S OKAY to feel like shit sometimes. It’s OKAY to think “FUCK, I’M NOT OKAY RIGHT NOW!”

After all, you’re only human and this isn’t Pleasantville.

This is life, and sometimes it plays dirty.

Which is why I am now conciously working on making myself happy.

… The point is, we’re all in this together.

John Steinbeck once said “I wonder how many people I have looked at my entire life and never seen” – and this is both relatable and scary to me. I might be living the “I’m fine” lie now and again, but I’d hate to think that someone I care about could be doing it too on a more permanent basis.

So, the next time someone asks me if I’m okay – I’m going to respond with a “No, but I will be.” And when I ask that in turn, I’ll look them in the eye and say “Are you sure?”



The other day I ordered three leeks (among other assorted goods) from an online supermarket. I know it is terrible to use one of the great four soulless corporate behemoths rather than frequent our local greengrocer and put back into the local economy – but needs must.

Clearly the universes way of punishing me for selling out in this casual manner was deliver the following to my door:

imageTechnically, yes, there are THREE leeks.

But I’m pretty sure this only counts as two and a half.The little one is an underage leek. It shouldn’t be there. It should have been propped up against a height monitor like they do at the funfair.

Unless you are THIS tall, you don’t get to go in the shopping bag.

I almost feel guilty slicing it up for dinner.

Well, almost.

Lesson leaned.


Drunk pacman

Mr Maybe and I were coming back from the pub one wobbly and entertaining evening when Mr Maybe suddenly pointed at the ground and started giggling.

“Look!” he said “A drunk pacman!”

imageAnd there it was.

A splodge of yellow road paint that looked like pacman if he ever developed a meth habit and Miss pacman and baby pacman subsequently decided to pack their pacman bags and leave.

Or maybe after a heavy night in soho.

Which was obviously immensely funny and resulted in us giggling all the way home, arm in arm like the Bisto kids.

Which, I think, is the sign of a very healthy relationship.



The unexpected Joys of being unemployed.

Now. I know what you’re thinking. “HOW could being unemployed be a good thing?!”

To be honest, it’s not. But between boughts of financial hyperventilation I’m trying to remain philosophical about this.

You see, I started a bit of temping in November at a famously sociopathic investment bank as an executive assistant. I had never temped before, so this was a whole new experience for me.

I was assigned to a small team with a pre-existing EA who had just been made perm. Not thinking much of this, I just got on with my job – only to be called in by my agency two and a half months later as my contract had been unexpectedly terminated. The other EA had requested more work to do, asked to be given my additional tasks and as they were tightening the old belt with regards to the number of temps they had at the bank – it was a case of last one in, first one out.

So. I was out of a job.

Well. If that wasn’t a kick to the old short and curlies I don’t know what is.

At first I went through the usual stuff you go through when you’ve been given some bad news. Anger, sadness, denial – all of that.

This was intensified by 1,000 when I received the following gloating text from the EA who had (in essence) taken my job.

“Hi Blair. Sorry to hear about how everything has worked out. Hope you manage to find something else soon…”


Which is the exact moment I went from sad to pissed off.

As far as I could see, I had two choices. One, have a full-on meltdown and retreat to my bedroom like Greta Garbo mumbling “I vant to be alone” – OR I could make the best of a shitty situation.

By the time I left my agency I had already sent out an availability notification to the other agencies I was also registered with and by the end of the following afternoon I had four interviews lined up and five other opportunities to consider. I was the poster child for proactivity.

And in the meantime I had some time to kill. What to do? Well, I’ll tell you. I got into my pyjamas, put Iggy Pop’s ‘The Passenger’ on the stereo and started to write.

The indulgence of the thing thrilled me. I was wearing my PJ’s in the middle of the day, I had peanut butter smeared around my face, my hair was a hot mess, the flat was a tip – and I couldn’t have been happier.

