Home is Where the Heart is...but Where is That Again?

Saturday 28 December 2019

Home is Where the Heart is...but Where is That Again?

I'm currently sat writing this on the Quay in Westport; pretty special place for a pretty special post. At least, that's what I think anyways.

Sorry for the delays but I guess it's never too late to say it: Merry X-mas and all that good stuff. If you celebrated, I hope you went hard on the roasties and the red. If you're working over the festive period, I salute you with a leftover roast parsnip. Someone has to keep the country running!

It's that awkward time of year between the 25th and New Years' when no one really knows what's going on. You barely know your own name, never mind the day of the week. We're all just kind of fumbling around and mooching and relaxing in the pure bliss of standstill. Time just seems to grind to a halt those few days. Especially round these parts.

In case you didn't know, Westport is a tiny lil town on the west coast of Ireland. Heard of it? Probably not. Heard of Mayo? The county that has that holy pilgrimage and is supposedly cursed against winning old Sammy each year? Hmmm...maybe so.

My parents are from round here and they always claim that it's "home." They often remark that we may as well think of it as "home" too and, to be honest, I see their point. As children, we were sent back on the ferry most Christmases and for a month every summer to the piss-pouring rain, soilage and sandy beaches. We'd chase cows around fields and play pool in the pub and throw ourselves into the waves in the middle of December with mum screaming that we'd "catch our deaths" - not before we'd nearly fall off Croagh Padraic (true story). All without wifi and a working television. I know - alternative universe, right? No wonder I'm a big reader.

Given all the time we've spent here and the amount of relatives that still live in and around Mayo, I think it's fair to say that this wee corner of the world is another piece of my "home" too.

I've been thinking about the idea of "home" a lot lately. I don't know why. My mum will read this and claim that I miss her too much and should move back to Leigh effective immediately (she's probably got my suitcase out ready to go by the end of this sentence)! But it's not like I miss her. Which sounds awful. Because I do - obviously. I love my parents and my childhood home and where I grew up (although you might be one of the roughest areas in the North West, the largest European town without a train station, and a newly-turned-blue constituency *still a bit bitter*). I miss them a lot. But not in a sad way, if that makes any sense.

I miss them in the sense I wish they could be experiencing my every day alongside me. I guess it's their presence I miss more than anything. In that sense, I think "home" can be found in several things, in many ways. Home obviously means many different things to different people. It can be a security thing; a place you can build from. It can be a unity thing; amongst the people in which you find comfort. It can be where all your memories are. I mean, Oxford Dictionary defines home as "where something flourishes, is typically found or from where it originates." Covering all the bases there, OD; I see you!

I think of "home" and I automatically think of the house I grew up in, mainly because it's the easiest and most simple of associations. But, then again, a house is just a house. It's a bunch of bricks, corners and a roof. It's more what's going on inside that interests me. Like, my childhood house is a shrine to my ideas of home. Mainly because there are still four other people floating around it but the echoes of their presence (and my own) can still be found. Glasses dumped on the kitchen counter, only to be scrambled for in a fit of forgetfully blind* (pun$) panic later on (Mum); letters addressed to either one of the Mr. J. Maxwells present at any time, most likely to be opened mistakenly by the wrong one; a folder or two of homework to be desperately completed in time for the morning (Lils).

If anyone was to ask me where I was from, or where I was born, I would say Leigh (actually, I'd say "near Manchester" to sound hashtag cool). If anyone was to ask me where I grew up, I would say Leigh and Birmingham. If anyone was to ask me where home was, though, I think I'd struggle a little.

If home was a jigsaw, then I'm privileged enough to say that I have several pieces that build its picture. I can say Leigh because I was born there and grew up there. I can say Peaky-Blinder-Ville, where I also spent a lot of my childhood. I can say Ireland. I even say London now, much to my parents' dismay. But living in London doesn't automatically make me a Londoner; nor does having Irish parents make me from Ireland, or Brummy parents make me a Brummy too (thank God!) I can say I'm from Leigh...but do I honestly find home there now? I'm not quite sure.

The thought of moving back there post-graduation made me feel physically sick. Having to move back into my childhood bedroom, go past my old school each day, look for work in this tiny ex-mining town with absolutely nothing going for it (especially now its blue *ok, very bitter*) made me want to curl up into a little ball and cry. A bit dramatic, maybe, but true. I know that Manchester is less than half an hour down the road, but it isn't the same, no matter what which way you look at it. After building a little life for myself far away from "home", the though of returning to Leigh was too much to bear. I'm still not entirely sure why...it just was.

I know nearly all grads go through this. And it probably would have been easier (and a ton cheaper!) to up sticks and move back in with my parents. Save up money for my masters, for travelling, whatever. But here I am, six months later, with a job that I love, with a bank account that hates me, and my own little life that I am slowly building. I have my friends. I have my flat. I get to write every day for a living. Sure, I barely make ends meet when I am supposed to be saving to go back to university and stuff, but what does that matter, when I am trying to build myself something of a "home" here?

Maybe "home" isn't necessarily about where you were born or where you grew up, then. Maybe it isn't really anything to do with where you spent your childhood. Maybe it's where you find yourself the most settled.

Tony's Table - stuff of Louisburgh legend.

But the idea of "settled" is broad and generic and kind of scary to me. I would never ever want to feel like I was settling...whether that be in terms of location, in terms of career prospects, whatever. Settling makes me feel like something is less than. Comfortable, no matter how appealing, can feel a bit dangerous to me, in certain circumstances. What's the point in "settling" when you can push harder, reach higher, whatever?

I found this juxtaposition in America last year. If the airport was my home, my passport was my front door key. I was anything but settled, really, but in some places, I felt very much at home. Boston's North End? Mate, I would move there in a heartbeat. I can't really explain why. I just had this overwhelming feeling of comforting familiarity when I walked through the streets, as if I knew them like the back of my hand when I had barely spent an hour there. I felt very much a part of the city. Looking back, it felt like home...even though it most certainly wasn't. I felt very settled in a place that I wasn't trying to settle in (one day, maybe!)

I'm talking round in circles (lol what's new!) So maybe no explanation is really needed for "home." It's just where you feel the most at ease. Sometimes it's the house in which you grew up. Sometimes it's the place you currently find yourself. Maybe it's the memories you retain from that place in that country at that time (BOSTON I'LL COME BACK I SWEAR WAIT FOR ME!)

For something that appears so simple, home is actually a pretty complex psychology. It's memory. It's placement. It's people. It's time. Just because I'm not moving back to Leigh or Westport, Mum, doesn't make it any less "home." It's just a different kind of home.

PS: I don't actually hate Birmingham (that much ;) ); just an ongoing joke!

