The Gathering

I've always been a fan of the New Year only recently the reason has become more solidified.

When I was a kid, it was because we could stay up late. Because people would come round. Because we would go out to London. Because it was the final concluding BANG to Christmas. 

But now it means more. A global gathering of people; races, religions, families irrespective. Something so mundane: the turning of the clocks - something that happens every year. But somehow it manages to captivate. 

I often envy the celebrations in London. It was always so magical and the flash of the media was just so special. 

But this year, watching them from the Burj Khalifa; half a mile of explosives and fireworks on the ground, was awe-inspiring. The cheers that radiate trough the sky. The patriarchy of course. 

It was a record-breaking attempt this year with a 6 minute spectacle using over 500,000 fireworks. 

As I sat, watching the vibrant colours fill the sky, so much was going through my mind. 2014 - I couldn't believe it. 2013 a it went so fast. But most of all I was making myself a pact. 

As soon was possible, I said, I'd travel the main cities of the world to watch the fireworks there. I've done London. Now Dubai - 3 times in a row. Now to plan the rest of the trip: Singapore, Germany, Australia ....

Obsession number 1

One of my BIGGEST obsessions in my life is this guy:

... my dog, Chester. 

He's absolutely gorgeous and I often find myself forgetting that he is actually a dog ... not a human. I get withdrawal symptoms on my lips when I'm away from him and I love how he smells in the morning. 

He was born on the Isle of Wight and we picked him up and took him home at 8 weeks old. He's now 4 years old. We were, probably, a family very unlikely to get a dog. I would often kid myself at the breakfast table patting an imaginary dog I called Jasper and thinking about what it would be like to have a dog. Our ownership of Chester came about when I scanned through a magazine on dogs and asked my parents if they'd like a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and then bought 2 dog bowls from 'Conkers' garden centre.  

We didn't end up with a King Charles for everything we'd heard about their health problems, but we looked at 2 pregnant Cocker Spaniel mothers and then their litter of puppies when we were staying with my Nan. 

And that's this little fella! My babies! 

My 13 Top Picks of 2013

1. This hair style:

 

2. This CD:

3. This series:

4. This shirt:

5.  This blog:

6. These shoes:

7. This photo:

8. This book:

9. This event:

10. This video:

11. This song:


12. This film:
 and this one: 


13. This advert:

I will! I will! (I won't...)

New year's resolutions - why even bother?

"I will get fit, I will eat less, I will buy that gym membership in the January and not in the October!"

When most of us make our resolutions it always has something to do with our bodies. Over-indulgence at Christmas. A soft rim of turkey fat pushing out of our jeans. Tastes mulled sweet and yearning for the next bank-breaking, calorie bursting sugar fest.

There's too much pressure. Why even bother?! 

The New Year is mean to make us feel good about ourselves. It's a way to encourage us to continue. Or at least that is what it has become. As humans of this race we are dependent on markers. Things to push us through and we think that by setting ourselves targets on January 1st will make all the difference when we can't even stick to the ones we set ourselves weekly.

New Year's is more of a tradition. To awe others with your resilience by giving up chocolate and visiting the gym 5 days a week. But by January 6th, or thereabouts, we're just ready to give up and pack it all in. To go back and adopt our old habits. If anything, rather than being a joyous occasion, we become conceited and self-concious. We pick out our faults that, had the 1st not arrived, we wouldn't have sought until an emotional break-down later on in the year.

So we could all save ourselves the agro and just not make those resolutions we can't stick to and take life by the horns. Let's offer ourselves the ability to change when things are actually going wrong, rather than just in case they do.

http://www.kensingtonhotel-llandudno.co.uk/default/cache/file/A168EA83-2732-4B9B-B9D62C5960F8752E.jpg

Obsessive Tuesdays - LAUCH

I'm impartial to a good ol' obsession. And it changes from week to week. It's one hobby, then the next. It's exercise and fruit and the next it's cheap and flavoursome cooking. It changes so much I could write a book about it.

But I'm not going to do that. Instead I thought I'd make a string of blog posts detailing my journeys with obsession.

 Think of it as a getting to know me session and prepare to embrace ...
Obsessive Tuesdays!!

Isaac, the brave

When you think about it; your life is all you'll ever know. You only know what you see, what you feel. Empathy doesn't exactly work in this world. You might think what emotions you have felt are comparable to others but you'll never know. You'll think the pain that you've felt is the hardest that ever existed and you'd think you're right because you'll never actually know. A broken leg may well be more painful than 3 fractured ribs injured in different circumstances, but you'll never know.  So you might as well be right. 

