Please God, if I don’t die from Tonsillitis, I promise to…

My latest lengthy absence can be explained quite simply. I have been very busy burning the candle at both ends.

Having booked an expensive, but thoroughly worth it, summer adventure in South East Asia and committing myself to building both savings and bikini body, I have unsurprisingly spent a great deal of time catching up on some painting, specifically, of the town, in red.

Between work and socialising and festivalling last week I successfully burnt myself out and came down with the worst bout of tonsillitis to date. I knew it was coming, I could feel it as I supped cider at a barbecue last Sunday when I realised that I hadn’t supped a glass of water in approximately 42 hours. I could feel it in my bones on Saturday as I dined on a breakfast of Corona and Korean barbecue having had four hours sleep, about to embark on a 12 hour (plus) day of reviewing at Sound City.

I could sense it.

My body knows when these things are coming, but it powered through, God bless it, until the adrenaline wore out somewhere between Sunday night tipsy and Monday morning inflamed throat, unable to eat/talk/stay conscious for longer than a HBO sitcom.

Naturally this affliction hit just when the British summer peeked, adding nicely to the light-sensitive headaches and feverish sweats I was enjoying indoors under my duvet.

But having spent a week in bed, drinking nothing but water, thinking constantly of rich, indulgent food I couldn’t hope to consume, watching anything that Sky On Demand had to offer and having some of the most vividly weird dreams ever, well I’ve had time to dwell on things.

Now as far as resolutions, personal development and good intentions go, faithful readers will know all too well, I rule supreme, but having spent a week in joggers, under a duvet, looking every bit the homeless meff, you can understand my need to resolve. And after a healthy dose of antibiotics and Jane Austen I listed some of my life’s great ambitions.

Exhibit B: Two instagramming sins with one shot.

Exhibit B: Two instagramming sins with one shot.


1. To have in my wardrobe, items only which I know to suit and flatter me, or which are too incredibly comfortable/sentimental/cool to throw away.

2. To never grow tired of consuming books, pretty stationary, cake or Italian food.

3. To one day regain the svelte figure, tireless energy and general fitness level I maintained up until the age of eighteen.

4. To establish myself in a career for which I have real passion and interest, and which pays handsomely in both monetary and personal terms.

5. To somehow successfully exercise the virtues of good judgement, self-restraint and patience when it comes to stupid people/loved ones/men who are no good for me.

6. To one day be too cool and busy to Instagram trivial little delights such as culinary achievements, the cat/dog, and good hair days.

7. To live, day-to-day, with the utmost serenity, diligence and integrity, or generally to not have a can of Strongbow on my chest of drawers and the contents of my laundry basket on the floor.

8. To someday repay my debt to society by buying the physical equivalent of all the films and albums I have illegally downloaded over the years. Or at least the ones that I consider worth paying good money for.

9. To read all the books which I claim to have already read/people have lent or suggested to me/should have read at university/are considered “classic” by right-thinking society.

10. To travel the world, become rich beyond my wildest dreams, live lavishly and in perfect happiness, and to never grow up.


I’m also reminded of a life ambition I had in my earlier years, to be brutally murdered as an extra in a Quintin Tarantino movie. Having since decided to be a pacifist I’m not sure where I stand on the brutal, if theatrical, murder thing… but if the opportunity were to arise, I wouldn’t turn it down.

I’m just putting that out there in the webisphere.


If Benjamin Franklin said it, it must be true…

So despite all my good intentions, I’ve done it again, I’ve left my beloved little blog unattended and neglected, cold and unloved for far too long yet again. Here I come, crawling back to my one true love after flirting and sowing my writing seed elsewhere (here at Yuppee and here at Get Into This if you’d care to indulge).

I am quite used to making up this kind of ground. I am chronically late to meet friends for lunch, the clock at work runs five minutes fast, mine runs twenty minutes late, I always forget to ring my mum back, I push deadlines to the absolute limit, I get distracted by shiny things and You Tube videos of cats, I plan on being late for my own funeral just so friends and family believe that is actually me in the coffin.