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I'm a Chandler Bing and Bridget Jones Crossbreed and Here's Why

Tuesday 3 December 2019

I'm a Chandler Bing and Bridget Jones Crossbreed and Here's Why

This is a long one but, trust me, you won't want to miss out on sharing in my humiliation.

Want to hear how much of a mess I am? Let me tell you about the time I accidentally ended up on a ‘date’ of some sorts with the purest, kindest hearted, albeit middle-aged, builder in Tower Hill who never called me back.


It’s the kind of story I will never live down. It’s the tale my friends bring up from time to time when they’re wanting to have a go at me. And, to quote one of my oldest (and honest) friends: “Bridget Jones can move aside because Kerry Maxwell is alive and (just about) functioning.”

Where to begin?


A bit of context, I guess. I live in quite an old property in London’s East End. It’s pretty sick but needs a bit of refurbishment. Basic stuff – a bit of plaster work, some painting, you know the drill* (lol pun$). My landlord arranges for a builder to come out and survey the flat one cold, windy, Sunday afternoon in October.


My flatmate is out protesting for the day. I’m taking advantage of my alone time (aka: oldest, fluffiest pyjamas, Hinching my way across the flat with the help of some biodegradable Dettol wipes and reruns of Louis Theroux on the TV). Yes, my flatmate and I were both born after 1997 and like avocados, if that isn’t obvious enough already. *sidenote; I am the most Chandler person to walk the planet and I feel like this story serves to prove this. You’ll see.

I’ve done a massive mop of the kitchen and living room floors – yes, I’m that flatmate. The back door is open to help speed up the drying process. Then my phone begins to ring…and this is where our story starts.


I answer the phone to the builder (let’s call him Wes), who is parked up outside the building, asking me which door number the flat is. I tell him it and decide to go outside on the balcony, waving out to show him.


Polite? Sure. Stupid? Ridiculously so. Shoeless, penguin-patterned ridiculousness.  


I have the phone against my hear and my arm over the balcony waving into the gust of wind that’s beating against my face. I’m talking to Wes; I ask if he can see me and he can, so I turn to go and buzz him in the main door. But as soon as I turn – and I kid you not, literally as I turn to face the door, – it slams shut. Right there. In front of my face.


In the two years I have lived in this flat I have never once locked myself out. Not once. But, of course, because I’m me, it happens right then, with a builder on the phone ready to come and look at some refurbishments. What should be a quick 20-minute-job is now going to be a rather different story.


“Shit! I’m locked out!”


“You’re joking?” Wes laughs down the phone.


“No seriously. I’ve locked us out.”

Wes continues to piss himself down the phone as I enter a minor state of panic. I tell him I’ll go down and open the main door to let him up. I race down and stand in a puddle in my fluffy socks on my way. Life.


I greet a chuckling Wes at the door who automatically stops laughing when he sees the state of my existence. I am wearing my pyjama shorts, holey (and now soaking) socks and a sulk that could probably burn a hole in the ground (but probs not through the wood of my door).


Wes follows me upstairs as I begin profusely apologising for my stupidity and he tells me not to worry, that “it happens all the time.” We both know it doesn’t.


Avoiding the puddle, I show him the door, which he quickly declares he can’t unlock with any of his tools; something to do with the latch or something like that. Wasn’t really paying attention tbh. Was busy trying not to die of hyperthermia/embarrassment.


Before you ask, yes, I was hurriedly texting my flatmate. Wes states I should try ringing her. I do. Three times.


“She’s protesting today,” I explain. “She’s probably not going to hear her phone.” By the look on his face, Wes does not approve.


“She a vegan, yeah?”


I wished he could see her Chinese takeaway boxes left out for recycling on the kitchen table. I guess he’d need to be inside the flat to see those. Lol.


I tell him she isn’t vegan or veggie or anything like that. I opt to keep my own animal-free dietary requirements on the downlow.


So, at this point the lovely Wes and Miss STUPID Soggy Socks are stood on the balcony, wondering what to do next. With no keys and no appropriate tools, we’re in a bit of a pickle. And a breezy one at that – London’s freezing today (of course.)


We begin chatting because Wes is genuinely a friendly guy who clearly pities me and I’m Northern so polite small talk is woven into the fabric of my being. We’re mainly laughing at how ridiculous this whole thing is, with some minor weather chat to break up the conversation.


We’ve been talking for a good while at this point and I decide to try my flatmate again. Wes says he needs to nip to his van for something and that he’ll be back up in a minute. I watch him from the balcony pull something bulky and bright out of his vehicle and wander back towards my building, signalling for me to let him in.


Puddle avoided (get in!), I go to open the main door. I’m greeted with a smiley Wes who offers me some size 12 work boots and a massive coat with a reflective vest. He says I can wear them to keep warm, then makes a joke about bringing up his helmet too. At this point, I could cry; this is the nicest gesture I could possibly imagine. I’m freezing cold. I throw on his coat and pull on his boots and make my way upstairs behind him, deliberately stepping in the puddle this time simply because I can.


We begin chatting again outside my front door. He asks me where I am from and all that polite small talk stuff. I do the same. We’re getting on like a house on fire as time passes. That is, until I feel a small buzz come from my phone: a text from my flatmate.


She states she’ll be a while; she’s right in the middle of the protest and the tubes are all delayed. Brill. I quote her text to Wes and he rolls his eyes.


“Right! Come on, then, we’ll get in the van and go find a Screwfix and get a coffee or something!”


Erm. What.


Yes, fellow Twitterer, a man I have known for less than 30 minutes has offered to whisk me away in his white, windowless van to get some tools to break down my own front door, with the scent of a pumpkin spiced latte to make things sweeter and seasonal.


Did I go? Of course I did. I’m stupid, remember?


OK, in all seriousness, never ever get in a van with a stranger. It’s Stranger Danger 101. Never put yourselves in uncomfortable, dangerous situations. Do as I say, not as I do, and all that stuff.


But, yeah. I got in the van. I’m sorry, Mum.


Wes was telling me as we made our way over to his vehicle that he had worked nearby on Canary Wharf when it was being built up around fifteen years before. He knew the area pretty well and that a Screwfix or Leyland’s or something would be around.


Pity was, guys, it was approaching 4 pm on a Sunday. Nothing was going to be open at this point.

“We can try” Wes stated, as we zoomed off. He’s behind the wheel. I’m sat next to him in his site jacket and boots. Ever the efficient co-pilot, I directed him towards the one tool shop I knew of close by. I specifically stated to turn left onto the main road.


Twitterer, Wes turned right.


And, for want of a better phrase, I shit myself.


