Helium balloons and soft toys shaped like internal organs. It sounds like the makings of a thrilling time, doesn’t it? It’s unforgivably deceiving, the entire façade of Valentines Day, but that is why I love it. It’s as if I’m watching the most intense and ridiculous romantic drama take place over the span of a few days.

You have happy couples strolling down the street, grinning serenely as they anticipate the arrival of Valentines Day, however, at least one half of that love-sick pair is bound to forget the occasion and end up having to present a can of condensed milk and tinned sausage to their lactose intolerant, vegetarian partner.

The wafting scent of chocolate and red roses stinks out the street like Mustard Gas when the dreaded day arrives. I look on fondly as people sprint in their pyjamas like greyhounds to corner shops and card stores before the crack of dawn, in the hope that their futile efforts will save their relationship for disaster.

I am single and free of obligations, Valentines Day is the only day of the year when I am #WINNING.

The good bit comes afterwards. As February 15th rolls into town, I take pleasure in strolling up and down the seasonal aisle of Tesco to embrace the essence of crushed dreams and unreturned texts, whilst I rid the shelves of discount chocolate and cheap wine.

Happy Valentines Day to me.



It can be infuriating at times when you’re sat opposite someone and have absolutely no idea what cogs are turning in their heads. This feeling may arise when meeting a figure of authority for the first time, or even if your life long friend has a very well practised poker face.

When conversing with a potential customer in sales, or dragging your slick palms down freshly ironed slacks in an interview, we all wish we had the power to delve into the depths of someone’s head and see their perspective of ourselves. We want people to like us and we long to know how to make that happen. Over thinkers, like myself, may leave a conversation feeling like a complete inept at human communication. Did I nod too much? Did I sound pretentious and pompous? Did I do that jerky thing with my arms without realising?

If only we could be reassured by the knowledge that the other person were just as insecure as we were.

Tracy, who you thought found you tramp-like? Yeah, well she’s wearing last weeks knickers and it’s beginning to chafe.

Adam, the vegetarian you persistently offered sausage rolls to? Yeah, well his grandpa used to bludgeon piglets to death every evening and pretend he was a gladiator.

Hayley’s not even listening to you, she’s too busy worrying about the five slugs she found in her kitchen and considering staying at a hotel for a night, or possibly forever. Now she’s envisioning the slugs in graphic detail and you can’t seem to swallow the piece of cake you were eating.

How traumatised would we be if the true extend of the world’s insanity was visible to us? 

Having immediate access to other minds would probably leave you none the wiser to whether the other person liked you or not. They would either be thinking of something else or just point out every little thing they notice about you.

Why is she wearing a huge jacket whilst indoors?
You gradually slip out of your layers, even though you’re cold.

Is that her fifth slice of pizza tonight?
You leave your plate on the side and pick up a bowl of lettuce.

I’m kind of hungry
You offer them your pizza

‘Don’t they know I’m on a low carb diet?! Are they trying to sabotage me?
You apologise profusely and ram the remaining slice into your mouth to make yourself shut up and end up choking.

Huh? Wow what a freak.

Are they okay? Why is their face that colour?

Okay, I’m going to leave. 

Before you know it, you’re left standing there, a cold, hungry, weeping mess, worse off than before and utterly humilated. Despite your best efforts and good intentions, you’ve managed to bend and alter your actions and personality based on what other’s want. Each person you meet will be thinking something different, wanting something different and you can’t conform to all their expectations.

So don’t, it’s exhausting.

Leave your coat on, pick up your pizza and talk to people naturally. As long as you’re not intentionally a douchebag, then it doesn’t really matter. Misinterpretations happen all the time, we’re all guilty of them, but generally don’t hold them against people. it’s human error.

Felicity might find your voice annoying and Craig might hate the colour of your scarf, John thinks you’re a sociopath and Lacy doesn’t think you’ll succeed in your field. These things are true to them, but not to you.

