I know an end-of-year post is cliche, OK?
On unavoidable reflection, 2011 seems to me to have been somewhat thematic. I got propositioned as a prostitute , won an award for my vagina , graduated with a first-class honours for writing about my vagina , wrote on the Internet about my vagina , moved my vagina to Rome , stopped blogging about my vagina , started blogging about my vagina again , wrote a book about my vagina and then took my vagina out on a particularly shit date . To me this raises an very pertinent issue: should I have my fish grilled or oven-baked for supper? Whilst reviewing the photographic evidence of the year, what struck me was the three very definite stages 2011 had for me. The first four months clearly highlight being obscenely drunk with Calum , and then working incredibly hard for many, many hours with his alter-ego to truly give weight to the mantra work-hard, play-hard. He got me so drunk that I threw up glitter after we met an American man who worked for Alexander McQueen and inexplicably could only