Oh Friend!

I have lots of friends (yeah alright braggy, back in your box) but I really struggle making new ones. Sure I’ll wang on at people until the cows come home and am quite good at ‘being social’ but ask me to attempt to make a new friend and I will shrivel inside.

I just never feel very cool and so going from ‘chatty in the office’ to ‘hanging out when we’re not being forced to spend eight hours together’ is never a smooth move for me. I’m such a lamo I can barely bring myself to add people on Facebook. I’m a total LinkedIn pro, however – CEO of a company I’d consider working with in the future? I’ll hit that sucker up with a message and a connection request fo sho muthafuggers but asking someone I’ve met socially if I can add them on Facebook? Paroxysms of fear.


It’s all a bit pathet (which isn’t Sanskrit for ‘really cool way to live’ no matter what Ross Geller says) that I as a fully grown woman am too chicken shit and riddled with self-esteem issues to deal with this. It’s like come the fuck on, pull on your (very) big girl panties and get on with it.

Take the Cool Girl from Twitter (hereafter CGfT) – I asked her advice on something chick lit related (we both agreed we’d like to kick that term in the fanny) and from there started chatting about life. We live in the same city, she works at the same place I used to work, we’re both writing books (She is working on her third! Books one and two available here) and we both like alcoholic beverages. So far so kosher. But oh me oh my I fretted over asking whether she’d like to get together for a drinkie or two. Honestly, you’d have thought I was asking her to marry me or to take one of her children as a slave. She replied with a ‘heck yeah!’ and suddenly the weight was lifted. I felt well… I felt like a bit of a bellend to be honest (I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time feeling like an absolute throbber – note to self: work on this) that I’d worked it up into this mega. big. deal.

So we’ve said we’ll go for a drink when she is back from the continent and I am back from Singapore (oh such jet setters) but of course now comes the real crazy – what if she hates me in real actual non-internet life?!

*Ally slams her head on her desk repeatedly. Fade to black*


Concentration Tongue

After a fairly impressive string of updating every day I woke up this morning and thought “faaaaaaark, I’ve not written a post for today. Oh well I’ll bang one out at lunchtime and it’ll all be gravy”. 

Except I didn’t “bang one out”, I got the concentration tongue out (which made everyone in my office laugh) and did some secret squirrel crafting for a wedding on Friday.

The happy couple are officially hitched but are having a full on ceremony with all their favourite people, dancing until midnight, oh and yours truly overseeing proceedings in the role of unofficial registrar type vicar person. 
Sadly I don’t have a cassock or one of those incense jobbies to swing about, but I do have some beautiful wording and a healthy dose of nerves. I am so honoured to have been asked but also crapping my pants in case I fuck it up. I did a reading at an incredible wedding in January and practiced for AGES to do it “off book”, I was stood up there doing my best reading voice with the right inflections when WHAM… I forgot the next line. 

I wanted the ground to swallow me whole I was so mortified. Now I have the fear that I won’t just fuck up a reading, I run the risk of fucking up an entire ceremony. 

The last wedding I was at for this particular family I cried like a damn baby because it was so wonderful and as a family they mean so much to me. Note to self: do NOT cry this time! 

The last wedding I was at for this particular family I cracked open a bottle of Fireball whiskey, got completely trollied, lost my car keys and fell over and chipped a bone in my wrist. Note to self: do NOT drink Fireball, lose keys, and chip another bone. 

Quite a lot to remember but I know it’s going to be great fun. I have a boot full of jam jars, a folder full of wording, and a camera primed and ready so I think I’m just about all set. 

But just don’t fuck it up. 

Hot Liquid Receptacle

“It’s nice to be important but it’s important to be nice”. So says some smart aleck who probably feels very important regardless because they have a trite phrase that people trot out. In my head those people are all exactly like Patty Simcox from Grease with perky ponytails and twinsets whose farts smell like caramel and who always say fiddlesticks instead of fuck.

I am always a bit wary of people who don’t swear, mainly because I find it so satisfying to drop a fuck every now and then. It’s such a great way of punctuating things, of getting attention, and of well just expressing oneself. A family member once told me that I swear too much and that it showed a lack of vocabulary. I say fuck that, and am pleased that said family member has now joined the realms of those who love an ‘F’ bomb.

But back to the niceties. The non-swearing ‘being a good friend’ and all round wonderful human being chat. I had what can only be described as a ‘friendship disappointment’ the other day, a shock out of the blue which made tears prick my eyes and a lump form in my throat. Don’t get me wrong it also made me rage over WhatsApp to anyone who would listen but the primary feeling I had was of real true sadness.

I felt like a total mug and like I’d been taken for a ride, taken advantage of and made to feel so foolish. I determined that it was because I was too nice and the friend sat next to me disagreed because she thinks it’s impossible. I’m not talking about being Susie Sunshine to everyone you meet and nor was she, she was merely saying that where friends are concerned nothing is too much.