Similarly, if Eunice idolises you and Gareth hangs on your every word, it doesn’t mean you’re great. Knowing that Iden thinks your lasts piece on Oil Spills was the best piece of journalism every written doesn’t make it so. We don’t need to know any of this. if the interviewer thinks you’re an uneducated slug from Hayley’s kitchen floor after you shake hands, you tried your best, keep your coat on and go for some pizza.

I want the superpower to access my own mind, to know it inside out like my favourite book. Look subjectively upon my own thoughts and change according to what I record.

The answer is not now to get people to like you, it’s how to get your own brain to like itself and other people. Have a mind that would make Hayley or Graham or Eunice or Felicity comfortable keeping their coats on and to reach for another slice of pizza. Now that’s a superpower.


Half a decade ago, I started high school. I had a pink Puma rucksack full of crap I would never use and fish out from the deep dark depths of it at the end of the year. My blazer was as stiff as the ironing board it had been soldered against and I wore these translucent pink Ghandi glasses that made me look like a bug – the usual.

Since then, I have perfected the art of being a model student and am eager to pass my golden notes of wisdom onto you.

#Lesson 1:
Do not introduce yourself to teachers as ‘Viktor Pickles.’

Avoid producing self portraits that look like this:image (4)

Know that this is not an acceptable thing to draw in your history book: image (1)

Under no circumstances is it acceptable to eat fajitas in class.

Try not to fart in assembly and blame it on your friend.

Learn to spell correctly:

Just because Scout is wearing a ham costume in To Kill a Mockingbird, it does not permit you to proclaim her as ‘dead meat.’

Holden CAULFIELD, not Holden Cauliflower.

If you still can’t spell ‘difficulty,’ I suggest you read Matilda.

If you were meant to colour it in, just colour it in. image (6)#LESSON 11:
If you can’t draw, you can’t draw.

Please learn how to spell
photo#LESSON 13;
Develop all points fully to avoid confusion and private meetings with your English teacher.
image (8)#LESSON 14:
Don’t giggle when being told off.

Know when to ask for help.
image (7)#LESSON 16:
Try not to insult children by calling out: ‘YOU THINK YOU’RE SO COOL, HANGING OUT NEXT TO THE FIRE EXHAUSTER, BUT YOU’RE JUST LAME.’ =__=

If you’re 12, you may not realise this, but swearing in every sentence is not okay. Please stop.

I hope you enjoyed this post and if you did please give it a like or maybe share it with a friend. All pictures and examples used in this post are my own and not intended to insult teachers, pupils or anyone in anyway.  =]


I don’t know if the teenage population of the rest of the world have to suffer this, but here in Britain, most 15-year-olds are required to complete a week of work experience. My particular school required me to find my own placement through a series of poorly penned emails and husky phone calls. My first call was to a well know book retailer that kept asking for my age and hung up on me after 54 seconds. It was lunchtime, they were busy and I was a kid trying to emulate Lord Alan Sugar’s tone of voice as to sound more professional.

21 phone calls later, I was rewarded with a pending case of tonsillitis and the knowledge that if you choked on your spit during a phone call, they would just put you on hold until you died and then move onto the next person.

For a few months, all efforts to confirm a placement jumped out the window with clipped wings and waited to become fossil fuels. My classmates had gotten placements at the vets, law firms and the House of Commons. They were destined to become well accomplished members of society with secure bank accounts and a glass of wine with cheese of Friday nights. On the other hand, I had a new mole on my middle finger and earned myself a detention when I showed it to my teacher.

So of course I ended up in a primary school.

My mum took me shopping the weekend before I was due to start my placement at the primary school door. I brought a new shirt in my least favourite colour and another blue pinstriped shirt with an odd silky texture as well as some black slacks. My mum didn’t seem too concerned, I mean, how badly could I mess up in a school? I was yet to be kicked out of my own.

Monday rolled around and I dragged my scuffed shoes off the bus and towards the bright scarlet entrance of the school. I ducked into the building and quietly informed the receptionist that I was Miss White’s work experience placement.