Rather guiltily, I look back and recall how terrified I was for those couple of minutes. I remember stiffening and planning my James-Bond-inspired swift ejection out of the passenger door if we slowed down in traffic. With one hand on the door handle, I subtly took out my phone and messaged my best friend, Ben (who had received minute-by-minute updates of the situation at hand anyways). I told him to keep his phone close by.


“Whoops” Wes goes. “Sorry, I’m crap with my left and right.”


He does a swift U-turn. I sigh with relief and take my hand off the door handle.


It’s 4:02 pm when we make it to the shop and, because only fittingly with the day at hand, it isn’t open.


I look at Wes. He looks at me. It’s like time has stopped. We’re parked up on one of London’s largest, busiest roads – full of cars, full of people and, for a moment, it’s just the two of us. It’s like the world outside has gone silent. We sit in his white, windowless van in a state of confusion. Neither of us know entirely what to do.


And that is when Wes says the most beautiful thing. The one magical word each and every Brit knows and loves. It’s the word we long to hear. It’s the word we crave. It’s the word that puts all other words to bed and silences every fear and worry that plagues us. It’s the word that both Wes and I wanted – scratch that, needed – at this precise moment in time.


“Pub?” Wes says.


I sigh. “Pub.” I agree.


Wes decides to take us on a quick guided tour in the direction of St. Katharine’s Docks, in search of a pub with “decent grub,” he says. On the way, he shows me the buildings he worked on; he tells me what it was once like round here. He shows me which roads he sat in two hours’ worth of traffic in. I tell him a similar story from back home when I learned to drive in a van pretty much the same as the one we’re sat in. It’s like Aladdin’s magic carpet ride…if Aladdin was a balding Cockney and Jasmine wore construction vests and drove in a van alongside the Thames.


Wes and I are driving and chatting and having a whale of a time. I get a text from my flatmate who confirms she’ll be back home in around an hour. “Plenty of time for some food,” Wes muses.

I agree silently. I mean, after all this trauma, I can think of nothing better.


We somehow have made our way to a specific pub Wes had in mind. Wes likes it here, he tells me, as we park up. And, all of a sudden, it just hits me that I’m about to go into one of the city’s nicest and most famous pubs in my fluffy penguin pyjama shorts, boots that are six sizes too big for me and a site jacket. And I have never relished the opportunity more.


“You coming or what?” Wes asks, waking me up from my daydream.


“Right behind you,” I reply, waddling towards the pub door as best I can. Like Stormzy, “I’ve got the big size 12s on my feet” but, most unlike Stormzy, I’m struggling and look less than cool.


We wander in and no one bats an eyelid. Seriously. Not one person looks up. It’s at this point I realise London truly is the most self-concerned city in the whole, entire world.


Wes and I chat as we order Diet Cokes at the bar and look for a table to sit at. When we pick our spot right by the window, overlooking the moored yachts, Wes begins to tell me stories of a friend of his who sails. But a thought has creeped back into my head and my mind starts to whir into overdrive. I have no money to pay for my meal or drink.


I think of a word that begins with F and ends with UCK. Whilst Wes is musing over the menu, I shift in my seat and adjust my site jacket; I quiet my hunger pangs. I’ll just have to wait, I think. When Wes settles on a big portion of Nachos, I mumble that I’m not all that hungry and I’ll pass. He scoffs. “Of course you’ll get something! I’m not eating on my own!”


I explain to him the situation and he smiles, insisting I order anything I want. “It’s no problem. Please, pick something.”


I could cry (yet again – I know, I’m a fragile wreck, soz!) This man, who I barely know, is willing to pay for my food and drink. Guilt, happiness, everything is washing over me at this point. Wes, you pure hearted angel light worker. What a man.


I promise I’ll give him the cash for both my food and his when we get back to my flat. I’m not letting him pay for anything today; he’s done more than enough as it is. But Wes won’t hear of it. I conclude that we’ll deal with it later and settle for the trio of hummus on the menu; it’s one of the cheapest items there is and anyone who knows me knows that the redness that constitutes my blood is not made up of oxygen but rather stained with the goodness of blended beetroot and chickpeas. That stuff is the nectar of the gods. Pret, if you wanna sponsor me, I’m happy to talk.


Wes goes up to the bar and orders for us as I quickly take out my phone to scan through the unopened messages of concern from Ben. I confirm that I am alive and well and about to enjoy some hummus. Ben sends me the finger emoji.


Wes returns and we chat again. Turns out his brother-in-law is a vague (very, very, very vague) connection of my dad. Small world, the construction field. Too small, I reckon.


Twitterers, I wish I could end the story here, in hummus happiness and fun. I wish I could tell you that this was a ‘happily ever after’ kind of tackle. You’re probably thinking it’s all smooth-going from here. I wish I could tell you it was.


Humorously (or hummusly, if you will) it wasn’t. The story gets so much worse.


We sit and wait for our food. The conversation has sort of dried up at this point. It’s not an uncomfortable silence per say; it’s just that we have nothing else to really say to each other. “No point chatting rubbish,” I think, so I continue looking out the window at the boats; Wes is very much glued to the screen to the left of him, watching some sporting highlights.


Eventually the clatter of a kitchen door sounds and I turn around to face the noise. I might feel guilty but I’m also beyond starving and I can’t help but feel excited…I mean, it’s hummus, after all (if you know me, you know how it is!) The pity is, it’s Wes’ food that comes out first. I get that niggling jealousy for a hot second; you know the feeling, don’t deny it. However, it, all of a sudden, fades away when I notice how his eyes light up with delight as he spies the cheesy, creamy, crispy plate that wafts a warming aroma of spice across the room. But, as polite as ever, Wes restrains himself from digging into his dish until I insist he begins.


“Honestly, I don’t mind waiting. Enjoy it!” I say.


Wes doesn’t need telling twice.


The waiter informs me that my own meal will arrive shortly; I’m a bit confused how a plate of hummus and carrot sticks is taking longer than Wes’ Nachos but, obviously, I don’t outwardly question it. I thank the waitress as she tiptoes away. She looks back over her shoulder in my direction, taking in the scenario that she sees before her. She appears confused.


I mean, at this point, I think we all are, babes.


Anyways, I offer her a tight smile (retail taught me well) and turn to face Wes who, all of a sudden, begins to splutter. Twitterer, Wes started choking on his meal. Right there in front of me.


Anyone who knows me knows that anybody choking near me is one of my greatest fears (#childhoodtrauma). I can’t express how much it scares me, especially when others around me begin spluttering on their food. I wish I could say I sprang into action and took control of the situation like some kind of hero but, Twitterer, I stiffened with fear. I just didn’t know what to do; this large, older man sat directly across from me had swallowed a whole jalapeno and was coughing crazily. I pathetically offer to go and grab him a glass of water, but I think he could sense my fear because he decided to go up himself, trying to contain his coughs on his way. My eyes follow him up to the bar, checking that he’s still able to function, but my arse stays glued to my seat. I’m terrified.