Sure, the mess was killing me on the inside but there comes a point you have to put your foot down and say “fuck it.” And right at that moment the need for peanut butter and blogging far overshadowed my need to snap on the marigolds and whip the flat into shape Mary Poppins style.

Perhaps this was a tiny personal breakthrough I was experiencing? Maybe this was the wakeup call I needed? Because (concern and angst for my present situation aside), spending an afternoon writing was just so… nice.

It harkened back to a time when life was far less complicated. Simplified even. I had some spare time and I was doing things I wanted to do with it.

I watched a couple of documentaries. I finally finished the mood board I had been meaning to get done for my book for the past year. I managed to even bang out a couple of chapters I was damned proud of.

Yes I’m panic-nautious about being unemployed, but ironically the new jobs that are being presented to me are a million times more interesting and better paid than anything I have gone for in the past. Two are for brilliant salaries and three may be fixed term contracts but they also have 15% completion bonuses.

So I guess getting shit-canned could potentially be one of the best things that has ever happened to me.


My Happiness Project

So. A New Year has come knocking at our door once more it seems!

As you may or may not have noticed I have been absent for a little while. This is because I got unexpectedly swept up in an avalanche of unexpected events. Firstly Mr Maybe and I were in Paris during the November attacks and after we returned home (safe and sound) I started a new job the next day at a fancy new firm as a fancy executive PA. Then there was Christmas, which was a blur of mince pies and disturbing tree-toppers (don’t ask). It has basically been really, ridiculously busy.

Since the Paris attacks I have been in a contemplative mood. On the brink of turning 30, I was already pondering things you generally tend to ponder at this point in life. Like the very real need to purchase both a pot of anti-wrinkle cream and a last will and testament. But after Paris I found myself sitting down with a notepad over the Christmas break to mull over what I really wanted out of life.

The answer was simple.

I wanted to be happy.

Now, I’m a cheerful person and I genuinely love my life. But there was no denying I had seriously let the adulthood monster gobble up a lot of things that made me happy.

As you grow older you become bridled with an ugly amount of boring obligations that chip away at you until one day you realise you’ve become an older, fatter, grumpier and altogether far more boring version of yourself.

But who can blame us for this butterfly-into-caterpillar metamorphosis?

As an adult you’re slowly and quite insidiously moulded into a responsiblity zombie. You have to get a job, pay tax, pay rent, pay national insurance, pay bills and weekends are depressingly spent on all the tasks you couldn’t squeeze into your work week. Like cleaning, taking the bins out, changing the duvet cover in a bizarre end-of-week ritual – and (most depressingly of all)… dusting.


I used to revel in the luxury of scrap booking, writing, drawing, exploring, blogging, playing the clarinet, spending hours on the phone with an old friend and hanging out with people I actually LIKED. I would get into bed with a good book and a pot of tea and stay there until I had finished. I would go out on my bike and have fun! Remember having fun? Making a fort out of sofa cushions for the sheer fun of it? If you’re like me it’s probably been a while.

I started to feel grumpy and resentful. Was this what being an adult was really all about? And – now I had turned 30 had I just hit the skid-patch on my way to incontinence pants, bingo halls and water aerobics?

Oh please, not water aerobics.

I wanted to get up without sighing and pretending my alarm was just a bad dream. I wanted to feel enthusiasm for something other than coming home to Mr Maybe at the end of a long day. I needed to banish the apathy and take the bull by the horns.

With this determination to reclaim my former fun and carefree self in mind I recently downloaded the “Happiness Project” audio book by Gretchen Ruben via my Audible app – and after reading it from cover to cover decided I would definitely give my own happiness project a go.

So, what did happiness mean to me – really?

When you cut down to brass tax, for me it came down to just a handful of things:

·         Being close to my family and loved ones

·         Doing what I love

·         Security

·         Being healthy

·         Travelling and exploring

·         Feeling free

·         Appreciating the here and now

And so, this is what my aim will be. To get back to basics and make myself genuinely happy.


Game on.