The school had no Miss White.

After 10 minutes of my insisting adamantly that the email I received from them clearly stated ‘your will be placed in Miss White’s classroom,’ the receptionist asked for me to take a seat and wait for the staff meeting to end. Annoyed, I slid my phone out of my pocket and tapped on the email.

‘you will be placed in Miss West’s classroom,’

Following my red faced apology to the receptionist, I greeted my temporary boss by calling her Miss White again and followed her into her classroom, which made me feel like the BFG’s freakishly gargantuan sister. Clearly having no idea what to do with her bright pink helper, Miss West asked for me to open her blinds and we stayed in stony silence for twenty minutes as I eventually began wipe the water stains off her windows with my spit.

Then, oh gosh the children came tumbling in like a wild eyed, sticky hurricane that smelt like soap and old trainers. I felt my entire being seize up as they seated themselves and Miss West asked for me to come up to the front. 38 pairs of ten-year-old eyes fixed into me and immediately regretted my choice of bright pink attire, they could charge at anytime.

‘This is our lovely helper for the week, her name is Vivien.’ Miss West said, a boy at the front squinted at me with a frog-like expression. Did he need to be burped?

‘Let’s make her feel welcome, okay?’ Miss West continued and then proceeded to hug me.

Now HOLD UP lady, I have no warranted you access to my bingo wings, back off or at least buy me sushi first.

Three hours later, I’d broken the school printer, sprayed coffee all over the new classroom display and argued with a child that 7 squared was 42. In the staff room, I was offered juice by a tall teaching assistant who must have pitied me, declined his offer and anxiously stood there gulping down glass after glass of ice cold water, until I choked and puked in my mouth.

By day three, I got so bored of doing nothing and still cocking up that I emptied a pack of cashew nuts into my trouser pockets for something to do whilst I stood at the back of the class, leaning against the top of a drawer. (I hadn’t been offered a chair and was too shifty to ask for one.)

I was trying to stay awake whilst a observing a Powerpoint presentation on Sir Richard Branson with far too many slide transitions, when I was tapped on the shoulder by Miss West and presented with four A4 sheets. She wanted each of her 38 students to have one of each and would I please go to the office and photocopy them all in time for the activity that she wanted to start in 5 minutes.

Sure, except I had no idea how to work a bloody photocopier.

The first time round, I accidently printed off 80 copies of an A3 sheet on individual A4 sheets and stood there helplessly as the copier spat out sheet after scorching sheet.

Eventually, I managed to get it right and stood there sweating vigorously as the office staff glared at the huge mound of paper in the recycling bin. I relayed each individual sheet as they came out of the copier to Miss West to make up for the amount of time I’d spent in the office and I could tell she was seriously considering asking me to please leave before I broke something else.

That lunchtime, Miss West told me I was free to go to the staffroom for lunch, clearly relieved to be free of me for an hour. Upon entering the staff room, I realised that I’d walked into a meeting where the same nurse that had taught me how to use a tampon five years ago, was informing the teachers on how to answer their student’s questions about sex.

After returning to the classroom and informing Miss West of the meeting that was taking place, I was horrified when she told me to go on in anyway. So I was left stranded in the corridor, hungry and unsure what do to. The only solution, it seemed, was to eat my bagel in the surprisingly clean bathroom and peek out the door until I saw the meeting end.

On my final day, I got tired of standing up and sat on the drawer I’d leant against for the whole week whilst everyone else was outside and yes, it broke.

That really was the mouldy cherry on the asparagus flavoured cake.

Dear school, I promise to try harder in Maths class so long as you never send me back there.

(please note that all names mentioned in this post, excluding my own, have been changed to respect the owner’s privacy)



For a Quiet Carriage there is a surprising numbered of yobs behind me, chattering and screeching away like a family of chimps. From what I can gather, the guy behind me (we shall call him Gareth) is a budding actor who is on his way to an audition in London. His clarion voice is now informing me that, not only had he played a dingo, but he has also been offered a position at the company of a successful business person, which he feels ‘positive, positive, positive’ about. Unfortunately, it seems that he is prohibited to give away any details about his shiny new job.