But the horrifying hilarity ensues.


I can hear an interruptive, polite cough in the distance. I peel my gaze away from the seemingly recovering Wes and lock eyes with the waitress from earlier who is carrying my meal. And, all of a sudden, the weird look from before makes a whole lot more sense.


I mean, it’s pretty obvious why she looked at me weird on the one hand. I look ridiculous. But now, I get it.


In her arms, the waitress was carrying three huge trays. Huge. Like massive. And each tray contained a trio of hummus.


Twitterer, I had been given three separate trios of hummus. I was left with nine bowls of the stuff!


Dream or nightmare? You can decide.

9 bowls of hummus later....

No wonder the waitress looked at me so weirdly. There had clearly been some miscommunication at the bar when Wes had ordered our food. Looking back, I think he must have said “the three hummus,” meaning the trio. However, the waitress took this as three different trios aka nine portions of hummus for one person.


Before I can confirm what the hell is actually happening around me, the waitress walks away. I’m left alone in my penguin pyjama shorts and site jacket, with nine bowls of hummus and the echoes of a guy I barely know choking a few feet away from me on a spicy pepper.


I want the ground to swallow me up in a sink hole of embarrassed horror. I can actually feel myself burning red as people begin to take notice of what is happening around me.


I text Ben, not knowing what to do. Do I run? Do I call an ambulance for Wes? Like, what is happening? He replies with crying laughing emojis and a series of messages along the lines of “I’m dying” and “Kerry, this is amazing” and "Only you" – helpful, right?


Before long, Wes is fully recovered and wandering back to enjoy his now much-cooler and soggier nachos. He doesn’t appear to notice the seismic, rainbowed cosmos of blended chickpeas before me at first. Instead, he begins scraping off the jalapenos from the crisps.


And then he looks up.


“What is that?” He wonders aloud, pointing to the dishes in front of me.


“I think there might have been a mistake…” I hint.


“Wait there,” he says. And he storms back up to the bar.


I don’t know what really happened up there. I let my ears fill up with the crunching of my carrot sticks as I tuck into just one dish; the scene before me plays like a silent film: there’s a whole lot of pointing and wagging fingers and turning around. I have never felt so helpless in my life, eating a meal I hadn’t even paid for, chewing extra slowly due the events that had played out moments earlier.


Can you picture the scene? Three or four people arguing at the bar and little old me in fluffy penguin shorts and a site jacket digging into beetroot hummus? It’s actually joke-worthy.


Anyways, Wes comes back to tell me it’s all sorted and that one trio of hummus has now been paid for. They’ll come and gather the other plates away after. I nod in awkward, silent acknowledgment, my mouth full. He tucks back into his now-stone-cold Nachos.


It’s silent for a while. Neither of us know what to say.


And that’s when I fall apart in hysterics. I begin cackling in the most awkward laughter because I just don’t know what to do.


“I’m sorry,” I laugh, wiping tears from my cheeks. “This is so bad, it’s funny. I don’t know who else this could possibly happen to!”


There’s a theory that laughter is contagious, and, in that very moment, I knew that it was true, because Wes began to join in, snorting in peals of laughter. We two just sit there, laughing over our food for the remainder of our time eating. We must have looked a right sight.


Really, we must have done. Because every server in the pub seemed to avoid our table. We’re there, finished, and no one comes to take away our plates. No one comes to remove the two extra trios of hummus that have gone untouched.


We sit across from each other, tears trickling from our eyes, because there is simply nothing else to do but laugh. We’re a state, losing ourselves in the cackles, until I hear a buzz from my phone.


“My flatmate’s text!” I cry out. “The District line’s suspended. She’s walking from Bethnal Green right now. She’ll be ten minutes.”


Wes looks up at me and tells me that we’ll hit the road and meet her back at the flat. Our date at the pub is coming to a close and, though I’m relieved, it’s somewhat bittersweet.


We begin to pull ourselves together when I notice that the servers still had never collected the trio of hummus. We consider taking some with us to the homeless guy we passed coming inside, who is set up outside the front of the pub.


“Seems a waste otherwise,” Wes states.


I agree with him.


It’s not stealing if it’s being given to the needy, right?


Anyways: we make it back to the van and whisk ourselves away in the direction of Stepney Green and the mothership. We chatter away to each other for the duration of the smooth journey home, agreeing that this has turned into quite the day.


We park up and wander towards the flat. My flatmate texts me to tell me she’s inside.


I’ve never been so glad to see my hallway; I pretty much fall inside as my flatmate greets us.

Wes gets on with the job he was meant to do about three hours ago. He checks out the situation, commenting on my clean floors (thanks, pal!). He says he’ll be in ring myself and our landlord with a price and to confirm some dates. I try to give him the money for the food and drinks but he won’t take it. I thank him most dearly as I wave him off – from the safety of my hallway this time around. He waves to me, carrying his boots and coat to the van, and drives off into the sunset, with the promise that he’ll be in touch. It’s like the closing scene of a film.


But, unfortunately, communication faded pretty quickly after a few email exchanges. Wes never started on our refurbishment. He never called me back. I never got the chance to say a proper goodbye.


And that’s it, Twitterers. The sorry tale of the most bizarre, embarrassing job-turned-‘date’ in history.


What a way to spend a Sunday afternoon, right?


When Wes left, I collapsed to the ground in a heap of all things guilt and embarrassment and horror and laughter. I turned to my flatmate and narrated her the day’s events. She sat aghast: “It was like a story,” she said. It couldn’t possibly be real life. But it very much was. It’s the kind of story you just can’t make up – like when Chandler gets locked in the ATM with a model during the NYC power cut in that old Friends episode. I told you…we are so similar, it’s scary!


If you ever think you’re having a bad day, or you’re in the midst of an embarrassing crisis, or whatever, just think about my wild afternoon on Sunday 13^th October 2019. It’s forever engrained in my head as the best worst day in my entire life and the funniest accident to ever occur. I’ll probably never live it down, in the most Chandler Bing of ways. In fact, it's my friends who have encouraged me to write it down in a Bridget-Jones-inspired manner, simply because it is too good not to!


So there you have it, folks. I'm a complete wreck of a person - a Chandler Bing and Bridget Jones crossbreed. Hey, at least I have fun stories, though!

Not taken on 13/10/19 but a pretty accurate portrayal of my existence on said-mentioned day.

