The General Election is nearly upon us and I am poised, ready to mark a cross in a box. But which box?
I don’t take a huge amount of interest in politics, because politicians make politics mind numbingly dull. Hand me a copy of the New Statesman and I glaze over. I have more of an appetite for salacious goss about Jennifer’s Aniston, Lopez and Garner than I do the political leanings of MP’s Cameron, Miliband and Farage. Continue reading
We did also have a lovely holiday, before all the shenanigans with Thai hospitals and psychedelic drugs handed out by British Airways. And while I very much doubt I’m done milking the dramas of my pratfall and the associated decline in my physical wellbeing, I thought this week I would lighten the load and hark back to happier days pre-accident. Continue reading
For the third leg of Gaz and Kim’s Excellent Adventure, we were beginning to feel a little spent. Which is strange, because I haven’t had a break in a year and I really needed one, and yet by week three I was thinking of all the things I was looking forward to back home.
My own bed, my quartet of stupid chickens, my home grown tomatoes, even the ones with gout, or whatever it was that was wrong with them. I missed my gym sessions and my healthy diet, which had gone out the window on week two of the trip, whereupon I’d mostly resorted to a daily diet of coffee and salt and vinegar crisps. Continue reading
As we left Keswick in the Lake District, we were feeling pretty smug. We were only four days in and confident we’d seen the most beautiful scenes the UK had to offer. We’d been up a mountain, we’d taken pretty pictures of ducks on lakes. What more could one ask?
Then we crossed the border to bonnie Scotland. Continue reading
This is my love letter to our bodies. To our incredible, complicated, beautiful bodies.
I don’t know about you, but I spend an inordinate amount of time wishing my body was a different shape. I focus on the bits I loathe and I never, ever think about the fact that my body is functioning day and night to keep me alive. That the acid in my stomach dissolving all the food I wish I hadn’t eaten, is strong enough to dissolve razor blades. That I use around 200 of my muscles just to take one step. That this little old body of mine, the one I stare at in the mirror with contempt and scrutiny, produces 300 billion new cells a day, just to repair and renew while I’m busy destroying.
I’ve just been to see Dawn French in her new stand up show, Thirty Million Minutes. Continue reading
Last weekend, I went abroad. To Wales. In a bid to impress my father-in-law, who is Welsh and obsessed with rugby, I agreed to spend £50 on a ticket to see Wales Vs France in the Six Nations rugby tournament thing.
It was, with hindsight, a bit of a wasted ticket. I don’t really deserve to take up a seat in the Millennium Stadium, Cardiff, for a Wales Vs France rugby match for I am neither Welsh, French, nor a fan of rugby. Continue reading