In a sense, I've always thought, it gives you a feeling of empowerment. You feel like you're (for want of a better word) the 'chosen one'. The human who was meant to feel explicit emotions. And because you only know you, you feel like you have to do something. Be someone. Change the world. And moreover, you may feel as though you have the power to carry it through. 

Forgive me if I'm confusing you, this has always been a hard concept to explain. 

There was a little boy who was the son of a couple who attended the church that I began to at University. The boy was Isaac and he was about 2 years old but he'd spent much of his life fighting chest infections amongst other illnesses I was too new to know about. 

My last service in the church was on the 2nd Sunday of Advent and his mother attended. The priest called her to the front half way through the service and we did a communal prayer. For her son. It was incredibly spiritual - everyone holding out their hands to this mother, assenting at particular parts of the prayer. And when it was over the room was flushed with tears. 

Holding out my hand to her, I felt like I could change her son's life. This force, power and compassion was channelled through my hands. I had the feeling of empowerment. The belief that I was the chosen one. That I had the power to make things right. 

And so, when I received an email entitled 'Isaac', it was with regret that I opened it. All other updates of his progress had been; Isaac - a bad evening. Or Isaac - in Paediatrics Intensive Care. But I knew what a heading like Isaac meant. 

Indeed he had passed away. The power I had felt in praying for his mother seemed futile. Hopefully it had helped but it hadn't saved him. Like I thought it could have. 

The world is a bizarre place. You are led to feel emotions that don't materialise. Who knows what powers each individual has. Who knows how different we are from who we think we are. 

For Isaac, nothing more can be done. Nothing but prayer. Please pray for his family; his parents, those who knew him, those who loved him. And him; Isaac - a brave young boy with the most gorgeous smile, a loving family and life cut too short. 

Losing my senses

You play those games as children, unbeknownst to how topically relevant some of them are. We can exclude 'Dizzy Dinosaurs' and 'Hop-scotch'. But the others; 'Stuck in the mud' - a game of helping your friends in distress before the catcher (or what we can interpret in the adult world as grief or pain or stress). 'It' or 'tag' - being the it-girl or it-guy. And 'kiss-chase' - trying to attract the best looking person of the opposite sex and pursuing them as they run away. Our childhoods taught us so much, if only we knew at the time.

And then there are those eager questions that children ask. I don;t know if it was the same for you, but my brothers and I used to always ask one another, as though we'd be caught out by some form of government torturer for one heinous crime or another;

What would be the sense that you'd most hate to lose?

It was always a hard one for me. I essentially had to choose the sense I loved the most. A a big foodie, I couldn't live without being able to taste but would taste have been a good compromise when I couldn't hear my child talk to me? Tell me about their first day at school? Hear them sing in the Nativity?

But my sense of taste always frustrated me. When I had a cold and I knew the feelings and smells and tastes that should be running down my throat and I registered nothing. I hated it. Chicken kievs should ooze garlic. There should be sweet melodies to the zingy jig of a glass of lemonade. And when I'd saved a perfect square of meat to fit into a small off-cut of yorkshire pudding that I'd specifically left until last so savor the dinner - I wanted to make sure I knew what it was like.

But in the end I put it down to this.

Over the years, I've developed a passion for vintage EVERYTHING! Clothes, make-up, past times. Nothing makes me happier than to thing of myself of an evening eating oranges and sucking the juice to the pith and being in the corner of the living room in a one-person armchair reading. 'Matilda' first put that thought into my head.

When I was younger I always fancied myself as a whizz kid. I didn't like reading much only doing so to say that I'd turned the pages. I would sit in class after lunch break and read the end words of every sentence. I was flipping pages in books faster than anyone else. I loved playing on my Nintendo and I guess that was because I hadn't yet found the unlocking power of writing. Or because it took too long to create the image of my perfect family when 'The SIMS' did it far quicker.

But eventually, as I matured, I turned back - quite literally!

And so, it came as a little surprise to find that old movies didn't always have that riveting affect on me.

Take 'Charlie and the chocolate factory' for instance. The super-tanned Oompa Loompa's and the wild-eyed (and haired) Willy Wonka would have, in the real world, made the chocolate factory seem a place of wonder and awe. But the hues of the picture; the dulled purples and greens and reds, they just didn't cut it and I found myself turning to Johnny Depp instead.