Here are 3 things I can safely tell you about Gareth:

  1. He lives alone and has great conversations with himself.
  2. He talks to strangers on trains.
  3. He is a grade A bullshitter.

Anyway, nevermind him, let’s discuss the free Wi-Fi on this train that doesn’t actually work – actually, that’s boring and you didn’t come here for boring, so I’ll tell you all about train stations instead.

I’m joking, don’t worry.

Here’s a couple in front of me now (we shall call them Cameron and Susan – Sameron) and they just shared a croissant, which was cute while it lasted, but now they’re both staring at the empty wrapper with their hands on their knees- apparently catatonic. I have a feeling that this is their first date and Cameron’s mum didn’t coach him past the croissant.


Gareth is still talking. It seems that he has found a buddy to talk football with (we shall call him Ron,) Ron’s currently raving about Aston Villa and Gareth is listing doughnut preferences. The telecom just advertised the tuck shop in carriage A – I think Sameron should invest in a family sized bag of Doritos, I’m having serious concerns about their lack of movement.


I’ve just moved places and now have a spiffing football commentary being fed into my left ear. Ron has found a new friend, who swears an awful lot (we shall call him Bucky.) Bucky’s Adidas trainers have crept dangerously close to my leg.

I think he knows I’m writing about him.


There’s a woman at my 11 o’clock who is drinking (what I assume is coffee, but since I can’t see it, it could be straight vodka for all I know) from a cup with a moustached man on it. I shall tell her telepathically how cool it is.

Bucky’s just complained about how idiotic some football fans can be and how much he hates flat lemonade. Now he’s opened two large cans of larger at the same time to prove his point.

Fun fact: Bucky is afraid of tunnels.

Ron’s just announced his phobia of flying and that he shits himself every time and doesn’t leave his seat.

I hope he wears a nappy.


Sameron update: still catatonic.

Apparently, the thing I’ve nudged with my foot for the entire journey is Ron’s right foot.

Fun fact: according to Bucky, he is okay with the Tube, as he is only scared when he goes through dark tunnels at ‘top speed.’

An old man has moved to the seat on my left (let’s call him Roger) with a can of Stella Artois on his table. I originally thought he was doing origami but, as it turns out, he’s hand rolling an impressive collected of cigarettes.

Origami is healthier, kids.


I’ve discovered that the secret to walking down a turbulent train is to step very rapidly and latch onto heads with a claw like grip.

Fun fact: Ron buys his jeans from the women’s section of Topshop.

Gareth has quieted down, I think he found something to eat. Susan has resorted to eating chunks of her Aloe Vera lip balm and Roger is still rolling cigarettes – maybe he’s entering a competition.


The train has arrived at London Euston and Gareth just left.

I shall miss him.

Bucky’s real name turns out to be Ross, but he’ll always be Bucky to me. He complained noisily about his flat larger and left too.

Fun fact: if you listen closely, you’ll discover that everybody is slightly nuts.


Let’s take a trip down memory lane, shall we?
September something 2007.

I doubt you remember, but this happened to be a rather significant day for me, ’twas the day I started 3rd grade at a new school, with new peers and new teachers. All of them yet untouched by my existence. I was determined to blown them away with my rosy character and make a lasting impression on their lives.

My seven-year-old self had been both anxious and silently elated all morning, whilst you were still nestled in my intestines, seemingly dormant.

During assembly, the headmistress launched into a spiel about leaves in the spring and I felt you poke at my innards, demanding my attention. Silently, I commanded you to sit and wait nicely like a polite fart, but you jabbed at me rebelliously and sneered at my reaction.

In hindsight, I must admit that you put up quite a fight, I lasted all of two minutes before you came shooting out of me like a party popper, shedding your misunderstood cheer all around where I was seated.

