Four scores and eight years ago (or just eight years ago, as I don’t know what four scores are) I was nearing the end of my post-graduate course in journalism. I untacked an advert pinned to the school’s noticeboard looking for feature writers to work for the UK’s biggest press agency, based in Bristol, and took it home.
Then I invited a friend over for dinner. This friend was already a journalist and much further along her journalism career than I, for she did not stop to wang about smoking weed and achieving nothing for a few years. While we discussed my career options, I remembered the ad that was stuffed into my satchel and I pulled it out to show my friend. Continue reading
When I was a yoof, I used to hang about with a group of lads who’d shout ‘pigs’ whenever the police drove past. I didn’t approve. I prefer to say ‘5-0!’ like they do in the Wire. But not in a disrespectful way, because I bloody love the police. Just in a kind of Baltimore kidz on the street, rollin with my homies kind of way. I’m cool like that. I also say ‘Omar comin!’ and I hope you do too.
But yes, the police. The ambo’s. I love them all. We go about our daily life not needing their assistance. And then crash, bang, wallop – something goes wrong and there they are, ready to see you through your emergency. Continue reading
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
I suppose I should be flattered. My writing is so “award winning, witty and talented” (said me, to myself) that it’s been copied, pasted and palmed off as belonging to someone else. What fun!
A while ago, loyal reader, you may remember I bent over backwards for your entertainment, attempting to do some acro-yoga. Continue reading
This week I appear in Grazia Magazine, discussing my feelings about parenthood. Sadly they couldn’t give me six pages to really go to town on the matter, so here is the unabridged, uncut version of what you’ll see if you so kindly bump up Grazia’s sales this week and buy a copy.
And so I begin:
Laying out a world map on the kitchen table, my husband and I plotted our sabbatical. We’ve been together six years now, which seems as good an excuse as any to take a few months off work this year and roam around the Far East. Most of our friends are either pregnant or have babies and while they adjust to the unprecedented changes to their lifestyles, we’re off on an adventure. Continue reading
Every year on this sunny day, I buy myself a congratulatory little present, for it was on this day six years ago, that I decided to stop smoking weed.
Marijuana has such a cool reputation. I blame Bob Marley. He of the countless albums, presumably all created while he was stoned. He even played a lot of football. The only thing I ever got done while I was stoned was a comatosed viewing of Family Guy. Again. Then there is the glorification of smoking in popular culture. Sublime gave me the soundtrack to my misspent youth with songs like ‘Smoke Two Joints’ (sample lyric: I smoke two joints before I smoke two joints, and then I smoke some more. How did they get anything done?) Continue reading