Loo Review – The Grain Store

I was at The Grain Store the other day for a light bite and a catch up with the girls. For those of you who haven’t yet gone to The Grain Store it’s a new and very cute (almost Shoreditchy) brunch location very near to Kings Cross and St Pancs stations. It’s serviced by alarmingly perky hostesses and hipsters behind the bar. A bar that is refreshingly well stocked. In almost apocalyptic proportions one could say, but as one partial to a well made cocktail – no complaints here.

A pot of tea and two french martinis later, it was time to visit the little bloggers room.

I have to say I was pretty impressed.dsc_3603.jpg Firstly, there was the sign on the loo for the ladies…
dsc_3602.jpgCreepy. Yes. But to the point.

Then there was the brilliant neon pink sign on the wall. Spot on, give or take a letter…dsc_3600.jpgThe sink area was pretty amazing too.

dsc_3601.jpgThe cubical was very cozy. Part cabin, part loo. White washed wooden partitions and tiled walls – with an abundance of loo roll, a weird night light and a particularly dapper loo chain. dsc_3599.jpgI was quite taken with the handle on the loo seat itself too.dsc_3596.jpgAnd to add to the coziness – the loo roll was folded into very neat little V’s


All in all – a very positive experience! The hand dryer could blow the backside off a rhino and the entire bathroom smelt very clean and well kept. Which is probably thanks to the fancy squirty hand soap and the on-the-ball staff member.

This is definitely a ladies toilet that the Grain Store can be proud of.

Thumbs up I say!


Emotional colonic

I’ve decided to cut loose some serious dead weight.

And no, I don’t mean I’m penciling in some lunchtime liposuction.

The other week I was luxuriating in the bath (and enjoying the last French martini I could before they became an illegal new year substance) using this time to send around “Happy New Year” texts and get into the “back-to-school vibe” the world currently had going on – when I was inundated with a wave of half hearted and depressingly generic responses from people I haven’t heard from for months.

Then it hit me– there are a chunk of people in my life that I considered friends who are never the first to make contact, never the first to suggest that we meet up and who never ever simply ask me how I’m doing.

I have an infestation of Faux Friends.

Some are people I have known for years and others are hangers-on who can vaguely be remembered two jobs, three relationships and four personalities ago. People who should quite frankly be filed away somewhere in the fire pits of my consciousness under the friendship subsection of “DNR.” They lurk on social media, quietly keeping tabs on me but confusingly recoil from any form of non-virtual friendship.

So, I had a manic detox and expunged these pretenders from my life.

Yes, that’s right don’t let the door hit you on the way out!

You are the weakest link – goodbye!

Admittedly, hell hath no fury and by the time I was done there weren’t many people left.
But that was fine by me. The only survivors were people I wished well, wanted to remain in contact with and who had proven that they gave a turtleshit about me.

I just can’t be doing with the dead weight. I have run out of “nice.” My well has run dry and these days I tend to assess a person or situation by taking a step back, having a sip of wine, taking a deep breath and deciding whether or not to say “fuck that.”


If only deleting people in real life was as satisfying, painless and efficient as on social media. Hitting a “delete” button and never having to interact with someone I don’t like ever again would be a dream come true. Orgasmic even. But for now, lets stick to social media. This overdue culling session was much like an emotional colonic – and I highly recommend it.

It also fits nicely under the “feeling free” section of my happiness project. Because I am now free of the drama and toxic gaze of people who are no good for me. Happily, this also leaves me more open to making new and actually valuable friendships rather than maintaining pointless old ones I have outgrown.

And simply knowing that really does make me feel happier.


Flu, hot toddies and the joys of spending an entire weekend in your pyjamas

I’m currently riddled with the flu, high on lemsip tablets and dribbling from the corner of my mouth.
Admittedly this is not as bad as discovering you have herpes or that house on fire or finding your boyfriend dressed in your clothes (only, he looks better than you) – but this still sucks big hairy balls. Especially considering I’m starting a new job very soon. And by ‘soon’ I mean Tuesday.