I wonder if you saw the way a circle immediately formed around me, how the other kids pulled exaggerated faces of disgust and pinched their noses, as if I were a field of potently smelling manure, and the way the teachers sniggered inconspicuously under their hands, coughing to cover it up.
You evoked quite a reaction you.

Not only did you publicly humiliate me- no, that I could have forgiven in time- but your carelessness resulted in my telling of a lie.

‘It was her!’ I jerked an accusing finger towards the poor girl to my right, she gasped indignantly and shook her head.

‘It was!’ I screeched ‘it wasn’t me, it was her!’  

The girl in front of me whipped around and sneered.

‘Don’t be stupid,‘ she said ‘Jasmine doesn’t fart, you liar.’ 

And I’ll stop there, as I don’t feel like recounting the next ten minutes where I sat in my circle of shame and waited for ‘LOSER’ to come out of the label printer.

Now, I didn’t write this letter to blame you for anything, I think you’re fully aware of what you did. I also realise that the I owe you an apology. I should not have been ashamed to admit that I was responsible for you and I am sorry for how I made you feel.

You must be sick of being disapproved of every time you show yourself, sick of being the punch line to an innumerable amount of jokes.

Ever since the very first recorded joke in 1900 BC:

“Something which has never occurred since time immemorial; a young woman did not fart in her husband’s lap.”

You have been degraded and laughed at by small children and adults alike.
It’s a hard life.
I’d like you to know that you have nothing to be ashamed of.

You are just as important as any other bodily function. You are a unique blend of Hydrogen, Oxygen, Nitrogen, Carbon and Methane and don’t let anyone tell you any different.
You are important and at least one human knows that.

Your friend,


COMMENT, LIKE, SHARE and FOLLOW me for more.

Bye for now, I’ll see you in the next blog post

Viv 😉


I’m awfully sorry about your quiche matted carpet and Uncle Jim’s bruised belly and I know I probably should have waited for her to blow out the candles before eating. Please accept my heartfelt condolences about Bubbles too, he had a good run – are you sure I can’t help you extract him from the radiator?

On a big standard day, my social incompetence and I manage to co-exist swimmingly. Dinner parties, however, are a whole new kettle of fish. They provide the ultimate platform for public humiliation, larger and more well lit than Times Square on New Years Eve.

My very first experience of a dinner party was really more of a tea party. I was around 8 years old and had been invited to a house belonging to a friend of the vicar, along with some other kids from Sunday school, for sandwiches and squash.

So there I was, seated on the floor with a cup of strong blackcurrant squash, sipping from my cup as if it were a hi ball of bourbon and I a jaded war veteran, wise and windswept. The squash was far more concentrated than my mum ever allowed for me to drink and a deep, royal purple.

After setting my cup down, I engaged in the re-telling of old war stories with the ex-marine to my right and showed him my medals. Feeling rather parched from all my tale telling, I reached for my hi ball to find that it’d emptied its entire purple contents across the thick ivory carpet.

As I goggled at the bruise that had bloomed, the cup rolled a few inches to the right, mocking me.

‘Too busy to pay attention to me, huh? Look where that got you, jaded veteran my ass. ‘

Like any other normal person, I leapt up and apologised to the host for my clumsy mistake.

Is what I should have done. 

Instead, I backhanded the sneering cup under the sofa and shifted myself over the squash drenched carpet. Now if I could just sit there until the house became derelict, I would be fine. 

‘They’re going to report you to the police,’ The cup hissed from underneath the sofa ‘or even worse, call your mother.’

I continued to press my buttocks into the stain and felt the dampness begin to soak into my jeans and pass through my skin. I wondered what Ribena would do to me if it entered my bloodstream.

‘How about you tell them that you’ve acquired an illness that results in you spontaneously pissing purple, berry scented fluid?’  The cup suggested. After a few moments of careful consideration, I hissed back:

‘That’s stupid, they’d get worried and check with my mother. Now shut up and be a cup.’ 