When I asked for the new 'Alice in Wonderland' on DVD one Christmas, you cuold have been fooled into thinking that I was in love with Johnny Depp. The truth was more abstract; I was in love with the colour.  The vibrant make-up and costumes, they all struck me.

And so, without thinking, I'd have to say that the sense that I'd most hate to lose would be my sight.

Santa in the sun and super sad Christmas films

I love Christmas and when it comes, whether it be in the torrential rains of England or the blistering sun of Dubai, it is always special. And even when it doesn't feel like Christmas, the sentiment of the event is ever-present. 

This year didn't, at all, feel like Christmas. There is no limit during the festive period to the amount of times one plays 'Last Christmas' or 'Carol of Bells' but there is the sense of understanding that once they are played over and over, it may still not seem like Christmas Day. 

I came over to Dubai for Christmas this year and so when I told everyone at Uni that I was "going home for Christmas", the fact that I was home meant that I had already reached Christmas a week and a bit before the 25th of December. 

Nevertheless, the presents, mood and food could only be counted as a Christmas Day. 

Unlike every other year, this time we went out for lunch at an Italian buffet restaurant complete with a white-bearded "ho-ho-ho"-ing Father Christmas.  Despite my initial reaction of "I'll try it out" to mask the gravity of the chane, the meal was absolutely delicious. 

Crackers were laid about the table ready to pull. Silver trays of vegetables, potatoes, pastas, alternative Christmas dinners and then the authentic version were plated up. Starters were offered as crab salad, tiger prawn and mango salad, cold meats, shellfish and beef and bean mix. Desserts, reserved in a room of their own, included Christmas pudding, cheesecake, chocolate pots, crème caramel, chocolate fudge cake and small tarts. 

It wasn't as traditional as our family meal but a welcome change I'd like to do once more :D 

After eating, Christmas films are always a must. There's our favourites; Home Alone, which we watch repeatedly every year, and Elf. But with an array if differing tastes in the household, we chose something different. Browsing Netflix we found a film with a cute, animated bunny wrapped in multi-coloured lights and rated 'U'. 

I thought it would be a quick film; light-hearted and cartoon. Instead it was the most depressing Christmas pick of ALL TIME! It was called: the Christmas Bunny - cute right? No. No, no, no, no, no.

The story line was good; commendable and undeniably emotive, but it wasn't right for the 8-12 year old target market to which it was broadcasting. It was about a psychologically disturbed girl who was fostered and was looking after the bunny which her brother shot with a BB gun. 

It had the desired effect of the script - moving and thought-provoking - but it wasn't exactly the light-hearted Christmas themed film we needed to watch at the end of our Christmas Day. 

But it didn't over-shadow it at all. It provided a balance, a way to act against the elation of being with family to be centred in a world where your family doesn't love you or doesn't exist. 

It played the part of the Church at Christmas time and put all the meaning back in! 

The pieces of Picoult

Jodi Picoult is one of my favourite authors. When I pick up her books I know I'm in for a read destined to please. I admire her for her insightfulness; the amount of times she surprises me and makes me go; "Ah! Yeah! That's right. Why didn't I ever think of that?" 

She has a way with words that I only aspire to. A manner of stringing together ideas with a multitude of characters that just seems to work. 

Needless to say, I thought I'd share a slither of that intoxicating allure of the book of hers that I'm currently reading; Nineteen minutes. 

She talks about bad things being like a chain. An evolution of real life Chinese whispers. That one person, in a world of good, did one bad thing which sparked others to attack them for revenge and so continued the trail of bad. Everything we do in spite could be in reaction to a fight over 2 goats a thousand years ago. But what made me think most was when she said that 'bad' was only a way of making us remember what 'good' looked like. 

What would the world look like without a notion of bad. Of people doing wrong. I'm not talking about the implications of an absence of crime on the police and judiciary but generally with no concept of bad. 

I still think the world wouldn't work. 

Sure, everyone would be good - perhaps weird and a tad annoying. But whilst one person would be 'good', another person might be an even better version of good. There would be varying degrees of righteousness and so, whilst there would be no malicious intent in the world, no one would be as perfect as the most good person in a race of good people. Certainly, the whole notion of good would topple. People who weren't good enough would struggle for perfection through losing their good spirit and embracing 'bad'. 

Maybe the world was once like this. Whether your religiously Christian, Eve eating the apple might have been the bridging factor. It whether your not, a man with a herd if dying goats looking to his neighbour with a plentiful stock and finding that stealing might guarantee his happiness. 

