The Magic of Space

When your Mother buys you a book with 248 pages solely dedicated to transforming “your home into a permanently tidy, clutter-free space,” and with the precursor, “You’re probably not going to like this Dear,” you know you’re in trouble. Last year and crucially, last year, my Mother gifted Marie Kondo’s “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying” to me. And since last year, have I even picked it up? No way. For when my Mother, in an pre-meditated act of pseudo-kindness, bought me a Zen-shmen, Japanese sensation of a book, containing “simple and effective ways to banish clutter forever”, I had no choice but to interpret this as a tactless and underhand move, an insult plain and simple.

MayDay MayDay

Happy May Day! Luckily for us Great Brits, this year May 1st fell on a Monday, which meant another Glorious and Great British Bank Holiday for us all to enjoy. But today wasn’t going to be about BBQ’s, queues and booze. Today was to be about fun and frolics at the village fete, fairies, faun, flowers and phallic looking poles for us to prance around. Today was to be Pimms and lemonade on the lawn, followed by a raunchy summer romp in the miscanthus giganteus (that’s a large grass, just in case you were mistaken), finished off with the crowning glory of a beautiful May Queen. Happy May Day indeed. Could it possibly get any more pleasurable than this?

The Great British Bank Holiday

Roll on the Great British Bank Holiday. A delightful long weekend in which important, tired and hard-working people get to rest their weary heads, and less important but equally as tired and hard-working FTM’s get to, quite frankly, carry on regardless. A joyful time in which the Great British Public love to either a) inebriate themselves over three consecutive days, whilst manning a succession of dwindling tinfoil BBQs in the pissing rain, wearing T-shirt and shorts, b) spend quality time with husbands, wives, partners and children, engaging in cohesive and incredibly fun activities, such as Twister, Jenga and Junior Trivial Pursuit or c) a bit of both, more commonly known as boozed-up childcare in the rain. Whichever way you choose to spend your Bank Holiday though, one thing is for sure: The Great British Bank Holiday simply wouldn’t be the same without a Great British Queue.

The Resurrection

The GR has resurrected herself. Bang on cue. Just in time for Easter. It’s Day 1 of the “holidays” and her timing is impeccable once again. Her little-black-cloak has been dry-cleaned, in honour of the numerous jollifications planned and her scythe has been sharpened, ready to strike anyone or anything that, quite frankly, has the audacity to Gd’dam breathe. Approach at your own risk.

Mothering Sunday: The T’s and C’s

It’s that time of year again. Another day to commemorate something or other incredibly meaningful. But this time it’s not International Day of Happiness (that was last week apparently), World Health Day (that’s next week, if you’re interested), or Global Wind Day (this one’s in June, if you celebrate making wind). No, today is all about Me. It’s Mothering Sunday, again. Gosh how quickly time flies. And this year is no different to the past 8 as Mum.

The G.R

Apparently I have a new pet name. I call it a “pet”name in a last-ditch attempt to glean even the tiniest scrap of cuddly, candy-floss cuteness from it’s damn-right pettiness. Today and only today, I am willing to call it a “pet” name, in the spirit of February 14th (AKA Valentine’s Day), on which day surely everyone is entitled to a bit of petting. However, on every other day, it’s a nick name at best, an insult at worst.

Diary of a Wimpy Mum

Recently, I was out on an adult-only evening which involved completing a meal in its entirety, whilst simultaneously engaging in civilised conversation, when my very adult friend asked if I would like to join her new book club. A book club? [I scoffed]. Now there’s a laugh. Isn’t that where grown-ups meet on a regular basis to unlock the hidden depths and common threads running through mutually selected texts, whilst nibbling on fancy flavoured nuts and tippling on tiny tots of sherry? My very adult friend took a sip of her robust-looking red, whilst I choked on my neon-looking pop and declined her invitation promptly. Captain Underpants and the Attack of the Talking Toilets would be lost on her club.

Hot Heels

There’s something about heels that makes a woman feel good. Whether or not we look good is an entirely different matter. However, the fact remains that tall heels, kitten heels, stiletto heels, cone heels, spool heels, chunky heels – whatever your preference, heels make us feel sh*t hot. For there’s something about slipping into a pair of heels that instantly transforms a woman. From skivvy to sexy, elephant to elegant, mum to MILF. No matter who she becomes, the woman in heels has elevated herself to a whole new level. And she means business.

Smothering Mumday

Have you gone a-mothering today? Chances are you haven’t. And never will. Unless of course, you are a Catholic or Protestant Christian, who has returned to the church in which you were baptised, for a commemorative Laetare Sunday service? Or perhaps you are a domestic servant who has been granted a whole day off to visit church with your mother and other family members? Now that’s more like it. Well, the domestic servant bit.

The Holidays, Uncut

So here we are again. The central heating is on, the woolly cardigans are out and X-Factor has started. The summer we’d all been waiting for is done. Done and dusted. Caught on camera before being swept away as abruptly as a tidal wave, leaving us with nothing but sepia-tinged memories to cling onto. Sombreros are gathering dust on the tops of cupboards and the rose-tinted spectacles that last week hugged us tightly, are now long-lost amigos, forgotten amongst cluttered drawers full of everything and nothing. Needless to say, my vitamin-D enriched skin is now peeling into snowflakes of white and my sun-kissed legs won’t get to see the light of day for another year.

Damn.