back up blog

I quit my job. I quit my job because I wasn’t happy. I’d been thinking about it for ages. In fact, when the internship became a full-time position, which became day-to-day oh, I guess this is my life now , I knew, the whole time, that it wouldn’t be long before I left. I’ve never been good at casual, never mastered we’ll see. I’m all or nothing, totally obsessed or utterly disinterested. If I hold your hand it’s because I want to give you my heart, if I get out of bed for you at 7 a.m. it can only ever be because I adore you. I did not adore this job. That doesn’t mean I’m not grateful. Oh dear Lord, I’m so grateful. To land in London six months ago and get the one internship I applied for, round the corner from my house, and to have my boss at that internship say, after four weeks- Laura, the jig is up. Come on the payroll. That’s magic, right there.   But I only ever wanted the internship to learn the technical stuff of the digital marketing industry, knowing that I didn’t know what

I’ve written an eBook, and it’s called I’m Fat (and still get laid), and it just went live. If you want to buy it, you can. Just click here . Spoiler: I totally just wrote and re-wrote those sentences eleventy million times. This simultaneously feels like absolutely no-big-deal-whatever-I-don’t-even-give-a-shit, and HOLY FUCK. Either/or there’s a lot of profanity happening in my imagination about it all. I know- shock you, right? Remember that time I met with Penguin about My Heart Beats Only For You (and a few dozen other people) and afterwards I was all, yeah- so I think I’m just gonna publish all the things myself, to which everyone in the world was a bit, yeah but you’re just saying that, aren’t you? Well welcome to the house of fun, where I’m going balls to the wall in seeing what goes down if I do just that. Over the course of this year I’ll be launching four mini eBooks based on the themes of this here blog: vagina, a surprising foray into spiritualism and being brave. Also: f

If you want a litmus test for your level of bonkers, may I recommend an analysis of your thought process in the wine aisle of Sainsbury’s as you try to select what bottles to get for those strangers you’re having over for dinner : "But if I buy the Shiraz on offer, they'll know I only chose that one because it was cheap. Maybe I should get fewer of the more expensive ones... But I just want everyone to have fun. We'll have fun if we're drunk. I'll get the stuff on offer. And one of the posh ones with the fancy label for when they arrive." Friday saw me reach new levels of crazy as I cleaned my skirting boards - of course I couldn’t entertain guests if I hadn’t. In my imagination it was unfathomable to not fashion a pyramid design on the back of the loo out of all the extra toilet paper I’d bought, and at lunchtime it became inexplicably important to pick juuuuust the right books for the coffee table. Two weeks ago I had friends over for dinner and

Tomorrow night I’m meeting up with five total strangers. In my apartment. And I’m cooking them a multiple-course dinner. This is a fact that has been slow on me to dawn, even though the date has been set in my Moleskine for over a month. I remember writing it in: “7.30 p.m. Dinner at Mine”. Back in those heady days of denial I wasn’t anticipating it to actually happen. Four weeks ago, when I hit send on my electronic invitations, I was an expectant mother simply enjoying eating for two and abusing my belly’s size to always nab a seat on the bus; reality didn’t apply for me. Now I’m in the delivery room being offered an epidural, asking my birthing coach would she mind just pulling the car around, because I think I’ll do this another time, if it’s all the same to everybody else. My dinner party baby is already crowning and there’s nothing I can do about it. It was a cold and drizzly January afternoon when I saw a Facebook friend-of-a-friend post about about a sort of scheme that had