Because that's another thing; being good is not synonymous with being happy. What's good for you doesn't always make you happy. A hungry vagrant avoiding stealing from a shop owner and refraining from taking the money he's gained from begging might not make him happy; may not even keep him alive. But he would still have been a good person. 

And whilst I can't stand crime, feel threatened by thugs and constantly have self-evaluation sessions with myself in order to ascertain whether I'm "still on the right track", I don't think I could stand being in a world of goody-too-shoes! 

Thirst for "The Hunger Games"

I was told that I had to read them!! 

"They're AMAZING!" They said. 

But, if I'm honest, when I finished the first in the trilogy of The hunger games, I wasn't overly impressed. 

The writings of Suzanne Collins and the subsequent films have sparked worldwide adoration and a deeply entrenched admiration of leading actress Jennifer Lawrence and an unshakeable crush on Josh Hutcherson.

I don't doubt the concept of the book. In fact, the dystopian genre was the genre that first enthused me to write. I loved the idea of writing about a place that didn't exist and didn't have to make sense. I always found, once I picked up my pen and settled myself, that writing as much as reading was a manner of escapism. I was fascinated about the mind's ability to leave this world; and I still am. How little me can live in a dualism and even completely create something so abstract as a new world. 

In this way, The hunger games struck a chord with me. The idea of living in Panem spurred me simply to read page to page. But what I loved most was the concept of the games. 

Everyone likes a book that you can't end yourself; especially me, which is why I find Jodi Picoult's book so intriguing. The thought that goes into her writing and the deep inter-woven and complex relations make her stories simply unforgettable! It was these complex relations that I admired in The hunger games. I was constantly figuring out who I would kill, if anyone. I knew I would sacrifice myself and wondered if Katniss would do the same. I certainly would not have made alliances with ANYONE. The choice between Peter, who Katniss and even I, fell in love with and a mother and sister so desperately dependent on you was what kept me reading. 

But beneath all the deep and intricate thoughts, the beauty of the possible complexity and intermingled relationships, the execution of the book left me, unfortunately, less than impressed. Understandably, as it is aimed at you get readers than my 18 year old self, the book was engaging with the constant cliff-hangers and engaging narrative. 

I was disappointed by the ending on more than one account. The plot line that detailed Peter and Katniss being the last two in the arena, to the change in rules and then their declaration of  being the winners must have spanned about 3 unfulfilling pages. I neither felt as though Katniss' crime was horrendous nor merited a punishment which is written into the second in the series; "Catching Fire". 

It was almost as though Suzanne Collins seems to rush to publication. The ending (with all unintended rudeness and dismissal on my behalf) seemed to scream, quite possibly like Katniss Everdeen; "I'm done! TAKE ME HOME!!" 

But I know I can't really talk - although I've done very well. Writing is not only about being original and being unique but about writing what sells. No one will publish your novel unless it can be sold and make profit. So I must credit Suzanne Collins because certainly it seems that this type of novel is just what the public ordered! 

Wearing Out the Wardrobe

I've never been an avid follower of fashion. Tell that to my poorly coordinated 11 year old self at the year 7 mufti day and I would have flipped. It was only some years later as I looked back on that day, seeing myself squeezed into a neon pink roll-necked t-shirt with a matching woolen neon pink cardigan that I realised I wasn't as fashionable as I had thought.

Fashion has never been my friend either. So many style changes in one year; a tight purse like mine never had a chance of keeping up!

Well, that was, until recently.

The style revolution and almost 'undoing' struck me as bizzare. When was it ever fashionable to wear trainers with skirts? I couldn't pinpoint when the change had struck or when, more to the point, everyone had begun to embrace it.

I thought it was a one-off. "Pumps will be back" I thought. But low and behold, out emerged yet another innovation for the wardrobe; jumpers and sequin skirts. And...it looked nice. Suddenly, in one magazine spread, I could show my legs and be stylish rather than being the outcast on snow-days at school; the only girl in the whole of secondary still wearing skirts even when the snow had set in. It was a revolution!!

And now I sit here to write in a pair of Aztec patterned black and white leggings and a Victorian style turquoise chiffon, long-sleeved blouse and, since times have changed, I'll be alright to go out! I suppose, even if it's a mis-match once again, I've come a long way from those colour coordinated faux-pas days!  

The Transformation

Being judgmental is in our nature. Like God cast his hands on the Earth. Created Adam and from his rib created Eve, then threw away the instruction manual and bypassed love. 

