back up blog

I was watching that ITV thing with my Nanna- the one that's on in the day where the main contestant has to pick three people to cook for them and based on the meal picks a winner to date. I don't know what it is called, "You'll Never Get This Half-Hour Back" maybe; I just know that there were some cute-ass boys on there. I don't know what the cute boys were saying, either. THEY WERE CUTE. "Oh! Well hello there Jamie!" I exclaimed as another cutie-patootie came on the screen. It's something I do a lot. I don't have a TV in the House of Pastelle (I find many other ways to pass the time, though, don't you worry) so whenever I pop to see mum and dad it's a bit overwhelming that at the click of a button I can choose from hundreds of channels with any number of interesting views to keep me occupied. The weatherman, the man on the news, the man on the Tesco advert, the man on the car insurance advert, the man on the John Lewis advert, the m

I know I've not written in a while. I realised this as Mama called me and said, "Laura. The top wotsit on your thingy is about Tampax. Can you change it?" Mama. This is me kindly obliging you. A bit like that time you asked me to make sure that the boys wear a condom. Check, and CHECK! So. I'm currently undertaking a project with a girlfriend called Stop November Being A Total Write-Off Month Of Shame. SNBATWOMOS for short. Neither of us are doing very well. Part of the problem was Paris. Ahhhh, Paris! Remember last time ? Oh Internet, how I wish you could have been there with me. Having just spent so much time in Italy, I kept talking Italian at France. Which just doesn't work. The fun that was had! My head seems to have lost every word of French that awful school lessons and fluent boyfriends and summers spent in country abode and has been replaced with hand gestures. Italian hand gestures. I kept walking into metro stations and begging, ' permesso ' ins

Me: Yup, I'll be right with you. I just need to go and pop a tampon in. House of Pastelle: Laura, that's gross. Like, seriously. And that was the story of how we found out where the line is.

I did it. On Sunday night I slathered on the lippy, rolled up my hair in Diet Coke cans, slipped into some black lace and showed my bum to the world (Fine. Derby.) by calling myself Laura Gaga and actually leaving the house like that. And guys, in terms of this being an experiment about slutti-ness? Oh. My. God. Revelationary. (SIDENOTE: The hair? I went outside for a smoke and some BITCH-ASS chick who was sheltering from the rain in the same place as we were inhaled deeply, declared that the place stunk of hairspray and then turned to me and said, "I suppose that's you then?" RUDE. So I smacked her with my huge booty and she's still suspended mid-air over Mars someplace.) I was literally shaking as I got ready in my room. I could hear The House of Pastelle loading up on cheap vodka in the next room (hey! £7 a bottle at the kitchen table or £5 for a mixer at a bar? WE'RE NOT STOOOOPID.) It took me five minutes to do my hair when I gave it a practice run last week