However, as inconvenient as being ill is, it IS a good excuse to spend the entire weekend in your pyjamas while drinking a potent cocktail of milk, honey and whiskey.

This is the medicine suggested by Daddyo. He used to give me a glass of hot toddy when I was little and had my yearly case of the flu at Christmas. His logic was that I would be anethetising myself from the inside out, but in reality it was desgusting at the age of seven. A sweet and sour flaming glass of “hell no” but I have to tell you, on the cusp of 30? I’ve had four mugs of this stuff and I feel FIIIIIINE.

In my family if it can’t be fixed with savlon, duct tape or chicken soup then it’s time to get out a bottle if whiskey.

And I’m okay with that.

And very releived I have never broken anything.

As fortune should have it I felt the full wrath of my flu bug while I was visiting my parents. Visiting people while loopy on over-the-counter medication is not something I generally encourage. In fact I loath houseguests who intentionally visit with the sniffles. Especially the ones who freely cough or sneeze everywhere without so much as putting their hand over their mouth so everyone else gets sick too.

It’s gross, inconsiderate and makes me afraid of my own home – which has now become an assault course of germs and micro organisms I am forced to commando roll through for the duration of their stay.

However, my parents insisted I visit (germs and all). They love swaddling me up and pouring both alcohol and soup down my throat in alternate intervals. And it’s nice to revert to a simpler time in my life. A time where I could grab a wagon wheel and sit in front of the TV to watch shows like ‘saved by the bell,’ ‘Buffy’ and ‘MASH’ with a freshly scrubbed face and some pyjamas all toasty warm from the airing cupboard without being panic-nautious about something in the back of my mind.

Don’t grow up kids – it’s a trap.

Right now, with your tinfoil helmet on and possibly a lego up your nose – life is as good as it’s ever going to get.

You know what I did this morning? Nothing. I woke up with my throat drier than a cactus’s scrotum and a swollen neck – so I poured a mug of freshly percolated coffee got back into bed and alternated between playing the ukulele and singing the ‘A Team’ theme tune to myself in a weird high-pitched voice.

It was bliss.

In fact, goddamn it, I should get the flu more often.



Beware of Crimson Peak… (No, seriously) *spoilers ahead

Mr Maybe surprised me with tickets for the opening night of Crimson Peak for our recent date-night. I had been irritating him for weeks by obsessively pouring over the trailers, so this was a very welcome surprise. Considering I had grown up on a steady diet of books such as The Woman in White, Gormenghast, Jane Eyre, Dracula and Rebecca (which I consumed like tic-tacs) I could tell that the upcoming Guillermo del Toro masterpiece Crimson Peak was going to be my sort of film.

I gave him a huge kiss and the “How did you know??!” face.


On the 16th, we arrived at the electric cinema in honour of this prestigious event. If you aren’t familiar with he Electric, it’s a really fancy Cinema in Shoreditch favoured by hipsters and has individual armchairs, cashmere blankets and cocktails themed on the films currently showing (you should go!) I was buzzing with excitement. To add to the thrill of the moment, the blogasphere was rampant with the promise of a raunchy sex scene with Tom Hiddleston’s actual bottom on full and glorious HD display.

Pass the popcorn please.


The film started. It was a swirl of breathtaking sets and costumes.

But the plotline?

I have to take a moment to pause here.

Because… I am genuinely miffed. What the hell happened? I was promised a beautiful visual souffle – but it simply failed to rise to the occasion. The ingredients were there, but the souffle itself didn’t quite make it. Parts of the plot felt rushed, parts dragged and others are best never mentioned ever again. It felt like Guillermo del Toro was following the standard Gothic Horror rulebook to the letter. As if they were ticking boxes rather than making Crimson Peak a standalone motion picture and not even Tom Hiddleston’s bottom could save it.