"Thou shalt have the power of judgment." 

I bet they don't tell you that in Religious Studies. Perhaps that's because it's not true. Yet regardless of our God-given or self-created 'right', no one can deny the unruly and overpowering nature of judgmental-ness that comes from human character. 

No one's perfect - we've been told it enough times - and because of this; self-consciousness is just another one of our by-products like excess wind and indigestion. 

For as long as I can remember I've been rather self-concious. Not 'sexy' enough to strip down into a bikini at 10 years old. Not cool enough to bare all and go clubbing in anything less than a pair of fur boots and jeans at my first under-seventeens 'disco' at Liquids. There was always something that stopped me. But a body I wasn't entirely proud of or hair that wouldn't fasten like the other girls in my year tended to be something I could mask. And so the (extra) timid, subconscious me would only be revealed  at selected times when each section of my body was under pressure to do so. All other intervals, around family and playing on the computer, would show my semi-shy but nonetheless, cheery personality.

Yet there was one product of my creation that I - and everyone else, for that matter - HAD to confront. When I looked at myself and smiled to the mirror, sometimes feeling a little special with some mismatched and fluorescent outfit I'd put together, the lure of an elongating and darkening upper lip caught me every time and dragged me under. Once I saw it, the said 'moustache', I couldn't shake my own critical thoughts let alone the criticisms of others. When I knew I'd seen it that day suddenly everyone in the world was looking at me; pointing and jeering. Some were but not everyone. 

It only really became a problem when I was in secondary school. I would heard people talking about it. Boys would point it out and even when friends or teachers talked to me they wouldn't talk to me, they'd talk to it. It destroyed me every time. On occasions people would ask why I hadn't had a boyfriend - as many people ask every teenage girl. I would shrug, knowing deep down the potential and, most probable, reason why. 

But for all the stick I got, I failed to publicly admit its existence. I don't so much want to show it off as to avoid succumbing to a pressure of judgments which would destroy the image God had clearly wanted to create with me. But by year 12 I was conned into doing it, unable to face a life of being the hairy one. 

I had had my hair cut in a salon in Dubai - an annual affair.  

"It looks so pretty but ... You've just got this..." The hairdresser remarked drawing her finger seductively over her own lip. The discretion in Dubai is evident. 

Let it be a lesson, once you let someone win with their 'suggestion' you give them full power to abuse you as they wish. Reluctantly I consented only to be dragged into the beauty room and be told of how long and thick the hair was. The hairdresser unleashed every thought she'd had of me from when I walked in to how it would effect my future. 

I walked out of that salon faster than ever; embarrassed, head hanging but also very very happy. I could now look myself in my reflection and not have to cover my lip to see what I'd look like without a rim of hair over it. 

And every time I go for subsequent waxes I come out of the salon with a huge self confidence I shouldn't have. Yes it makes me feel nice and yes "I am now a lady, again!" as the beautician remarked today but why should I need materialism to boost my self-confidence. Why should I be saving money to pay for treatments just to cull thoughts I can't take, stares I don't want and full-frontal abuse? 

"Thou shalt be judgemental" - a phrase I'm pretty sure God didn't and would never say, nevertheless still stands.

Back in the Bubble

Exaggeration serves great purpose for embellishment. A lion with 4 million teeth suddenly seems a lot more scary. Trekking for 1,000 miles in a blizzard evokes more sympathy than the 10 kilometre walk on a frosty that you ACTUALLY took. 

But I'm not exaggerating when I say that I've never been more excited than I am right now.
They say you never know what you've got until its gone. And - applicable to everything - you never know who you love until you can no longer love them as you should have. 

I'm flying home and this trip has been so long anticipated that the fact that it's actually breaking into my scheme of reality is so ironically unreal. And I could not be more happy. 

Pulling up to uni to catch the coach from the bus station and being "one of those people" I see catching coaches home every week, having my flatmates hug me and say how excited they are for me, holding the ticket that's going to take me home. All this never seemed so special and overwhelming. 

If you'd have asked me a couple of weeks ago whether I was enjoying myself at uni, the answer would have been yes. I like my flatmates and I enjoy my course. But coming back to Dubai to an ABSOLUTE paradise, I can't believe I was once a fully-fledged part of, makes the whole experience so much more worthwhile!!

