back up blog

Dear Rome, Well bollock me sideways with an extra thin-crust margherita and a rice ball chaser , I’m leaving today. And do you know what? I’M PRETTY FUCKING SAD ABOUT IT. That doesn’t surprise anyone more than it surprises me. I’ve spent nine months saying terrible , awful , non-retractable things about you to anyone who would listen, and now it’s crunch time and I’ve got one hand in my pocket, the other flicking ‘v’ sign, and tears stinging in my eyes.  (Side note: I’m shit at pretending to be in an Alanis Morissette song.)  The emotions are obviously Virginia’s fault. When the reason for my banana-in-a-hat-tattoo-being hugged me at 5.59pm Thursday night, as our final lesson drew to a close, and I had the last meeting with her grandmother to say THAT KID. I LOVED THAT KID! suddenly I just broke down. That little Drew-Barrymore-in-E.T.-esque kid wrapped her arms around me so tight and for so long that I had no choice but to accept the love. It felt like she was MAESTRA. I GET IT. I C

Goosebumps. I have goosebumps because of magic. What kind of magic, you ask? Well I’ll tell you. CLASSICAL MUSIC. I know. It surprised me too. Recently a student asked to take me to a classical concert as a sort   goodbye! You are awesome! I’m so sad you’re leaving!   gift. RELATED: This student had actually only ever had me as her teacher twice in the entire time I’ve been at this job. When she had a mid-course appraisal with my boss to talk about the ongoing successes and problems, if any, with her course, she said to my boss   LAURA. I WANT HER AS A TEACHER AGAIN .   When my boss asked why she basically said   BECAUSE SHE’S BALLIN’. THAT’S WHY. DISCLAIMER: Except Luisa is actually Italian and in her 50’s, so in reality as opposed to in my imagination, she probably said an approximation thereof. But still. The sentiment is the same. Anyway, when somebody asks you to the oldest orchestra in Rome , YOU SAY YES. So off I went in my checked shirt and bow-tied scarf and boots and lipstick

I've visited Anna where she lives in Paris more times than I can count. This weekend I played hostess in Rome for a change. I'm shit at it.  It was still all the fun, though, to periodically exclaim to one another, TEN YEARS AGO WE WERE IN A DRAMA CLASS IN YORKSHIRE TOGETHER. NOW LOOK AT US! Look at us indeed. Drunk and snap-happy. "Right. You've been here ten minutes. Prosecco?" I said. "FINALLY!" she replied. "That was the longest ten minutes of my life. Let's go." Because it was my birthday weekend I did smoking. SORRY I'M NOT SORRY. "This is where you live?" she asked me. "I'll call myself a smug bitch so you don't have to," I said. That's the Marilyn moment over with, then. I made her eat the best gelato outside of the bestest building... ... made all the better because THE HORSE STUCK IT'S TONGUE OUT AT US. That's almost better than a banana in hat. The bestest building gave the bestest li

At about 6.25 p.m. on Saturday night I got a tattoo of a banana in a hat. ‘You want this ?’ the guy behind the desk said, raising his eyebrows. My forearm was flung out in front of his face, where a friend had scrawled on me in bic biro three days ago. On half the length of the underside of my forearm, starting just below the wrist, was a semi-peeled banana wearing a top hat. Obviously, therefore, the banana was smiling.  ‘It’s the funniest tattoo I have ever seen,’ the guy said. I said, ‘What, today?’ He shook his head. ‘No. Ever.’ I nodded solemnly. I turned to my friend and said, ‘Do I really want to get a tattoo of a banana in a hat?’ ‘Yes.’ She nudged me further into the studio. ‘You do.’ And it’s true; I did really want it. It’s just that when the guy with the face art tells you you’re weird, you can naturally be helpless to momentary reassessment. But for the three days I had walked around with the biro drawing on my arm after I demanded a friend help me out, and I liked it. I w

Fifty Shades of Grey  Fifty Shades Darker Fifty Shades Freed.