PS: shoutout to Wes for being such a decent human being. We should all be a little more like you J!

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Typing Typing Typing

Thursday 28 November 2019

Typing Typing Typing

I have a typewriter on my desk in my bedroom, and it's probably the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me. Not only does it seriously appeal to my overly romantic sensibilities and love of all things retro (wow I'm so cool wow validate my hashtag coolness), but I find it an extremely useful tool when it comes to throwing out some words on a sheet of paper.

Yeah, obviously, because it's a typewriter? Like, I use it to literally write, so, yeah, it's a useful tool? U ok hun?

I think I mean 'tool' in a more metaphorically productive sense, rather than literal.

I love my typewriter for many different things. It's bright orange, for starters. Win. (Wow, it's like my friends know me or something!)

Even more importantly, I love my typewriter because there are absolutely no distractions. There are no email notifications; there's no Twitter; there's nothing to "just quickly check", only to find yourself 45 minutes into a true crime podcast (today's came courtesy of the Moors Murderers and, although extremely fascinating yet quite disturbing, it was not helping me write about points of interest in Madrid.)

Getting distracted is one of the biggest problems I have when I write. When I find my "flow," it's impossible to pull me away from my work; I've been known to start work at 10am and finish at 2am (with a pause at some point to go outside and actually face other humans). Until I get into it, though, you'll find me cleaning or practicing unicycling (sidenote: it's not going well) or doing something completely irrelevant and time-consuming just because it's super easy to turn my attention elsewhere when the words aren't jumping out.

To be fair, I can be extremely disciplined. I'm good at self-restraint when I want to be. However, the Procrastination Princess tiara is one I wear pretty well at the best of times.

And that's why my typewriter is so useful. It's archaic (ok, no, it's from the 70s) but it means I can't get distracted. It's just me and some keys and a sheet of paper. It's just me and some words. And that's what I love most about it.

Ok, it's pretty annoying not having a backspace or an undo button when you make a mistake and it really makes you realise that the 'copy and paste' function is pretty much a lifesaver. But not being able to edit the text like you would on a laptop makes me elaborate my thoughts. No interruptions; just me, typing thoughtfully.

You have to be pretty focused; you can't mess things up. A pathetic tap on the key will leave faded ink that's pretty much impossible to read. If you get overexcited and type too quickly, then quickly want to retract a statement or phrase...oops, too late. Making your mark on the sheet in front of you takes power. You really have to pause and think: is this what I want to say? Is this the tone I want to convey? Do I really want to use that word?

It's like you're strategizing. The tactile ways of the typewriter forces you to think. Sure, you could skip back and cross out faults (I can almost smell the secondary school fascination with Tipex right here from my kitchen!) but they're always going to be on the page. Every strike of the keys is a strike that's filled with truth.

If there's something I've learned from typewriting, it's that I care too much about getting it right. I'd never noticed it before; when you're working from a laptop or a tablet or whatever, you don't realise how much you linger over a completed sentence before you complete erase it and rephrase or rewrite it. You don't realise how much the backspace is your best friend.

But not having the ability to spell-check or auto-save or whatever on my typewriter is kind of what is so beautiful about it. The simple permanence of the words I put down on the page at the risk of all the hassle of not liking or wanting to change them is what writing is all about - at least, to me. It's what we are thinking right then and there, in that particular moment. And marking it down in the permanency of ink gives it a kind of legacy.

This is why I often think that what I write on my typewriter is better than what I write on my laptop (awks bcos lol that's my job but oh well!). I think it's because I take my time with my typewriter. I linger over the keys a lot longer. There is rarely a spelling mistake or a grammatical error or whatever, because I spend minutes pondering over each and every sentence. Compare that to my blog, for example, or early drafts of my articles, and it's actually laughable. You can practically hear the chimes of the clock painstakingly ticking through the ink on the page, sensing the amount of time it took me to just complete that one sentence. 

But, yeah, she's a pretty charming machine. I love her dearly - even if the Q and T keys stick from time to time. 

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The Skinny on Weight Loss Kulture

Saturday 9 November 2019

The Skinny on Weight Loss Kulture

Kardashian Kulture - 'tea,' for want of a better word.

Ok, that was hardly original but, hey, maybe I caught your attention.

Before I begin shitting* on this detox-tea-laxative-Kulture (*yep, pun intended), I want to make a quick disclaimer. By no means do I want to offend anyone using or promoting these products. I'm not here to shame or 'cancel' any influencers I namedrop in this essay. I'm not targeting anyone; I'm not a bully or anything like that.

I'm just being honest because - let's be real - it's about time someone was.

This past Wednesday, Kim Kardashian-West revealed to The New York Times, alongside her mother, that she’s pretty chill when it comes to her acceptance of paid ads because the money goes to her prison reform work.

“If I have a paid post that comes in and I think, ‘ok, well this can fund x amount of people that are behind bars, that can help free them with simple legal fees that they just can’t afford, then that would be worth it to me, even if the post might be a little bit off-brand for me,’” she said. “I really weigh out different things now than I used to.”

Weigh out? Hilarious. Couldn’t have punned it better myself, Ms Kardashian-West. I’ll give you that.

But, on a more serious note, what is this stuff? Seriously? What is this?

The mountain of data we sit on indicates that the pseudoscience of celebrity, specifically the Kardashian, K(c)ulture of weight loss, is built on nothing but laxative lies. 

Claims of needing to "beat the bloat" and to hit a "goal weight by 40" with the help of products like Detox Shakes and Flat Tummy Teas lead to approximately 23,000 A & E visits every year in the USA. The statistics provided by the Centre for Disease Control and Prevention indicates that half of these visits are made by young girls, aged between 5 and 19, who have taken some kind of weight loss or energy supplement. 

Thank u Flickr for the photo, I appreciate u xo

Now, I'm not saying Kim Kardashian, her sisters, or other celebrity influencers are straight up liars - yet, anyway. They could easily be scapegoats. And I'm not here to shit* (DJ KHALED...anotha pun) on them; they are their own people; they have their own social media pages and can make whatever decisions they want. Should they choose to promote the pseudosciences of a weight loss myth, that's cool with me. Well, it's not really, but that's a different blog post. 

What I'm wanting to get at today is the link KKW makes between detox products and prison reform. 

Claiming that spon-con funds her prison reform campaigns? Oh my god. Wow. 

Ms. Kardashian-West, I want to like you. I really do. At times, I think you're business-savvy and, with the help of your intelligent, albeit manipulative, mother, you've marketed on what was something of a public disaster and have since built an empire. I like to think that you and your family, as entertaining as you are to follow on social media, are hard-working. When I heard about your desire to train as a lawyer and make some headway into the world of prison reform, I applauded you. I thought "with her massive platform...why not?"