Of course I could reel off the twenty-seven thousand excuses I have to hand, most of them fairly substantial, as to where I’ve been recently, but rather than relying on embellishment like a true writer I will be perfectly honest in a brief history of the last few weeks. Since the beginning of March I have been operating as a one woman Mothers Day Card production line, getting coerced into drinking into the early hours by a dear friend back from the desert for a gin-soaked weekend, going to loads of gigs, rejoicing in the misfortune of others (cruel but infinitely satisfying), finally finishing Elizabeth Gaskell’s North and South, catching up with old friends, mourning Ireland’s performance during the Six Nations, doing St Patrick absolute justice by partying for as long as my body could physically stand it (my voice gave up after three days), and then suffering with unimaginable fear, having my ego rubbed and then beaten to a pulp, and going against my better judgement to play, as always, the romantic fool.

You may not believe it, but in the pursuit of a career as an actual, real, grown up writer, I consider all of the above research.

For my birthday last year I received a notebook in a huge bird-themed group of presents from some very dear friends, and in this notebook all my pearls of wisdom get scribbled down, usually, frantically, by the light of my phone thirty seconds after lying down to sleep. Full of good intentions I romantically noted one of my favourite quotes on the opening page, from Benjamin Franklin:

“Either write something worth reading, or do something worth writing”.

You see, like I said, research.

At the raw age of twenty-four I will not pretend to have anything of universal importance to write about just yet, although documenting my life and times as a bar wench may prove otherwise. But in the meantime I must go out, be merry, grab life by the proverbial balls and live it up, which is why another favourite quote of mine is ‘no good story every started with a salad’. So in Lena Dunham fashion I have been dedicating every hangover and heartache to the pursuit of my writing career. Eventually it will all pay off.

In the meantime, I promise not to neglect you my darling little blog.

At least not until the next drink-fueled religious holiday.



“Parting is such sweet sorrow…”

I love Sundays.
Lie ins, Sunday papers, roast dinners, and best of all, a guaranteed day off.
In my wonderful bar job weekend shifts do not exist. We operate on schooldays only, Monday to Friday, term time only, but occasionally we lose a Saturday off to matinee performances and after show parties. It doesn’t happen very often, really we can’t complain, but of course we do. Spending twelve odd hours of your Saturday in a building without any windows can take its toll, particularly when the patrons are self-congratulating lovies celebrating the end of their latest show.

But Sundays, Sundays are for keeps.
After a particularly long week of self-congratulating lovies and serving an overabundance of Cheeky Vimtos, I was determined to dedicate the Sunday just past entirely to relaxation.
There would be none of the essential business of laundry or tidying or all the other things I had been putting off during the working week. No housekeeping to be taken care of, no messages to be run. As much time as was possible was to be spent curled up under a blanket watching chewing gum for the brain, eating anything that could be prepared in under five minutes and drinking my bodyweight in tea. An absolutely perfect way to pass a day off.
The only thing is, that is exactly how I’ve wanted to spend every day of the week since October.


“No, it’s too cold. I’m not getting up.”

Winter has been long, and dark and very cold, even the snow hasn’t been able maintain a sense of magic for the more than an hour or two before it turns to slush. The last few months have been, atmospherically speaking, miserable. And no amount of tea, chocolate or rum has been enough to medicate me through all the drizzle.
My body is crying out for some vitamin D.

It needs to be Spring by now. It will be March by the end of the week, and March means Spring. I want daffodils! And Cherry Blossoms! And light wash denim back on the highstreet! I hear through the social media grapevine that there’s been a little stretch in the evenings, but working under a theatre for ten hours a day, that doesn’t make much difference to my emotional health.
We’re all tired of Winter by now. Actually, most of us just seem to be tired full stop.
Even my most sickeningly energetic of friends seem to be enjoying the snooze button a little more than usual. I haven’t seen most of them de-robed of hats, scarves and raincoats since Halloween when the pyjama weather set in. Dancing shoes have been gathering dust under the bed, little black dresses have grown threadbare in the wardrobe, our legs have become permanently woolly under tights and double knit socks.
For most of us, nights out have been traded in for box sets and instant hot chocolate. Everyone seems to be dedicating their leisure time to marathon viewings of Breaking Bad and the American version of The Office. Personally, in the last two days I have rewatched the first two series of Sex and the City in their entirety as well as catching up with Girls, Grey’s Anatomy and approximately eight decade-old episodes of ER. I truly believe that I have become more emotionally attached to the fictional characters of Seattle Grace Hospital than I am to any actual flesh and blood people these days.
But I am ready to crawl out of hibernation. I’m tired of being tired. I am ready to climb out from under the covers and shake off the winter. It’s time to get some spring back in my step.