Maybe it’s because I have read and seen so much Gothic Horror in my time, but I felt there was a horrible sence of deja vu throughout. crimson1

Crimson Peak had an “it’s behind you!” plot that left the audience desperately waiting for the main protagonist to catch up to what they had known since the beginning of the film. The storyline was reminiscent of four or five other pieces of Gothic Horror such as ‘The Woman in White,’ ‘Flowers in the attic’ and ‘Jane Eyre’ and this left me a bit irritated at the lack of originality. Basically what you think is going to happen is inevitably going to happen. For me, the worst part was that the backbone for the Sharps sordid motivations are only briefly touched on during the end of the film and dealt with in a very blasé fashion.

Here are my top WTF Crimson Peak??! moments:

  1. Firstly, the British are the bad guys and the Americans the hero’s – Cliche much? I would really love to see a film like this where the brits aren’t villains twirling their moustaches
  2. The ghosts. Personally I believe the film would have worked so much better without them. This is probably an unpopular opinion, but there it is
  3. You know what? If your dead Mum comes to you from beyond the grave with a message to “beware of crimson peak” – I think most people would do a little research into what the hell Crimson peak could possibly be. Especially if they have the money to pay an army of private detectives
  4. Where was the raunchy sex scene I was promised? All I saw was a brief flash of Tom Hiddleston’s bum (always appreciated) but this is hardly something to cause such a media frenzy. I was expecting Game Of Thrones style gymnastic sex and I got a few seconds of bare bottom
  5. Speaking of Game Of Thrones, can we please dial it down on the incest please? Jeez Hollywood. Can anyone say “unresolved childhood issues?”
  6. If you were Edith wouldn’t you cotton on that something is wrong considering – A) your new husband won’t dare to touch you unless he is away from his oppressive sister, B) you conveniently seem to be passing out every night after being given a cup of tea, C) you travelled during your honey moon in separate sleeping compartments to your husband – and (most importantly) D) your sister-in-law loses her shit and throws boiled potatoes around when you hint that you might have had (shock horror) SEX with your husband during a snow storm
  7. Why would Lucille keep the axe she murdered her mother with? Rookie serial killer mistake!
  8. Why would the Sharp siblings also keep vocal recordings of a previous victim documenting the fact that she had been murdered and how and by whom?
  9. Why wouldn’t the Sharps burn all their victims belongings to hide evidence of… oh I don’t know… LURING AND MURDERING HEIRESSES IN A CREEPY HOUSE
  10. Why the fuckedy fuck would Lucille then go around the house with a whacking great big keychain around her waist with the key to these incriminating recordings on it? Wouldn’t you at least hide the key?
  11. If the Sharp siblings murdered a bunch of heiresses surely they would have had enough money by now to: fix the house, mend and finance the machine and start a new life somewhere else if they wanted to. What happened to all the previous money they tricked their victims out of?
  12. What was that about Lucille having her brothers baby? I was so brief and blase a mention towards the end of the film I almost missed it
  13. Shouldn’t they have mentioned a baby / hinted at one being in the house before the end of the film to build up some tension and mystery?
  14. Why the hell was Enola looking after Lucille’s incestuous baby? Wouldn’t she have wondered where it came from and who’s it was? Did they tell her the baby was their ward? How did they get away with a random (apparently deformed) baby rattling around the house exactly?
  15. Lucille snapped: “she said she could make it better” when she was talking about Enola. Why would an heiress know how to make a baby better? Was she a skilled physician? Was this Enola’s way of trying to buy time? Had she cottoned on by then that they planned to kill her and the vague hope of saving Lucille’s baby was the only way to keep the Sharp siblings from murdering her?
  16. Who killed the baby? Or did it die of its own accord?
  17. Why does it take Edith so long to put two and two together and realise that – “Hmm, I seem to suddenly be coughing up blood and feeling ill… But the only thing that has changed in my diet is a large volume of nasty bitter tea poured down my throat by my equally nasty sister-in-law. Could that be what’s slowly killing me?”
  18. How had the dog survived in the “wilds” of Cumberland between victims if nobody was feeding or sheltering it? And how did it maintain it’s perfectly groomed appearance?