If you’re a friend of mine I would do anything for you let’s get that clear. I’m ride or die, get rich or die tryin’, friends ’til the end loyal, and sometimes that loyalty means I AM too nice. I’m too nice to people who don’t deserve it, who have proved either by their actions or by their complete INaction that they simply aren’t worthy. My problem is that sometimes it takes me far too long to realise it, and even then once it’s realised it can take me an age to pluck up the nuts to do anything about it. I also vacillate wildly between being hurt to the bone as I was the other day, and between making excuses for the other person. They’re tired; they have a lot on; they’re stressed; it’s a Wednesday; the weather is bad; on and on until I’ve excused away their shitty behaviour and leave myself feeling like a bad friend for thinking badly of them. A vicious circle of feeling bad upon feeling bad.

But where does it go? Where does it stop? (watch for the sign of the lollipop…) I don’t want to stop being the friend I am because let’s face it I’m fricking awesome at it, but I also don’t want to be a receptacle capable of holding hot liquid anymore.

Answers on a postcard?


Throwback Thursday: Breakin’ Up Is Hard To Do 

A new series where I delve into the past nine years worth of wanging on about nonsense and share some of my favourite posts. Kicking it off with the very first post which started it all way back in September 2008. Enjoy! 

Our eyes met over the top of the carrots and in that instant I knew that rather ironically I looked exactly like a rabbit startled by a set of oncoming headlights. Unfortunately for me there wasn’t a handily placed hedgerow to hop off in to and hide. With a weak half smile I went back to absentmindedly looking for the smallest carrots I could find whilst praying to Jeebus that I’d be left to finish my shopping in peace as well as trying to blend in with the display of potatoes behind me.
Feeling like I was being hunted I stalked over to the sad girl aisle aka ‘ready meals for one’ desperately hoping that he’d hop back on his bike and pedal out of my life once more. Just as I reached for a cottage pie emblazoned ‘JUST FOR ONE’ in huge orange letters the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and then ‘Long Tall Ally how lovely to see you’. Taking a deep breath I turned to face the man who was responsible for tearing my heart out through my chest less than seven years ago. And just my luck he was looking disgustingly handsome, tanned and……… MARRIED! There it was, the platinum band on his ring finger, and yep, incoming Blonde with a honeymoon tan and grin on her face a mile wide. Quite apart from the tropical tan I could tell the wedding wasn’t long ago due to the fact that they were both exuding post shag euphoria and were practically frotting over their smug married trolley.
I must have done something really heinous in a previous life, perhaps I was Hitler or maybe even Stalin but for some reason quick pleasantries were not the order of the day and he wanted a rundown of what/who I was doing since he performed open heart surgery on me sans anaesthetic. Smug marriedness was oozing from every perfect pore of his as he trotted out the questions every single non career girl dreads. I like to think of them as ‘The Big Three’ –> Where are you living? Where are you working? And the doozy, Are you seeing anyone? Ugh.
I made my excuses and a swift exit spending the next half hour dancing through the aisles trying to avoid having to bump in to them again as I couldn’t guarantee I wouldn’t dismember him with the shop’s bacon slicer, before heading home to divvy up my food in to ‘petit portionettes’ to suit my new little pouch. People must think I’m Skippy the Bush Kangaroo when I keep going on about my pouch, I swear my colleagues think I’m going to pop out a joey and hop round the office wearing boxing gloves. They would be most disappointed to hear that actually the pouch is the latest weapon in Long Tall Ally’s arsenal to let the skinny girl out. I bought a thigh toner in Argos on the way home so I can transform myself in to a hardbodied Muscle Mary although I do realise the transformation is going to be a LOT harder if I don’t bring it in from the backseat of my car.

Even after my nightmare shopping scenario (binge eater has emotional crisis in supermarket and escapes unscathed!) it turned in to a momentous occasion as I realised whilst lying in bed that (ignoring the size of the junk in my trunk which rivals Germany) I have a flat stomach! And more than just having a flat tum, I could actually see.my.ladygarden! I’ll just say that again for those in the cheap seats, I could see my lady garden! But the joy didn’t end there, oh no ladies and gentlemen I could in fact still see my lady lawn when I stood up. *cue trumpeting choruses of angels* The skinny minnies of the world cannot understand the delight in not having to move ones belly out of the way to reassure myself that I am in fact female and that my chest appendages aren’t just a big old pair of man boobs however it’s better than cream cakes, than Jimmy Choo, than sex! In fact, I’d happily wager it’s better than all three at once.

Here We Go Again…

Selling a dream

A dream? Darling that line is a NIGHTMARE but yes, I am in fact really that tall. This message reminded me of the man who refused to believe I was 6’2″ and kept asking me how tall I was really. I kept confirming that yes, I was indeed 6’2″ and then he asked how tall I was REALLY and I realised I was busted.

Me: I’m 1 metre 88 centimetres

Him: oh cool (beat…) Hey! That’s 6″2″!

Give. Me. Strength.

Sometimes you see a username and unlike all the ‘sexybigboy4U’ nonsense it gives you a little bit of hope. I clocked a message late last night and was pleasantly surprised because I thought the username was a subtle head nod to one of my favourite TV shows, ‘Community’ but in an effort to play it cool I didn’t open it and went off to sleep.