A few Emerils later, people began to ascend from their seats and file out of the room. Utterly mortified, I remained where I was, buttcheeks clenching in fear and my face contorted with horror. To our superviser, I must have looked severely constipated, as she urgently attempted to usher me out.

I have to tie my laces, you go first,’ in my nervous state, my voice came out as a strained whisper and I barely noticed her glance at my Velcro straps before she left, clearly convinced that the child at her feet was seconds away from producing a pair of incense sticks to perform a demonic ritual with.

With the place now blissfully empty, my purple ass leapt up and slipped out of the house gleefully scot free.

I realise now, of course, what an asshole move that was and if the host of that tea party is reading this – I’m sorry and hit me up if you want to press charges.

But as you can see, dinner parties and I didn’t exactly get off on the right foot and our relationship was only destined to worsen.

In my opinion, the most dreadful type of dinner party is where the food is laid out buffet style and you get to serve yourself on a paper plate. Before you get the wrong impression, let me just mention now that I would usually be thrilled at the prospect of unlimited shrimp toast, but with so many watchful stares following you around whilst you pile your plate with a socially unacceptable amount of food and infinite opportunities for catastrophe, shrimp toast begins to look less appealing.

I mean, one minute I could be sprinkling my salmon with pepper and the next, have the host SCREAMING what the hell I was doing to her grandma. 

Don’t even get me started on the paper plates, flimsy flimsy things that bend all which ways whilst you attempt to pile obscene amounts of food onto it. You end up having to perform some sort of frenzied waltz, tripping over a pair of Crocs and nearly splitting your head open on Uncle Jim’s beer belly, to get to your seat.

Once seated, you discover that it is near impossible to spear anything with your fork without the plate sinking into the crevice between your knees. A few bites later and it ends up looking like you’re trying to engulf your meal with your thighs.

And finally, I doubt I have to alert you to the fact that you’re spending an ENTIRE night in someone else’s house, filled with THEIR PRIZED POSSESIONS, children and idiotic goldfish that leaps behind the radiator when you tap the glass.

So by the time they kick you out onto the front porch with a pending restraining order, not only have you used their deceased relative as seasoning, but also made their little brats cry, ruined their upholstery, and slaughtered their dear pet.

You should have just stayed in with pizza and Netflix.

Comment below any stories you have of eventful dinner parties and please Like, Follow and Share if you enjoyed this post.

EMAIL ME with any questions or queries.
Thank you for reading and I’ll see you in the next blog post.

Viv 😉


I would say that I have a considerable amount of experience as a sister- a lifetime of it and a lifetime remaining. So I believe myself to be sufficiently qualified to present to you the adventures and misadventures of sisterhood, the midnight scuffles and spilt liquids that come with being in close quarters with the one person who has the power to convert you into a raging Neanderthal. 

As a child with a sister two years my senior, I found myself both idolising her and having to fight the urge line up her wax crayons on the radiator and send her a postcard of it. I wanted to draw cartoon people like she did and have a full block fringe like hers. 

Following my impetuous pestering, my mum carted me into the kitchen and fulfilled my request. Sporting my new Old English Sheepdog look, I strutted around, feeling ten feet tall and twenty years wiser. Of course it took me exactly two weeks to realise my forehead had turned into a mini sauna under that mop of hair and promptly decided it wasn’t worth risking heatstroke for and got rid of it, but that isn’t important. I can’t exactly remember my sister’s reaction to this, but she must have been pretty gracious to not have walked on the other side of the street from her floppy haired, round spectacled little wackadoo of a sister. 

It was also around this time when I began to trail after my poor sibling at school, tagging along with her cooler friends, telling god awful jokes and being a general pain in the ass. It came to the point where her friend felt inclined to invite Maggie’s creepy little sister to her birthday party. Now I can’t recall the exact details of this get together, but I do remember eating the host out of cake and home, as well as jumping up and down like an orang-utan on speed to 90s club music. I donned a green puffy jacket, wore my hair in lopsided bunches and looked for all the world like a decaying broccoli. At some point during the party, I believe I did, what I thought to be, a brilliant impression of a trifle having it’s layer of cream scraped off and then spent most of the night simultaneously blowing at my fringe and rolling my eyes like a demented tribal leader performing some kind of demonic ritual. I had a great time at that party, but I doubt my sister would agree. 