I'm so happy to be home :D 

But Christmas now, though I LOVE it, seems nearly irrelevant. Of course, there are the elements; the rounded men posing as Santa, the trees, the mince pies and the cheer. But all I really was striving for was making it to Dubai and now I'm here I feel complete. I needn't have presents, nor stuff myself with turkey or eat all of the chocolates from my advent calendar so I can catch up with my brothers. All I needed was to see them; to see my family, to feel the heat and dunk me feet in the pool!! Ahhhh...So help me when the time comes to go back to Uni!!!! 

Father Figure

As he died, the gravity of Nelson Mandela's legacy was predictable. A human saviour. An embodiment of freedom. An aspiration. A dreamer. Of course, everyone was going to go crazy.

People take to the streets praising his revolution. The media settles in for weeks on end of analysis on his life and how we might take lessons from his teachings. And un-involved worldly populations, well, we just sit in the dark.

For South Africa, Mandela was a father of a nation and I came across an article which said that if the world had only one father, the suitable candidate for the role and bearer of the title would be the late Nelson Mandela. It is most probably true. A man who gave so much hope has left us. Alone. Perhaps he is above in Heaven, for those who believe. Or reincarnated, for those who think otherwise. But Nelson Mandela is no longer on this earth.

I think, subconsciously, I took comfort from that fact that he was always with us. In death, at least I could wake up in the morning knowing that there was at least one man on this earth who was courageous to stand up for everyone. Someone who would protect us all. And suddenly, we find that we are fighting for ourselves. Who will save us now? Who would stand up for us if something happened tomorrow? Our only current hope, has gone.

And now, if they choose, new people will become. New leaders with the same effect will take to the stands. Or will they?

We are so reliant on those who've already done. Those who've already become. We hardly ever think that they time will come when we must learn to be. When we must learn to do.

I suppose, in this immediate instance, we are vulnerable. We haven't got someone to hold our hand now. He's held it all this time. It's time for someone else to stand. Someone else to hold out their hand for others to take.

It's bizarre, how deep the sense of loss seems. His effect was undeniable. His lessons uncountable. But who will teach us next?  

Probably not one of my BEST ideas !!!

Clumsiness and poor-planning comes with my name. I have a tendency to panic over tasks such as when I might cook dinner, as though my world revolves around some form of time specific order. It doesn't. But for that reason, I'll often find myself in situations I'd rather not be in, situations that require just that little bit more effort and situations that are awkward and embarrassing until further notice.

Take Tuesday; I try to organise myself now to the best of my ability and since, usually things go to plan. But because my arms were aching in Lidl from an overload of ice cream, toilet cleaner and vegetables, I couldn't be bothered to finish my basket full of shopping with a feather light pack of toliet paper, so I didn't.

'I'll get it in ASDA down the road when I get home' I thought, not least because I knew, though the quality wasn't brilliant, I could still get 4 rolls for 65p. So long as my sensitive baby skin made it out of the toilet unscathed, I figured I'd be fine.

Anyhow, I didn't go and as my roll grew thinner and thinner, and I rooted around for spare towels of kitchen roll, I decided I might need to get some. I stopped off at Sainsbury's on my way home from Uni. I didn't need, at this point, anything else; just toilet paper. I found the aisle and scouting the cheapest offer for my tight and government-funded pocket, I soon realised the only one worth my while (ie. under £2) was a 6 pack of jumbo rolls amounting to a total of 2,400 sheets! It was only then, as I awkwardly took myself to the self-checkout, that I realised I might need pens. I searched for the aisle but couldn't find them, which led me to walk around the entire shop with my 2,400 sheet toilet paper and imagining the conversation I would have if someone approached me. (I don't know why but I was adamant that it was the norm for people to ask about the contents of your basket and, moreover, why you were walking around straddling a packet of toilet tissue that you could barely hold. I figured that I'd tell them that I was going clubbing. As a mummy. Standard.)

Had I, with a little less laziness and more perseverance, just bought it when I did my weekly shop anyway, I would have spared the embarrassment.

And now, having just moved from cutting Christmas wrapping paper with rusted nail clippers, I have once again found that not all my ideas are the greatest. I find myself jumping in the shower and forgetting to close my curtains before I go in, meaning that I come out and give spectators a sore view of my rather white behind. I invite people for pre-drinks at mine and forget the alcohol. I throw away tubes of toothpaste and then realise that I need some more before I can be bothered to go out and get some. I try and water dead plants to coax them back to life as though I'm Jesus.

These occurrences can only prevail and, no matter, they make me who I am.