back up blog

I signed it. And then dusted.

The thing, apparently, is that I am not the centre of the universe. This week has been one of monumental upheaval for me. My states of being can be clearly divided into one of only two categories at any given moment: absolute blind panic with flushed cheeks of confusion and manically unfocused eyes of doom, or total ecstasy with flushed cheeks of sheer pleasure and manically focused eyes as I drink down the glory of everything, ever, so quickly that it gives me a headache and I look like I am on a particular brand of paranoid high. I guess I kind of am. However. It would seem that one can partake in a free walking tour of London, and when the ( incredibly charismatic, intensely humorous and deliciously knowledgeable) guide asks So, how long have you lived in London, then? HE WON’T EVEN BAT AN EYE when your response is Two days. Two days! That means I just got here! And to get here, I must’ve made choices! And decisions! And am probably experiencing large amounts of internal anxiety

I took this from our tiny little balcony last night, as it was getting dark and my brother was creaming leeks in the kitchen, glass of red wine in hand. It's London. Did I mentioned I'm living there now? Oh, I did? Shall I talk about something else now? Okay. Want to say something about this post? Talk to me!  Twitter .  Facebook .   Email .  Instagram .   Bloglovin ' .

The thing about moving house is that you’re forced to examine everything you own. One has to determine its worth, and thus if it makes the cut for a place in a new home when said home is on the eleventh floor and you don’t know if the lift works. Do I take it? you ask yourself. Should I give it away? Would anybody actually want this stuff? Is this copy of The Fabulous Girl’s Guide to Decorum really mine? The thing about moving house after most of your worldly possessions have been in storage is that you’re forced to examine all of these things in the context of memories, which takes considerably longer to mentally (and like, D’UH, emotionally) process than a simple YES/NO system one could otherwise adopt. See: This! This is the teddy bear my roommate gave to me after I decided sleeping with a college freshman was a really bad idea but he was so cute it bummed me out to tell him so! AND THIS! I got this made for less than a quid by a small Vietnamese man! AND THIS! THIS IS THE CD OF M

Yesterday, on Twitter , I said,  Dog coughed. Dog coughed harder. Dog began to retch. Dog retched so hard that he farted. Sound of fart scared dog. Dog ran away from fart.  Internet, meet the culprit.  Want to say something about this post? Talk to me!  Twitter .  Facebook .   Email .  Instagram .   Bloglovin ' .

A year ago almost to the day I wrote on this website And then I had a new life in Rome . This is HILARIOUS, because that was a mere 365 days ago and yet it feels like another existence. I suppose it was, in many ways. Is that allowed? Can a person live multiple lives as multiple people without being Matt Damon in The Talented Mr. Ripley? Am I going to have to bash you over the head with an oar as soon as you’ve finished reading this? HOW AWKWARD. I am days away from typing And then I had a new life in London, and I’m freaking PUMPED about it, which is terrifying, because I have never been so single-mindedly PUMPED about anything in this way ever before. In fact, seldom has the word PUMPED ever been concurrently appropriate for anybody’s enthusiasm and yet so white-British-middle-class inappropriate at the same time too. I shouldn’t be saying PUMPED because I am not a Canadian cheerleader, and yet hey Internet! Look at all the fucks I give! !!!!!!! Compared to how PUMPED I feel right no

So I read on Austin Kleon’s Tumblr this thing about Book Tossers. These are my favourite of All The People- the somebody who “casually tosses a book at you” says Kleon, and it changes your entire being. Before said book you were probably in a world of unknown darkness and ignorance that truths and beauty could exist in a cold, hard world like as ours. Then BOOM! 300 or so pages later and suddenly everything is bathed in the multi-coloured understanding of just how exquisite living and being and words are. LIFE IS THE BESTEST FOREVER THE END. In these circumstances, Kleon says, it is accepted wisdom that “if it weren’t for the toss, there wouldn’t be a catch” i.e. without the thrilling entrance of said Book Tosser, your life would’ve remained unchanged and that would’ve been at best unfortunate, but realistically a much worse, WHAT IS THE POINT OF LIVING IF IT ISN’T TO HAVE CONSUMED THE GIFT OF LETTERS AND SENTENCES THIS ARTIST JUST FED ME LIKE HONIED WATER TO A DYING CHILD I DON’T EV

Pub. Pint. Perfect.

“Laura! Where are you?” “Just on my way to Mum and Dad’s from the airport. Landed ten minutes ago. What’s new with you?” “Not much. Just packing for my holiday. We go to Portugal on Monday.” “Do you need a house-sitter?” “Why, do you want to come and stay?” “Thanks for asking. Yes.” So basically, in less than the time it takes me to shower (an every other day shower, obviously. The one with the hair washing and armpit shaving. Not the body-rinse shit-I-just-got-my-FUCKING-HAIR-WET shower of all the other days, which aren’t very long at all ) I bought myself some time. I cried when the plane landed back on British soil last week, but I don’t know why. I think the guy next to me was trying to hit on me- he kept staring and smiling sadly, wistfully, and looking at me sideways when he thought I wasn’t looking at him. He was too young. Every time I saw him inhale and then open his mouth I’d suddenly find myself so incredibly intrigued by my hands. The in-flight magazine. The welcome sign to

My last meal on Italian soil was McDonald's at the airport and I'm not even sorry . Except that obviously I totally am, because the first meal I made when I got to Mum and Dad's gnocchi. FROM SCRATCH. And, you know, no big deal or anything but I totally improvised a roasted pecan pesto to go with it- because I felt like it. I FELT LIKE MAKING MY OWN PASTA SAUCE. I don't know who I am anymore. Want to say something about this post? Talk to me!  Twitter .  Facebook .   Email .  Instagram .   Bloglovin ' .

Darby & 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,  @calummcswiggan  and me.  Dear Darby, I knew you’d got the travel bug this summer. But when you messaged me last night with Can’t talk. Will email later. Right now I’m writing from Nebraska dinner table, I freaked the Lady Diana OUT. I started Googling maps of America, my thought process being: 1.      NEBRASKA?! 2.      Wow. Nebraska. 3.      I can’t believe it. He’s gone to Nebraska. 4.      I CAN’T BELIEVE HE’S GONE TO NEBRASKA. 5.      I’m so proud! Nebraska! 6.      MY BEST FRIEND IS IN NEBRASKA AND HE WANTED AN ADVENTURE AND NOW HE HAS JUST SAID YES TO LIFE AND GONE AND I LOVE IT THIS IS SO AMAZING AND COOL AND WONDERFUL AND ALL THE ADJECTIVES! 7.      Urm. Where is Nebraska? And then a second message came through that said Sorry. I’m writing from BENEATH the dinner table. Bloody auto cor