In our younger years, I think my sister had resided on Goofball Island with me, but by the time I made the transition into secondary school, she was in Year 9. With thirteen came sophistication and maturity. She read books that I was not allowed to read, featuring serious court cases and realistic crime, her friends were twelve feet tall and had boobies whilst I managed to eliminate all chances of obtaining friends on my first day by introducing myself to everyone as ‘Viktor Pickles.’

But worst of all, and perhaps the reason why I began to induce an increasing amount of petty arguments with her, my sister attempted to tutor me in Maths. Now in telling you, if any of you are trying to shake that clingy boyfriend or annoying friend, just whip out some SOHCAHTOA or advanced algebra and they’ll go off you like the BBC on Jeremy Clarkson. 

One morning, I engaged in an argument with my dear sister, she was doing that aggravating I’m-going-to-speak-in-a-calm-passive-tone-and-let-you-scream-like-a-banshee thing and in a rage, I threw the Capri-Sun in my hand and it exploded like a water balloon all over the kitchen tiles. I remember being ‘I’m inches away from punching you so hard you’ll end up with no nose and concave boobs’ mad, but I can’t for the life of my recall what exactly it was we were even arguing about.

If any of you reading this have sisters, you’ll understand how one minute you can be charging into her room with a sledgehammer, screeching death threats at the top of your lungs and the next, be helping her re-plaster her walls and discussing the your significance in the universe.

Considering the age gap and her maddening air of superiority, you would think that my dear sibling would act accordingly, but let me tell you, what you see it not what you get. Smart people tend to be incredibly stupid, they just cannot bear to admit it like the rest of us.(If you consider yourself an intelligent being, I am sure that this does not apply to you, however, your sibling may argue otherwise.)
For instance, the 17-year-old girl ,who has chaired numerous council meetings,scared the living daylight out of my by screaming blue bloody murder about stepping on a bee which, with further investigation, turned out to be a screw that had popped out of the kitchen chair. 

Despite all their shortcomings, they’re the ones who have to make conversation with awkward relatives and you get to recycle their colour coded school notes too. They toss cookies down to you from the top bunk at midnight and tell you truthfully when you’re out of line. My sister is the Buzz to my Woody and the bird crap on my windscreen- reminding me that it’s my turn to wash the car. 


Hello there and welcome to my very first blog post, may this be the commencement of a long string of entertaining, if not slightly useless, articles that will garnish you day like that unnecessary sliver of orange that clings to your margarita glass- pretty, bright and good for your health.
So I don’t know about you, but the summer vacation bears a certain amount of expectation for self-improvement for me, and with that comes stress- barrels of it. Waking up each morning is like having a gallon of cold milk forced up your nostrils. The prospect of filling a blissful day of Nothing with Something Productive seems like an impossible task. The robustness of my self-motivation resembles that of an egg shell- if I’m peckish, it’ll most likely crack and end up amongst tea leaves and mouldy lemons.

I am currently one week into my seven week stretch of Nothing and so far, I have consumed thrice my body weight in cereal and read two chapters of The Great Gatsby, thus realising that Buchanan is pronounced boo-can-un and not buck-a-nun, which sounds suspiciously like a wild party game.

This afternoon, after polishing off my third helping of Country Crisp, my eggs felt reasonably un cracked  and I finally felt the deep rumble of inspiration that lead me to this post – on the other hand it may have been indigestion. Either way, I was doing Something, I was creating Something, and it felt good.

So to my fellow noodles, do not despair, these event-less times of dangerous Nothing call for creative measures. If you feel your eggs cracking, create the most supreme sandwich the world will never see and share a full bellied laugh with the closest person to your right, take up the glockenspiel, dress the neighbour’s cat, do anything and have it be enough.