There are so many questions and moments perfectly epitomised by this meme:


I can’t even tell you.

After the credits had rolled I was disappointed and Mr Maybe admitted that he wanted to leave halfway through. I was shocked when a lady sat beside me cried at the end because she was so “touched” by the conclusion of the film.




Okay, I cried at the bit where Edith was talking about her Dad turning fourty next week when he was laid out on a table in the morgue. BUT THAT’S THE ONLY TOUCHING BIT.

I think this film would be good training wheels for the Gothic Horror / Romance virgin, but for old hats in this genre I would say it’s he wrong kind of scary.

Beware of Crimson Peak?

Too right mate.

Too bloody right.

love me

FFAQ – questions nobody actually asked me

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

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

So, let’s get this party started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Q4. Sping, Summer, Autumn or Winter?

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

Q5. Best Macaroon?

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

And when I say disappointed I of course mean violent.

Q6. Worst date?

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

I ended up dating him for three years.

Sadly, this is a true story.

*hangs head*

Q7. Worst interview?

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

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

Q8. What do you like to do to relax?

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

But not all at the same time.

Q9. What was the last thing you purchased?

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

Q10. Do you have any pets?

Ans: Yes, Mr Maybe.

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

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

Q12. What was your worst vacation experience?

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

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

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

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

Q14. Do you speak any other languages?

Ans: I’m fluent in sarcasm

Q15. Do you sing in the shower?

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

Q16. Do you drink coffee or tea?

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

Q17. Do you play video games?

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

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

Ans: “Fuck ’em.”

“You can’t polish a turd”

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

Q19. What is your favorite food?

Ans: Sushi, and my parents cooking.

Q20. What is your favorite ice cream flavor?

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

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

Ans: Yes. Halal, which is bullshit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Q26. What is your favorite Podcast?

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

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

Q27. What are your favorite websites / blogs?

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

Because, well… obviously.

Q28. Pet Peeves?

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

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

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

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


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

I’m bet you glad you asked me.


Food Envy – one woman’s fight against lunchbox mediocrity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

But I have standards.

blood ink

The exquisite and sadistic pain of writing a book

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


It’s exhausting.

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

Two chapters become three chapters become four chapters.


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

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

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

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


wattpadd devlin succession

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

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

I mean, no pressure or anything.

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

It’s a good sign, right?…


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


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

There is panic on the streets of England today.

Panic for a certain kind of people.

Teenage people.

This is because today they are getting their GCSE results.

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

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


while Fanfare for the Common Man blares in the background.

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


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

Dear Young and Impressionable Blair,

Welcome to hell.

I say this with love.

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

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

But they either cost a lot or make you fat.


Your future self.


– Well, at least I tried.

moving day!

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

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

Mr Maybe and I have moved house… Again.

moving day!

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

… For at least a few years anyway.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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



Oh dear…

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

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

Here is a montage of the day:


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


Filling the van with anything that would fit inside…

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

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

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




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


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

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

And I’m definately not dead yet…

So hakuna your tattas people.


Allow me to introduce you to my spirit animal.

A few of the girls in the office were talking about “spiritual things” over their non-fat, non-carb chai tea the other day. They were trying to “out-spiritual” each other in their LK Bennet twin sets and blinding diamond engagement rings, chatting about their spirit animals, gap years in yogi temples; being rebirthed using whale song, burlap sacks and wooden spoons – and star signs.

My star sign is Scorpio.

You’d never guess it, because I’m so reserved and shy. But apparently I’m the one with the sting in its tail.

I have to say I’m not one for spirit animals though.

Each to their own, but I can’t picture myself as a spirit animal. Some of Mr Maybe’s favourite books are the Amber Spyglass series – where all the humans have a daemon (like a familiar). I tried to picture what mine would be. But I couldn’t.

Until I saw this cat.



I’m pretty sure I’m onto a winner.