But, in the space of thirty seconds, you ruined it all. 

Your claim that sponsored posts helped fund your prison reform angle liquified what could have been a hugely respected passion project into laxative shite. The dollar bills you make from each post claiming that "you love this tea" and "it helps beat the bloat" may as well be used to wipe your arse because, from my perspective, that's all it's good for. 

No law degree can erase or change the fact that influencers such as Kim Kardashian-West, her younger sibling Kylie Jenner, Cardi B, and so many others, are responsible for contributing to a generation of young people suffering with eating disorders. 

And I'm just so confused as to why KKW had to link her social media content to prison reformation? How on earth can a woman who has so much money need to post sponsored content to fund what could be, for instance, a massively successful charity campaign? Is it simply just greed? Am I missing something here?

As your many followers rest on their knees, heads dipped into the toilet bowl, vomiting up what little food they ate today, you sit in your Beverley Hills mansion with walls that are tainted green – not with the millions of dollar bills you earned from just one Flat Tummy Shake post, but with the green-tea-infused-diarreah of thousands of people whose arseholes are burning with shame, secrecy and a desire to be just like you. But...not really like you, right? "Off-brand", remember?

You're advocating for prison reform, and that's something I whole-heartedly respect. But you may as well rewrite the law in a pen that uses the vomit of your followers instead of ink because, babe, you're not really making a difference. Not from what I can see, anyways. You're simply feeding* (*pun, yep – you guessed it – intended) into the society you supposedly want to change, make better, make fairer.

Tell me how it is fair that you manipulate vulnerable young people. Tell me how you taking their money, admitting its not always legit, and using it to fund your prison reform project is fair. Please. No, genuinely - I would love it if you could explain it to me because, from over here, I'm struggling to see any correlation between your Instagram feed and suffering prisoners.

As Jameela Jamil (a T4 and Twitter LEGEND!) so incredibly and articulately put, these Instagram influencers simply feed into the whole game. Jamil calls them "agents of the patriarchy" and I completely agree. The only difference is that it's just moved from whispers in the corridor of a long-time establishment right into the digital age, confronting us 24/7. Maternity leave queries and diet pills - all different branches of the same tree. 

And it no longer makes me angry. It used to. I used to rage at these kinds of posts because of the way it used to trigger people I know (and me sometimes) into a body dysmorphic downward spiral. And I was so embarrassed at first, because I thought I was so much stronger and capable than all that. I didn’t think I could be so malleable and vulnerable at the hands of a fucking picture, of all things. But, it's different now; I no longer am ashamed of the way I, amongst thousands, could have easily fell victim. I cringe, yeah, sure. But not at myself.

I feel sad for you promoters and influencers, instead. Seeing those kinds of posts make me sad; like, I'm sat writing this and my eyes are stinging and my chest is tight and all I want to do is give you a big hug because, clearly, you're struggling with all of this too.

That's what I tell myself, anyway. I have to. You must be finding all of this so painful to do. I don't want to believe that another human being - especially a parent - can be as cold and as calculating as to promote products that slowly kill the bowels and brains of young people. All for another couple of Ks.

Greed? Maybe. Gross? Definitely. Keep your million-dollar-paycheque, influencers. I’m happy it’s worth it. Just know that your new car doesn't run on petrol or diesel or electric charge; it's runs on the churning vomit of your followers. Each time you rev your engine and drive just that bit faster down Rodeo Drive or by Bondi Beach or wherever you've just bought your new apartment with marble countertops to display your Detox Shake, let the sound of it echo in your brain. If you listen hard enough, you might be able to hear the rumbling, rotting stomachs of all those people who have bought into your cold, calculating greed.

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The Fear and Flickering Flames

Wednesday 6 November 2019

The Fear and Flickering Flames

"The Fear and Flickering Flames?" Probably just as pretentious as it sounds - you've been warned. 

Sometimes I just sit and think about how amazing our potential is as human beings. Global warming, murderous and narcissistic flaws aside, humans can be (and often are) fucking incredible. Liver regeneration, for one. The ability to blush – which is, according to Darwin, “the most human of all expressions.” And our upright posture and speech is pretty sick too.

On a deeper level (because where else would I go, let’s be honest?), humans are exceptional in the sense that we are able to tap into near-supernatural willpower when we know what we really want. 

When we are clear on matters, it’s like a flame flickers in our bellies, burning every obstacle or inconvenience in our midst, until we get to where we want to go. I mean, you always hear tons of stories about superhuman feats in those chatty weeklies about dog-mothers ripping off car doors to save their pets and people scaling buildings to reach kids who have somehow managed to climb out of a window and get themselves stuck. Despite everything going against them, the most truly determined of humans overcome whatever circumstances face them and charge ahead.

Of course, there’s always ‘The Fear’ argument; the idea that these people are more scared than superhuman isn’t exactly shocking. I mean, fear makes us do the craziest yet coolest of things. However, I don’t really want to focus on this part of human willpower today.

Willpower, to me, is the most important trait that we carry as humans. I think it encompasses a whole ton of stuff – the ability to comprehend and understand, the ability to learn, the ability to communicate. There is nothing more important to willpower, at least to me. 

There is something so incredibly sacred about knowing what you want. And, sometimes, there is nothing more difficult to figure out. Sometimes it feels like until you know what it is that you want, it’s almost impossible to start building an existence surrounding it. Kind of like a human cell without a nucleus, you know; the main bit with all the good stuff in it.

Maybe I’m coming off as too ambitious or up my own arse when I say that. It’s just that, sometimes, ordinariness feels a bit mundane and empty to me when there’s no real clear payoff or goal to reach. I like setting my sights on something; it means I can light that fire in my belly and go for it. When I don’t have that, I feel colder, emptier and a whole lot less human. 

V. dramatic stuff, I know. Cue the violins.

Knowing what you want, it seems to me, is half the battle. Yet, there seems to be no real method on figuring out what it is that we actually want. There’s no coaching, (well, I’m not forking out however-many-grand for life coaching but if someone wants to pay for it, we can talk!), there’s no class or course we can take. No one except ourselves, individually, can sit down and dissect what it is we really urge to make happen. Asking ourselves what we crave, what we seek to find, what we need, are all massive questions that we have to root around to find in our subconscious, buried deep somewhere. 

And even then, when we get through to them, all we ever can come up with are flaky pieces of ‘this-and-that’ which sound nice, which sound alright. But, do they really ignite us in that hungry way we need to burn?

Maybe that’s where The Fear comes from actually. LOL, can you tell this is a stream of consciousness or what? I’m all over the place!