*not fucking tourists like sexy time with the buggars. FUCKING TOURISTS as in SHUT.THE.EFF.UP.AND.MOVE.OUT.OF.MY.WAY. Look, in the same way that when an old acquaintance emails me on Facebook to say, ‘Hey, long time no speak. What you up to these days?’ and I respond with the dick-like words , ‘I’m living in Rome. Are you still working at Tesco?’ there is no way for me to write the following post without embodying the epitome of pretentiousness. I know that. Sorry I’m not sorry. TOURISTS. Let’s talk about tourists. I know how to spot you. I know that you are a tourist because your shoulders are pink. You wear clothes too skimpy for dry land- that white Primark Lycra halter-neck shouldn’t be worn to pound the Roman pavements just because it’s 30 degrees. That outfit is for the beach, not the restaurant. And I know you are walking with the limp because the new sandals you got to look trendy for your trip rub, and your thighs have started to chafe when you walk. I have fat thighs too, so

‘How is it possible that you are eating a smoked salmon sandwich again?’ asked my boss. ‘That’s been every day for what? Maybe four weeks now?’ I shrugged. ‘I’m a creature of habit,’ I said. ‘I get little obsessions, and just do that one thing over and over and over again until I get bored and ditch it for something else.’ ‘Any chance of ditching the panini for a salad obsession?’ she said. ‘Fuck off,’ I replied. Sandwiches called Wonderwoman aside (yes. Really. Everyday I say, “I’ll take a small Wonderwoman, please. And that cream cake.’) it will come as, oh, I don’t know, ABSOLUTELY NO SURPRISE AT ALL that my current obsession continues to be the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy. It’s hot and sexy. BUT, as much as I’ve threatened the men of Rome, I refuse to break my promise to myself. I’m not going to go on some raging sex spree just because I have read a particularly saucy book. Probably. Maybe. OH GOD HOWEVER WILL I NOT JUST START HUMPING THIS TABLE LEG? I’ve been so obsessed with t

So then she went and got all kinds of pregnant , THAT CUOT . We celebrated the baby coming with carrot cake... ... And awkward dancing in the street. I drowned my sorrows in girls' night beer. But I will never be so drunk as to confess to having eaten more than one pizza. Shit. Wait. What's that Laura? ANOTHER HEADSCARF? Then I was all, 48 HOURS IN DERBY? YESSSSSS. @calummcswiggan is the bestest. I chose the wine. "The red kind," I said. Calum chose the cheese. "The melted kind," he said. I bullied my nana into a photograph. Mum optimistically yelled, "BECAUSE WE MIGHT NEVER BE TOGETHER EVER AGAIN SO SHUT UP AND SMILE." You feel her love. Auntie Barbara needed no such encouragement. "Just make it a good one," she instructed.  Afternoon tea in a country cottage. That's what I call home. "Do you like my stripy trousers?" I asked Uncle David. "No, duck," he said, unapologetically. I wore them to see my Favourite Co

Ohmygod! Penis! I totally came to the Fifty Shades of Grey party a little later than the thousands of people who put it on the New York Times bestseller list, I know. But GODDAMN IT even if everyone else has already pulled and is locked in the bathroom bumping drunken uglies, I'm glad I came. Oh! I just accidentally punned! Do you know why ‘I’m glad I came’ is funny, Internet? BECAUSE SHADES OF GRAY IS EROTIC FICTION AND MAKES ME HOT AS HELL. I did an orgasm joke. … Let’s move on. I first read about this book a few weeks ago, and promptly forgot about it because I pursue highbrow fiction that expands my mind over fiction that expands my vagina BULLSHITBULLSHITBULLSHIT . Also: GROSS. Then, at the airport at stupid o’clock on Monday morning, I picked it up off the shelf, opened it to a random page, saw the use of the word ‘besieged’ twice in one tiny paragraph and thought, nope. Definitely not for me. And then, please buy a thesaurus for your next book E.L. James. BUT THEN. Waitin