back up blog

Last week was a difficult one in general, because I was all off-kilter after missing my Monday by being in Milan. Being a day behind meant that the rest of the week felt funny; playing catch-up for All Of The Times gave me a major case of the sads, because 'Being Tired and a Bit Grumpy' wasn't on my list for any of the days and yet featured in them all. See also: oh, boo-fucking-hoo that my weekend to the fashion capital of the world upset my self-made schedule for 5 days. OH THE TRAUMA. Anyway, my landlady was away last week too, and so as it was my turn to host the weekly Girls Night I have inadvertently become part of- sorority life having never been my thing- I played hostess for a dinner at home after work, even though my wet dream for the week boiled down to one thing and one thing only: sleep. And a meal salad. I'm really into meal salads right now. But I prefer it when somebody else makes it for me. It was just supposed to be a casual girly supper for three, act

Internet, you know how on Monday I was all, I went to visit my friend in Milan and, she taught me all sorts of awesome things and, when I told her she was teaching me all sorts of awesome things she was like, “D'uh. That's what friends do.” Remember how then I was a bit like, OH. HI NEW RULES FOR FRIENDSHIPS. Well, as is increasingly common in my oddball and obsessive existence, this has birthed many an important thought which is now officially snowballing and snowballing fast. The lists are breeding lists and contracts with myself are being adhered to and an inability to say words without flailing my hands around for dramatic emphasis is prominent. I emailed Calum. Look. I'm your favourite person and you're my favourite person and we live apart and maybe right now things are happening that mean all of our grad school plans might change. And we're acting like that is the end of the world. But what if for serious this is the universe offering us an amazing opportuni

First thing's first. I'm thankful to be alive this morning. I'm writing this earlier than normal, because I left the house earlier than normal, because there's a rule that I have to get up earlier than normal after last week I signed a contract with myself promising that I would be more productive. In the moment this seemed perfectly reasonable, but on typing that out loud I recognise that perhaps I could've kept it in my Obsessive Behaviour That Isolates Normal People box. Related note to self: crying at work because your fancy pen ran out and you just don't feel like your notes are pretty enough without it could also, on further reflection, have gone in the box. I'm surprised I didn't die on the way to the cafe because the traffic this morning was immense bumper-bumper smogdom, which I normally get to avoid because I leave the house when most people have been at work for two hours. More cars = increased likelihood of death-by-vespa. And to think that

'You're a mental,' the Romanian receptionist at work told me. 'I'm A mental?' I replied. 'Yes. You're a mental.' She had a fair point. Mental as a noun. I was stood outside of the building wearing over-sized sunglasses and a bright yellow headscarf printed with horses, rolled and bowed so that it tied just off-centre at the top of my head. It was a style not dissimilar to a Botswanan lady detective. I'd told her my decision to wear such attire- coupled with a long-sleeved, floor-length black dress that arguably looked like it was stolen from a Deacon or similar- was based solely around the fact that I'd decided For Serious that I wanted to pursue my PhD. In the university of my imagination, PhD students wear headscarves. 'You're a mental.' That was three weeks ago. Since then, change has been underfoot. I knew it was coming. I saw friends from adventures past recently, and I said the exact same thing. I know that the wind beneath

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. I wrote my first letter almost a year ago. I was going to do it more often, but I was too busy taking the piss out his Lana Del Rey cover photo on Facebook. Dear Darby, 'Is it weird that this is the stuff we talk about?' you said to me over Skype. 'What, punctuation and sentence structure and the rules of the possessive apostrophe?' I said. 'Yeah,' you replied. 'Should we be talking about willies and coke binges?' We both reflected on the question for a moment. 'Can I just ask you something about what you wrote on page 13?' I finally said, and we laughed, because for us, punctuation and sentence structure and rules of the possessive apostrophe is as exciting as any sex story. Well. Nearly. I had your package in front of me- pages from my manu