But, no, seriously, maybe The Fear is important. If you don’t know where to begin, burn the end of the candle you’re most fearful of. If you start with what you’re scared of, then nothing else can possibly be quite as bad. We might not know what it is we totally desire, but we know what it is that we’re scared of. 

Take what we’re scared of and twist it. What’s its opposite? What is the worst-case-scenario for you? What is the best thing that could happen in that situation?

Is it as simple as that? Your truest of needs and wants are hidden beneath layers of fear and confusion? Your deepest of desires are, in fact, wearing a mask of worry? 

An absolute mood provided by flickr.com

So, if that’s the case, the truth of the matter is that everyone knows exactly what they want; they’re just too scared to want it. The things we want naturally exist within us as a part of our character. It’s just that The Fear is just as deeply rooted within us. It masks all those things we desire, twisting them into the opposite because the things we want are often so innocently malleable. We care so deeply; we want so badly. It’s risky to lean into whatever those wants and cares are, so we shield ourselves, telling ourselves it’s impossible when it’s really this stupid defence mechanism deeply rooted in The Fear. The Fear robs us of a chance to pursue our truest of desires because we’re in denial about what they really are.

The Fear is the dimmer on our flickering flame of willpower. It puts out the flame. It might be time to try and change that, if we can.

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Balance: Sounds Nice. Who is she?

Monday 4 November 2019

Balance: Sounds Nice. Who is she?

I recently took a lovely friend of mine round Spitalfields market on a Sunday morning. Typical-touristy-shite; it was lovely. Typical brunch; typical meandering; typical laughing about what had happened the night before (@BenHolt I still can’t remember that thing we found so funny; I just know it was!) and it was all fine and dandy, till I decided to go and have my tarot cards read.

I’ve had my tarot cards read before; I’m fascinated by astrology. I love the whole “reverence-for-the-night-sky-reading-the-stars” kind of thing. As sceptical as I may be, it’s all pretty fun and I find it a nice bridge between hard facts and nebulous truth. 

This isn’t a pros and cons list of all things astrology. It’s more what the guy said that really got me thinking. 

I’ve had my cards read once before, by a lady who knew my star sign the second I walked into the room because apparently “my aura is just so air!” (to be stated in a thick, Bostonian accent.) She also recited events from my past extremely accurately without any word from me and has since predicted a future that I’m slightly terrified of but extremely excited for. This guy at Spitalfields was different. He focused less on my past and future cards and seemed to zone in on my present.

“Wow, you really need to start balancing stuff out” was the first sentence that came out of his mouth.

Lol. Balance. Who is she?

I don’t know about you, but maintaining balance isn’t exactly a key skill of mine. Whether it is something to do with the Gemini in me (Boston-tarot-lady seems to think so!) or a trait learned from my father (cheers, John), I’m not exactly the coolest of the cool when it comes to organising my life. 

At the best of times, I go about my day like I’m a stress ball that has been flung across the room, hurtling at about a million miles an hour in a way that can only be described as a fireball of flying chaos. 

And it’s annoying because I know what I should do to find some order in my life. I’ve been told it all before. “You need to meditate, Kerry” is normally the first thing that comes out. “You need to take up yoga or something.” “You need to just stop and breathe.”

If meditative practice and stuff like that works for you…great. Keep doing what you’re doing; in for two and out for four and all that. I wish it worked for me. 

I always say that I relax more when I am busy. I don’t know if it’s an escapism thing or what, but having my mind or hands occupied (preferably simultaneously) makes me feel that bit more at peace. I’m all about losing myself in a task at hand and focusing all my energy into it. The second I force myself to sit and reflect on myself, or practice my breathing, or whatever form of meditation it is I’m trying that time, I immediately get this burning sensation in my head. I become very aware of myself, the stuff I have to get done, the fact I’m sat wasting time not doing the stuff I have to get done…all the problems and tasks push their way into my head and instead of breathing in for two and out for four, I find myself inhaling a to-do list and exhaling a painful, albeit internal, squeal.

Meditation is supposed to allow you to become fully in tune with yourself and your surroundings but, for me, it means I become too in tune. I become very aware that I’m wasting time sitting and breathing because I actually have a list of things to do.

I haven’t found peace in meditation, but I know the little things which relax me and pull me back to earth if I’m off on a tangent. For instance, I like the sound and smell of the rain; it really calms me down. I like reading too. 

I somehow need to incorporate the practice of mindfulness and stuff into my everyday life. I need to find a sense of balance, like Spitalfields-Tarot-Man suggested, but I don’t think of it as the final goal. I think balance is a process that develops over time.  Being balanced does not mean being calm, relaxed, and content all of the time; at least, that’s what I think. Balance often occurs only for a fleeting moment – when I’m walking in the rain, for instance. It can reappear over and over again.

I don’t think it’s about maintaining balance, gripping onto it so tightly that your fingers bleed and your brain hurts. That’s only going to induce stress further. Rather than trying to claw into balance, I think I need to remind myself that balance is something to be worked on – it’s the whole idea of endgame versus process. Think about the long-term with the short-term. Prioritising and all that.

Maybe I need to start making lists or something. Be that person. Hmm. Might give it a go. 

Spitalfields-Tarot-Man might not be as psychically-inclined as that scarily accurate Bostonian woman. Maybe he just didn't care about giving me the lowdown on what the cards have in store for me. However, he really ignited a spark for thought that day. I really need to work on creating a sense of balance in my life. It's just gonna take a bit of practice. 

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Don't Shoot The Messenger!

Saturday 2 November 2019

Don't Shoot The Messenger!

Asking for a friend: is there an antidote for terrible texting? Maybe a nice gemstone or crystal to rub on your fingers in the cool way you see tarot readers and astrology enthusiasts do? OK, fine, I'm asking for myself.


I operate on either end of the spectrum when it comes to texting: effusive paragraphs almost effective immediately or one-word answers within a two-week timeframe. In real life, however, I like to think that I am a generally articulate human who is active in whatever conversation she engages in.


There are lots of people out there who respond to texts in a timely manner. Unfortunately, I'm just not one of them. In fact, as I live and breathe, I currently have six unread messages clogging up my inbox.

Whoops; now make that seven.


Sorry, Lily, I'll reply later.


But it's got me thinking: why am I such a bad texter? It's not like I am deliberately ignoring anybody. I'm not going out of my way to be rude or mean or whatever. Like, I like to think I'm a pretty good human being - I work hard, I smile and thank bus drivers and other TFL staff, I hold the door open for old ladies who scowl back at me in confusion (this is London, after all!). Yet, somehow, in the virtual world of instant gratification of immediate social interaction, I sometimes come across as don’t-care-ish, forgetful or, worst of all (at least to me!) lazy.


