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... Because I'm a shameless media-whore I will insist on sharing with you the eight-minutes of highlights from yesterday's Having a Trauma, my new weekly radio sharing airing online, 11-1 GMT, every Thursday at www.udsu.co.uk/drs Producer Lee gets to grips with his equipment.   SIX computers, and we still ballsed-up. Nope, I hadn't washed my hair thanksforasking. I  KNOW YOU LOVE IT.  Powered by Podbean.com

One of the nicer compliments I have received of late was a simple observation. As I held onto the bannister of the stairs to my apartment complex, trying not to wobble on my fancy heels and watching my long, red lycra-kissed dress cling to the tops of my calves on the way out for jagerbombs cocktails I was told, "You never dress like a slut to go out, do you?" Urm. No. It's actually become sort of a conundrum to be honest. On a night out- or, as is more frequent, on the way home from the theatre or the supermarket or Big Gay Cal's house, passing people with a more vicarious appetite for bump n' grind club nites than I have- I notice how much flesh is on show. But it is something I just can't do. My American friend audibly laughs out loud as we pass them. "Wear a goddamn coat!" she'll say or, "Do British men genuinely find that drunken wobble attractive?" Whether she is talking about their thighs or their inability to stand up right I&#

"We should see more of each other- let's make plans," he said to me. "Make plans? But we're already doing the theatre, cinema, and Halloween together this week alone," I replied. "And there are only five days left." Eager.

What were those things called in Harry Potter? The things one could put thoughts in when they were swirly around the head causing problems? Dumbledore had one.  No. I don't remember either. But I'd sell my used tissues and empty lip-balm pot to find out. Because muddyfunksters, I need to get me one of those. I just got off the phone to my brother, who right now is on a theatre tour of Italy. The dickhead accent with which I delivered the last part of that sentence is implied. Early next year he has a flight booked to Kuala Lumpa, and from there he will most likely move on to South Korea.  "How are things in Derby?" he asked me. "Fuck off," I replied. Then I spent twenty full minutes reading an old Lonely Planet and staring at a picture of my silhouette in front of the Taj Mahal. My arms look fat. And that was delivered in the same dickhead voice I normally just reserve for my brother.  I think being in my final year of study it is sort of natural that- you k

Hey! Remember that one time I made that HUGE FUSS about how I had a new radio show, and that everyone in the world should listen, and I linked to it using every single conceivable social media tool known to man and then WE COULDN'T BROADCAST BECAUSE THE MICS DIDN'T WORK? Yeah. I laughed too. I suppose one tempts the fates by calling said show, Having a Trauma .  I've been meaning to blog about having traumas for a while now, as the saying is slowly taking over my life.  Now that I am in a living situation where I am surrounded by the same people day-in-day-out, eating and sleeping and breathing each other, in The House of Pastelle there is a certain level of morphing going on. By which I mean into each other. Having a Trauma is mama's saying, along with refusing to make words into adverbs i.e. she will never exclaim, 'Really!' she will say 'Real!' and instead of saying "No, honestly, genuinely!" she will say, "No, honest! Genuine!" Ha

She sat at the table of the House of Pastelle , spotty cloth splayed before her like a gift, cold glass of water between her hands, and watched as I cooked. I threw some more vegetable stock into the pan of Arborio rice and spun on my heels to continue wiping around the draining board. She continued to tell me about the boy that just wouldn't leave her alone, and with my free hand I grabbed the broom and began sweeping up around her. She continued to talk. Talk, talk, talk. I got to my hands and knees to use the dustpan and brush, and interrupted her to ask if she wouldn't mind just stirring the rice for me. "God," she said. "It's like a modern day Cinderella story around here huh?" she complained, slowly standing to assist in making her own dinner. She dragged her heels as she made to the stove. I looked up at her, apron all bunched up around my waist, sweat on my brow, one hand with a dustpan and the other scrubbing down the countertop. "Yeah,&quo

I'm being told from several different directions right now that there is more to me than my vagina . OH! Thats' not what the fella last night said! And so. What with sort of wanting to be a proper grown-up writer and all- you know... One that lives in one place for more than eight months at a time and lets people actually stay the night rather than just the thirty-eight minutes it takes to have everybody get what they need. The sort of writer that might make money from their craft one day or at least not be looked at like Wagner from the X-Factor when they have finished reading aloud their piece (IT HAPPENED). The sort of girl who in general might actually begin to contemplate using the word career and who isn't mean to people with babies. Yeah. What with all that. I thought I'd share a grown-up piece. Alternative title: Suicide Note. But then I realised that probably isn't funny. SEE. I am growing up.

