back up blog

Two things happened to me today. Firstly, a nine year old Italian girl handed me a Kleenex after we had hiked a hill, up to where I would be teaching her that day. She (essentially) said, in Italian, “You’re a hot mess. Wipe your dirty, sweating forehead you disgustingly unfit English woman.” Being reprimanded by a kid who doesn’t even have grown-up teeth yet is pretty hard going before 10 am. And I’m quite sure she snapped her fingers at me after she had said it. Like, bitch please. Secondly, Mama text. “Stop using the word vagina on internet. Potty mouth.” So this next sentence is for you, Jane. VAGINA. And thus Italian life has begun. I’m not in Rome yet- that’s all happening in September. For now I’m back in northern Italy, both losing my own dignity by shaking my arse at a bunch of pre-pubescent attitude-fuelled primadonnas (and that is just the boys) at English camps in various locations, and teaching others how to lose their dignity by shaking their arse at a bunch of pre-pubes...

This year has been characterised so far mainly by an impending sense of doom about Beginning the Rest of My Life After My Degree. Oh! I’m sorry. Didn’t you want another graduation story? Tough shit. I won an award from my university as I finished, for my contributions to the student magazine. As these contributions have mainly centred on my vagina, and thus I have been awarded for writing about my vagina, of course by extension I think this qualifies me to write on my CV, “Award-Winning Vagina.” And yet despite this, I have still had some angst about What Comes Next. Perhaps it is because I fear that now the old va-jay-jay has been an accolade there is nothing left to achieve. Because let’s face it, what else is there? During these past four months, my standard response to any question not directly pertaining to designing a 2,000 word process analysis on my third-year journey as a student of the craft of writing; what time the library opens; or whether or not I fancy a friendly poke; ...

Darby and Joan are the quintessential middle-aged British couple, characterised by knitwear, hours of scrabble, and a penchant for staying in on Saturday nights. Darby and Joan are, in fact, Calum and me. Once a month I'll be posting an open letter to Darby   Cal to keep him up to date on a life that now we've graduated, won't involve flashing him my boobs every day. At least not in person, anyway. Sometimes, he might do the same here . I miss him already. Dear Darby Well. That’s it now. It’s all changing. It’s all changing and GODDAMIT we might just have to go on ahead and lead separate lives now. I believe it was you who coined the term sad koala face. This is totally a sad koala face moment. It might be what sad koala face was coined for, in fact. This is the sad koala face PINNACLE. In the space of a single week we’ve finished university, won awards, been sick to high hell, performed our work in public, had our birthdays, and gotten engaged. AND OHMYGOD I CAN’T BEL...

This story is a warning, which you can file in these stressful end-of-year-coursework-deadline-times as LEST YE NOT BE AS STUPID. I know, the parental guidance note for my entire life, right? It seemed like a good idea to try one of those little energy drinks- the ones that come in shot form. Why waste time drinking half a litre of Relentless when the bang for my buck was right there in miniature form, you know? (OH! Rude! Normally I prefer king-sized.) (PENIS.) I know the little buggars are lethal. A bit like the Thai Buckets that have the Red Bull so strong that it’s illegal in most of the developed world i.e. not sensible but quite a lot of fun. But then, this is the girl that once drank three Red Bulls in a row because somebody once said it was like dropping Acid but legal. Three Red Bulls? I tried to snog a tree and then threw up. Not even Charlie Sheen would call that winning. But half an hour after my energy shot and nope. Nada. Nothin’. No buzz, no wings, no super-essay-writin...