Not necessarily about books or coffee.
“I might get more blog-happy this week, because I have time and head- space and a game plan. This is the springboard for the summer – I’m a leaf on the wind etc etc.”
Ooof. What idiot signs off a blog post with that sort of optimism? Didn’t happen, obviously. Life keeps running away with me at the moment. Or I run away with it – to Amsterdam, a couple of weeks ago; to a writing conference the following weekend.
Manx legend says that when Mannanan mac Lir wants to protect the Isle of Man from unwanted visitors, he throws his great cloak of mist around it so that it can’t be found. Well, last Friday morning someone on one of the flights coming in must not have been welcome, because the cloak was being used to great effect, mostly around the area of the airport. Continue reading “Leaving on a jet plane. Or not.”
“Procrastination has become its own solution – a tool I can use to push myself so close to disaster that I become terrified and flee toward success.”
So says Allie Brosh, author and artist behind the brilliant Hyperbole and a Half (expect more quotes; I got the book for Christmas this year) – and she’s right. She’s talking about herself, obviously, but I can strongly identify with this approach. Even more so today, when I’m not actually in my own flat yet, and so I can’t fall back on my usual procrastination pyramid to avoid working on the Problem Story First Draft that I still need to finish. But the deadline is too far away for me to panic up a work of astounding genius (nothing less will do). Continue reading “2014 – already muddier than 2013.”
Last Monday, travelling on the ferry to my parents’ house for Christmas, I was violently, horribly seasick. As it turns out, the stormy weather meant the ferry we were on would be the last one to run for a day or so, and I’m not at all surprised. It was the worst crossing I’d been on since the age of about 11 and I was absolutely not the only person with their nose in a sickbag for the last hour or so of the trip. Continue reading “Have yourself a ferry little Christmas”
Forget Christmas and end-of-year musings: this is the first anniversary entry of this blog. That’s 52+ entries. That’s a triumph of commitment and stubbornness over half-arsed writing, slow weekends and a short attention span. Continue reading “Happy birthday, worms and monsters”
I’m a PANK – a Professional Aunt, No Kids. We’re the hippest new demographic. We’re digital women influencers. Here’s a soundbite: Continue reading “Hanky PANKy”
I’m 31 and I had never been to a music festival until last weekend. I’m not sure how this basic rite of passage slipped past me. Maybe it had something to do with most of the festivals I’d heard of being unappealing and unaffordable (tonnes of mud, disgusting toilets, bands I hadn’t much heard of or didn’t much care for) or else appealing but many hundreds of miles away, and therefore also unaffordable (Burning Man). Continue reading “Beautiful yesterdays”
It’s that time of year again. School’s out for summer; holiday, celebrate (depending on your choice of singer). As is standard for July to September, London (and pretty much ever other city in the world with history, nice architecture and a live-in population) is swamped with people who have come to see the museums, the buildings and the relatives and friends that live there. Continue reading “Summer in the city”
Finally, the weekend. After spending the morning trailing from podiatrist (one day I will devote an entry to my disgusting feet, but not today) to pharmacy across most of South East London, and failing to be at bus stops at the same time as buses, and losing my patience and walking instead of waiting, I’m back home and taking a break before heading out this evening to a shindig hosted by Frozen Margaritas. Continue reading “Picture this”
It has been a long week. I went to Devon for the bank holiday weekend. I was supposed to be going for the Wimbleball preparation day, but having dropped out of that, I just went and stayed with a friend and made new friends and did the things that one ought to do in Devon, like eat oysters (for the first time) and fish and chips (for the billionth time), and dance to a band in a pub, and draw large Xs in the sand on a quiet beach and write ‘DIG!’ and ‘HERE BE TREASURE!’ next to them. Continue reading “Devon becomes her. Sort of.”
Bookworms and Coffee Monsters 