"So, we're booked in for the 12th, the 14th, Sunday the 17th, the 20th, the 21st and then Saturday the 30th. That's October at the theatre covered then!" I told my friend. "That's a lot, isn't it?" he replied, wearily. I looked at him. "Well yes, but we're under 26 so the tickets are free, and we're getting cultured and that, aren't we? OH! I forgot! Do you want to come to Pilates with me this week?" He met my eye in return. "I'll have to check my diary," he told me. "I think I might be at the theatre." Ouch.

I realise, Internet, that I have yet to update you on something I told you about quite a while ago . The Running. DUM-DUM-DUUUUUUUUUM. For twenty-four years accelerating to anything above a I'm-going-to-miss-the-bus-oh-well-there-will-be-another-one-soon brisk walk was not only unlikely, but downright unthinkable. Accidentally getting the wrong hole when you're not prepared for it unthinkable. The world without chips-and-cheese unthinkable. Getting the question on that horribly hard exam that you actually revised for UN.THINK.ABLE. Well. I don't mean to blow your (presumably very well read, intelligent, Guardian-reading but slightly smutty) mind but I DONE GONE AND LEARNT HOW TO MAKE IT TO FOUR MILES. Now where is the cherry lube? And I know the worst thing one person could possibly ever say to another person is coming in the next sentence. ("So basically, I think you might have herpes," "The ticket? I urm... Well I gave it to Jimmy at the office to go check.

Calum : Oh look, Laura! Primark do wide-fit shoes now. Me : Yeah, but that isn't my problem. It isn't my feet that are wide, it's my legs. Jess : You see, my problem is the opposite. I can't wear ankle boots because my calves are too skinny. They fall off me. Me : Fuck off.

Right now mum and dad live about 30 minutes from me, if you are in a car. By bus it's fifteen minutes into the town centre on foot (i.e. WALKING!) and then an hour and ten minutes pressed up against condensation-covered mucky glass windows trying not to inhale the five-year-old with ringworm next to you's coughing breath. I've yet to take that bus ride this year. Dad has to pretty much drive past my house to get home from work, and most definitely can wave at the building where I spend most of my days from his car. But we're busy people, you know? I have got cider to drink and boys to molest, and he likes to get home before dark to do the Mail crossword and clip his toenails in front of East Midland's Today . But yesterday, because I knew I would literally be walking on the road as he passed, and it would have been rude not to, I asked him if he wanted to pull over for a pint. Just dad and daughter. And beer. He had to check with the boss first of course. He is all

I spent this weekend with all of my most talented friends . One has her voice going out on radio adverts across most of the Yorkshires. With another I passed thirty very pleasant minutes in nationally located stationary shops (as in the shops are everywhere, not me. I didn't do some sort of city-to-city pen-crawl like they were pubs but with ink cartridges instead of cider) looking at folders and pencil cases and notebooks that she had PERSONALLY designed. On Friday evening, when two of my most media-savvy friends interviewed half of the pop charts (DID I JUST SAY POP-CHARTS?) I propped up the smoking area in the highest shoes I have ever stood up in- walking wasn't much of an option- with a Marlboro in one hand and a Jagerbomb in the other. (Whilst they schmoozed I got red lipstick all over my teeth and had a bit of a dance. I took my shoes off to do it. It was one of those silent-disco things where everyone wears headphones to listen to the music of their choice but still dan

"So I think you and I need some googling naked celebs time alone together. Just saying." Of course I text that to the wrong person. Of course I did.

I ran up the stairs to our third-floor flat, cursing that I could be so stupid as to go out in a student town without ID. I'm nicknamed Grandma, what with being a bit older than your average student, so if I want the student prices I can't rely on anything other than official documentation to prove my youth. I'll let you know when I work out how I feel about that. "We'll wait here," my friends chorused, and I couldn't shout back because it took all the concentration I had not to fall over in my Ridiculous Jigsaw Heels. I jogged up the stairs, getting friction burn on my hand from the tight grip I was forced to maintain on the bannister and becoming aware of a feeling in the base of my stomach. "Golly gosh," I thought to myself, "I peed twice before we left. I can't possibly need the loo again." I turned the key in the lock, grabbed my cards from the dresser and pushed my way into the loo to dribble into the toilet for the third tim

Photo: Hannah Millard Photography I've been feeling all a bit funny these past few days. I think it might be because I've been in the House of Pastelle for nearly two whole weeks. Two weeks is about the length of time I have spent in any one place for the past four months. I can't help but feel that despite the Victorian-style windowsill decor and the spotty tablecloth; the star-shaped hotwater-bottle and the "LAURA! SORT OUT YOUR LIFE!" to-do list on the side of the wardrobe; the "Lie back and think of England" posters and the bulging dirty laundry basket that all declare this little boxed room as my own, that there will be a knock on the door any moment now and an Italian-accented voice will ask me, " You-are-ready-for-to-go-train? " It feels like a trick to see people I know and people who know me every single day, and sometimes when I am still wearing my (inside-out) pajamas. I went twenty-four hours without seeing Calum and when he came ov