Sunday, 15 September 2013

I have a real issue, at the moment, with growing older.

It consumes me in a way most 25 year olds are not consumed. I blame Facebook, and social networking in general. Whenever I see this:

Or this:

Or even this:

It makes me want to curl up in a corner and cry.

When did we get so old?!

Neglected Blog :-(

Wow-I'm a bad blogger!!!

I solemnly vow to write more shit about my life, more often.

The End.

Edit-: I also vow to drink less gin. More often. Or something.

Edit-: oh, and to not decide I like cigarettes when I'm drunk. Because I don't like vomiting, and that's where cigarettes lead. Ugh.

Thursday, 22 November 2012

The Killer China Doll

I have always loved dolls. I had them all as a child, Baby Born (the one that was meant to poo but didn't), Tiny Tears (the one that cried...if you squeezed it's arm really hard*), Barbie (the thin one), Sindy (the fat one), Shelley (Barbie's under-age little sister) and these little tiny things called "Quince" (eight little babies with matching Victorian style outfits and shoes).

The best and worst, however, was Emily. My china doll.

I must explain:

When I was a very little girl I shared a room with my older sister. When I couldn't sleep at night, she would tell me stories about "Joggy Bear" to help me get to sleep. I loved these stories, they were like gentle lullabies aiding me to restful slumber.

Until I got a little bit older and wiser (and probably a lot more irritating). This was when my sister began mentally torturing me on a night.
There were stories about ghosts and vampires, but the worst, and most memorable, was the story of the evil china doll.

It went like this:
Once upon a time there was a little girl named Sarah. Sarah loved dollies soooo much that her mummy decided to buy her the most special doll she could, made out of delicate china. Sarah loved her china doll, and she kept her on the dressing table in her room.
One morning, when Sarah woke up, her dolly was sat at the end of her bed, instead of on the dressing table. Sarah was confused, and asked her Mummy whether she had moved the doll, to which she told her she hadn't. The same thing happened for the next three mornings. A little frightened, Sarah decided to leave her dolly downstairs. That night, she heard a voice.
"I'm coming up the stairs, I'm coming up the stairs...."
Sarah sat up and called her mummy.
"I'm walking to your door, I'm walking to your door..." the voice continued.
"I'm reaching for the handle...I'm opening the door..."
The door opened...
The next day, Sarahs mummy found her dead in her bed, and the doll had gone forever.

As you can imagine, I was terrified  so I begged my mum to let me keep Emily in the conservatory with the door locked. I checked every night that my mum hadn't let her out and had nightmares about being slaughtered in my bed by a china doll with a grudge. These were made worse by my sisters whispered chantings in the night.

Eventually, my mum made me get rid of the doll, probably because I'd barely slept in weeks and was petrified of her.

I imagine this when it's dark and I can't sleep at night:

Yep, now you can't sleep either.

Tuesday, 20 November 2012


Taking a break from running, my sister and I decided to go to our "Zumba!" class this evening. "Zumba!" is basically aerobics to latin/salsa music, and an attempt at making women feel desirable and sexy again.

It has no such effect on me.

 I find myself throwing my body around the room like a sex crazed lunatic, shaking my hips and signing along in Spanglish like one of those kids you see on "My big fat gypsy wedding". The only difference is those little gypsy girls look about 15 times more sophisticated than me, and they are a hell of a lot more co-ordinated.

I found a great meme to illustrate this:

Although Napoleon Dynamite's dance was effing awesome

In fact, I think I owe him an apology now...

Monday, 19 November 2012

Pointless Post

Look-me in a onesie dancing to Queen!


I realise there is a saw behind me in this picture. I'm not mental, my boyfriend has been attempting to improve our home.

Sunday, 18 November 2012

Run Rabbit, Run Rabbit, Run, Run, Run

I love running.

I mean, I actually love running. I feel like a superhero or something similar whenever I put my trainers on. I imagine that I am training for some life threatening task or that I am running from a monster or something similar and off I go.

Tonight I went with my sister and I kept finding reasons to carry on running. It literally took me getting a cramp in my calf to admit defeat, when usually I get a bit peckish and think I'd better run home for a sandwich.

I occasionally get these odd bouts of relentless energy and find myself running up and down the stairs at home, cleaning the entire house or dancing like an idiot to Queen songs in my pants, and I've never been quite sure where they come from. My sister's theory is that we, as humans, are all made up of different ancestry, so whereas my boyfriend and her husband are sedentary and like to chill and enjoy their time in a more stoic fashion, sister, myself and our brother prefer to be moving all the time. She decided that because I enjoy mornings watching entire series' of Gavin and Stacey, or Secret Diary of a Call Girl, I must remedy that stillness with excessive movement.

She probably has a point, given that my job is reasonably active and sitting takes up approximately 10% of my waking day. (I just worked this out- if I'm up 15 hours a day, that's 900 minutes, so 90 minutes sitting time on an evening.)

The result of this is that I like to run. I like to watch people run. I enjoy reading about running, and, despite my disinterest in fashion generally, I love to buy running gear (e.g. shoes, hats, socks, base layers, pedometers, apps for my mobile phone).

I even have a favourite running blog! (not to be confused with my favourite blog written by a runner

I don't really know where I was going with this, other than waffling on about running, so here's a picture of me doing Race for Life:

I'm not sure what I'm looking at, but I appear to be fascinated by my boobs.

Saturday, 17 November 2012

I wrote this when I was drunk, hence the subject.

A box of wine.

1.A box of wine is usually bigger. This means that you can drink ALL THE WINE.

2.Unlike most bottles of wine, a box is opaque. This means NOT SEE-THROUGH. Nobody knows that you have drunk ALL THE WINE until the deed is done.

3.A box of wine is easier to carry than a bottle. If the box has a handle.

4.If you covered a box of wine in gift wrap you could (probably) sneak it into a child's birthday party. Then the kids can drink the wine too!

5.Boxes have corners. Yeah I don't really get where I'm going with that either.

6.The wine in a box of wine is in a foil bag. This means that if you decided to save the wine then it won't go off. Although I don't know this for certain. I've never saved wine.

7.Something about cooking....

Bottles are stupid. Whoever decided that wine in something that BREAKS was a good idea has obviously never drunk ALL THE WINE. Although you can buy it in cartons now too, which are handy for those times you want to pretend your wine is UHT milk and DRINK ALL THE WINE. And those stupid plastic "glasses" they sell at high end supermarkets. Don't put them in the dishwasher thinking that you are "getting one over" on Ikea and reusing your plastic sainsburys glass forever. They melt.

I really don't know where I'm going with this.

Enjoy your wine.