I'd written ' Start a Pilates class ' on my new year resolution list back in January, but I'd put it off and put it off because I've been a bit pre-occupied with fighting street crime. And finding a cure for narcissism. And solving the glitch in the String Theory of Physics. Urm. Also? I am a big fat scardy-cat. I've never been a super -Pilates head, but I am absolutely convinced of its body-altering properties. A few years ago Olivia and I did Pilates every Monday night after work, and every Tuesday was known as Thin Tuesday because For Serious. Something about that class made us look 7 pounds lighter right after. This surprised us both, because in the main we just did a bit of stretching on the mats and tried to avoid fanny-farting. It wasn't difficult. Thin Tuesdays were the bestest invention. Back-To-Normal-Wednesdays were a bitch. But that class was done in English- in as much as you can refer to the North Yorkshire dialect as English. Here in Rome, th

Right now, the insides of my head look like a piece of paper that an untalented three year-old has taken crayon to. Swirly, swirly, swirly patterns that make no sense and quite a lot of mess, and probably veer off onto the table so any minute now you're going to yell mean things at me for ruining the antique furniture. See: unresolved childhood issues. I wasn't kidding when I said 2012 was the year of Fulfilling My Potential . So I write lists. I have a nine-box, twenty-seven bullet point overall list for the year, and on the first of every month I sit down and plan out one thing for each of the twenty-seven bigger things I can do over those next 30 days to make a hearty step towards the bigger goal. THEN every Sunday night I sit down and write a list for the week. This list is divided into urgent, important, and in my own time. This means my energy is focussed on ticking off what is absolutely necessary, and if there is any time left I move on to the important stuff, then the

I'm writing this from my apartment instead of at the CAFE OF FORCE-FEEDING  where I normally hang out every morning. This is, for me, a hugely exciting conclusion to THE BESTEST FOUR DAYS! IN THE HISTORY OF BESTEST FOUR DAYS! Dramatic hyperbole is my middle name. I'm clinging on to the final moments of these amazing hundred hours by refusing to leave my house, because 1. I can't afford three breakfasts a day. And 2. My landlady is away. Because I am home alone I am taking enormous creative satisfaction in walking around in my silk nightdress, wearing a headscarf, and listening to French jazz really quite loudly whilst pretending that this haven of gorgeousness is my own. Living with an actress these past three months I've learnt that to have a romantic, creative, bohemian life you have to execute even the small things every day with a romantic, creative, bohemian touch, and so in the main that means that I now do an awful lot of things with fabric tied around my ears a

It's counterintuitive and somewhat discrediting to the feminist movement, but I have to say this: I hate wanky men. You know the type I mean. Sense of entitlement worn like a business suit. Attitude draped around their wrist as if a watch, but instead of telling the time it reminds them that they are superior to whomever they are talking to. Broad shoulders that are well-balanced in that they have a chip on both of them, so the stoop they walk with is only the weight of their own ego. Imagine I am addressing the type of man who quite obviously has an adoring but submissive wife at home. The kind of wife who married for the security such a man can bring, as long as you behave in the right way. Challenge him in the sport of exchanging opinion so that  he can brag about the charming and quaint intellect of his trophy, but don't ever show him up in public by proving that sometimes, he might be wrong. “Oh darling,” she probably tells him at home. “You're so clever. Left-wing Lib

So right now Mum and Dad are obsessed with a slot on the breakfast show of BBC Radio 2 called Thought of the Day because this week it features my brother's new boss, and basically means that by association, Mum and Dad are famous too. 'He's ever so insightful, you know,' Mama tells me over Skype EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. Dad told me, 'We thought of you yesterday, actually. He said that there are three types of people in the world: add-ers, multiply-ers, and subtract-ers.' I nodded. 'Okay...' 'So you either add to a social situation if you are good one-on-one, multiply it if you make every one in the room feel good, or subtract if you are a miserable twat.' Which is actually quite insightful and important to bear in mind, I agree. 'We think you are a multiplier.' 'I thought I was debilitating ?' 'That too.' 'Shall I tell you my thought of the day?' I asked. 'Go on then.' 'Well... You can't always get what