I guess the real question I’m asking is: can you still be a good person if you’re a shit texter? And the answer is “yes” – I mean, I’m living proof! LOL I’m kidding. But let's be real; the way a person messages isn’t always indicative of the entire scope of their personality. Mum, I’m not that scatty, I swear! It’s just that, whilst some people are always on top of their texting game, others of us can't quite seem to get our digital communication together.



Maybe it’s because all of our personal networks consist of a rainbow of different personalities. Just like you know what makes different friends tick, you cater to that complexity on your digital channels. I guess the more deeply you know someone, the less likely you are to worry about The Protocols You Must Obey When Communicating Via Phone Messaging. Texting responsivity can be based in your knowledge of who it is you’re actually replying to. In short, if I know you can wait, you might just have to xoxo.


I also think that it’s partially down to the fact that, whilst I may always have my phone on my person, I’m not always on it. I really enjoy disconnecting from my network for a bit of time every day. It lets me just focus on myself for a bit; I think that’s really important. And, despite the fact that it's supposed to be easy, it can sometimes feel like texting takes up too much of your time. Unless I’m travelling and have the time to compose a message, or am sat with nothing to do, you expect me to have a full conversation with someone who isn’t sat next to me? You want me to type out an entire sentence? Who has the time for that? (As someone who writes stuff for a living, this is slightly concerning!)


Nevertheless, I completely understand that some people value a speedy response; I guess it all depends on the message at hand. It would break my heart if someone misconstrued my slow (ok, slooowww) response time as indifference, applying a sort of “Kerry doesn’t really care” logic to our friendship. That alone is worth thinking about my texting protocol.


In short, I guess I’m just trying to say I love all my friends and value them (and their text messages) equally. And I promise I will get back to you. If not in this lifetime, then definitely the next!

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Another Year of Pumpkin Portals...

Another Year of Pumpkin Portals...

I think one of the most frustrating things for me around this time of year is trying to carve a pumpkin. T'is in the Halloween spirit and all. However, I'll be the first to admit that I am in no way, shape, or form, an artist.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a pretty creative person. When it comes to anything artsy or whatever, I know what I want to set out to achieve. I can see it in my head and then *bam* that's the way it has to be. It has to look this way. 

But...as luck would have it...it never pans out.

Exhibit A:

The perfectionist in me means that all these grand, wondrous design schemes have to work just so, but when it comes down to it, these pumpkin carvings barely turn out half-decent. Actually, less than that. They're barely half half-decent. They, more often than not, end up a split pile of mush. 

In true Kerry-style, this Halloween season, my pumpkins have been far more trick than treat. My Instagram is always filled with photos of intricately designed orange spheres, featuring comically familiar faces or funny little messages. I always start off thinking that I could do this, or I could recreate that - but I am never satisfied with the end result of my hilariously disastrous pumpkins.

This year, I took the approach of "the smaller the pumpkin, the smaller the problem." The result? Not great. It involved string, some duct tape, and a final "ta-da" at the end of it all - talk about taking surgery and 'make it spewky szn!' I guess the lesson I took from this was that there's only so much pumpkin you can carve. It sounds obvious now but, in the heat of the moment, it's easy just to think you can carve just a bit more.

No - I'm not going into more detail than that. I'm not ready to embarrass myself like that on the internet, just yet. Just rest assured that I make any amateur look like a professional.

But, whilst ornately decorated and remarkably designed pumpkins are great to admire, can they bring the laughs that jack o' lantern fails do? I like to think my first attempt was a piece of modern art, my second was a deliberate gaping entrance into another world (All Hail The Pumpkin Portal) and my third...no, I really can't lie, my third was just a pile of shite.

But now that spewky szn is away with, mercury retrograde is in full swing, and I can barely move across my flat without hearing my neighbour blasting Christmas Carols (we're festive early up in Alderney!), I think it's time to leave my shocking carving skills where they belong: in East London's last week of October's recycling collection point.

Yep, maybe I'll just stick to cooking, not carving, pumpkins. Though I'm not much better at that, either!

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Not a "Where I've Been" Post, I Swear.

Saturday 28 September 2019

Not a "Where I've Been" Post, I Swear.

Oh. Wow. Hello. It’s been a while.


This is well awkward; a whole lot more awkward than I thought it would be.


For someone who claims she is a passionate writer, and who writes for a living (oh yes, I’ve got a whole lot to update you on!), I’ve been pretty crap at the whole blog thing. But, I really needed a break.


I could spew the same line of shite – not enough time, writer’s block…same ol’, same ol’.

*Diss-gus-tan

But the truth is I was just kind of bored of it.


It was actually pretty sad at first, if I’m honest. I really treasured my little space online. It’s not fancy or pretty or anything like that; it’s got no real theme or aesthetic. Yet, this little platform is a physical tracking of all my thoughts. It’s a way I can progress my personal change over time, share my thoughts and opinions, that kind of dramatic, emotionally charged drivel, blah blah blah.


But, yeah. For some reason – and I’m still struggling to figure out why – I got really bored of the idea of blogging.

"Diss*-gus-tan!"

It was like all my energy and efforts had dried up. I just blamed it on the stress of uni (oh yeah, I’ve graduated too…that’s another update too!) and putting all my time and concentration into that. Uni was my priority and that, on top of a part-time job, editing the university newspaper, trying to have a social life, maintaining an exercise routine, trying to get enough sleep at night (you’ve all seen the memes!), blogging just fell to the back of an endlessly growing list.

George Michael's "Freedom" featuring my pathetic hand-eye co-ordination.

My ideas dried up because I was constantly thinking about the same things. I resented the thought of pulling up an empty word doc because that’s all I seemed to do every day regardless; the blank page didn’t seem to hold the same optimistic excitement as it once did. Not when you have three essays, a dissertation, and an entire newspaper to edit.


And I promise I’m not complaining. If you know me personally, you know I’m the gal who thrives off being busy. I need to be on-the-go, with a jam-packed schedule (S T A T I O N A R Y – A D D I C T) and a brain buzzing with a “so much to do, so little time” mentality.


But…I don’t know. For a reason I am yet to entirely understand, I just fell out of love with it all. An English Lit grad-turned-writer who fell out of love with writing. Who’du’thunk it?


Like I said, though, I’m not here to complain. After a bit of space (ok, 12 months’ worth of space!), I’m back with a fresh outlook, a bit more perspective, and a ton of drive. I’m not making any promises or committing to a strict uploading schedule but I’d like to get back into this whole thing.


You’re about to see (well…read?) a whole lot more from me! www.gapsbetweenthestories.co.uk is back; a bit different, like, but we all love a bit of change, don’t we?

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