‘_cool_cool’ turned out to be anything but. His late night message of ‘cant sleep at all lol hows u?’ (grammar model’s own) was a thinly veiled booty call and so because I hadn’t replied immediately he blocked me. I’m heartbroken, honestly. How will I cope, life can’t go on, wah wah wah etc. My broken heart was mended slightly by the next love missive, because really who doesn’t want to be told they’re as rare as a diamond? Knowing my luck though I’d be a conflict diamond with a bloody past explored by Leo Di Caprio with a dodgy accent in a Hollywood blockbuster.

Brightest creation

From there it got more promising (and thankfully, less cheesy) with a question I could probably write an essay on…

John Hughes

Surely it has to be Jake Ryan turning up at the church where Samantha Baker is wearing an 80’s heinous bridesmaids dress and flower crown? The ball achingly awkward chat on the street before they end up sat on a table sharing a kiss over her birthday cake? *Chandler voice* Could that BE any more perfect? (answers on a postcard please) Also, massive hat tip to Long Duk Dong for, well, being Long Duk Dong *heart eyes emoji*

Then came an offer I… well, I COULD refuse. I’m a one man woman, and let’s face it he doesn’t just want someone who can play with other guys when she wants. He wants someone who can play with other guys when she wants… as long as he can watch whilst deep breathing and frigging himself off in the corner of the room.  And I’m not about that life.

Play away


I’m also not about getting messages which sound like the start of a cover letter for a job application – it is NOT hard work dating me, no matter what you may have heard to the contrary. I mean ‘Tell me again about being a sustainability champion’ is hardly pillow talk is it.


I know, sexy right? *Fans self* And to round off this wander through my inbox let me present Mr Tally Ho:

British 1

High Tea at Harrods? Yes. Mapping each other’s personal psychology? Heck NO. You do NOT need to know the inner workings of my psyche until, well until never really. That’s a surefire passion killer amirite? And to just confirm that us Brits are nothing more than a stereotype:

British 3

So internet friends, which would YOU pick?

The Hoover Dam

It’s like someone has turned a tap on behind my eyeballs and wandered off leaving it running. 

It started with the book “When Breath Becomes Air” by Paul Kalanithi – the story of Paul coming to an end of a decade’s training as a neurosurgeon and being diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer. It was never going to be the easiest of reads but it made me examine my own mortality in the harshest way and made me howl with tears. 

Then it was a YouTube video of someone unboxing a handbag. Yes a Mulberry handbag reduced me to tears. She was just so shocked and grateful and before I knew it I was snivelling away wiping tears on my sleeve. 

An indie rom-com with Daniel Radcliffe was next. It wasn’t even very good but the thought that they might go through the whole film blatantly in love with each other and not end up together at the end was too much to take. Boom. Tears. Even more tears when the frigging thing finished without a proper conclusion. Bastards. 

Within the first three minutes of watching “Diana: In Her Own Words” I was reduced to tears thinking about how she died on my Mum’s birthday and then less than a year later my own Mum was dead too. I knew I was headed for a proper snotty sob fest so had to switch back to Harry Potter which was weird given I’d just been crying at a film where Harry showed someone his wand. 

Lord only knows what I’ll cry about tomorrow. Perhaps it’s time to buy shares in Kleenex? It turns out medication regime changes can be an absolute pain in the arse when it comes to getting onslaughts of weeping. Chatting to my wonderful friend Bella I realised it’s going to be really hard to work out the new normal. I’ve been medicated against the feels for so long that I have no frame of reference for what is “normal” sadness and what is “I’m totally worthless why am I on this planet” sadness. 

Hang onto your hats, it might be quite the ride. 

Bonjour, My Little French Fries…

I love children (couldn’t eat a whole one…) but I’ve never seen them in my future. Sure I can be the hip Aunty or Mum and Dad’s slightly kooky friend (but I refuse to smell of patchouli or become a crunchy granola hippy) but I’ve never been able to imagine pushing a pot roast out of my fanny and rearing it as my very own. I’ve always thought it’s a by-product of being terminally single, that my brain won’t let me imagine myself with rugrats to try and lessen the crushing disappointment that I’m going to be single forever with a vagina that has grown cobwebs through lack of use.

If I’m really honest with myself I’d like nothing more than to have children but when I envisage myself ten or even twenty years into the future I am not surrounded by Lamaze toys and JoJo Maman Bébé clothing or the detritus that comes with having teenagers in the house. In fact I see myself much as I am now, living with too many books and a multitude of artworks waiting to be framed and hung. Being at the stage where I’m starting to run out of ‘good egg years’ and knowing there is a family history of fertility problems however means that I’ve been thinking quite a lot recently about what sort of Mum I would be were I to ever bear crotch fruit.

In a nutshell (does trapped in a nutshell dance)… I’d be Beverly Goldberg.


I’ve always loved a jazzy jumper, have a plethora of saccharine nicknames up my sleeves, and am inherently nosey when it comes to other people’s lives. I’d be all up in their grill, wanting to be the hip Mum but never quite managing it. I’d take the protectiveness to the Nth degree and probably refuse to believe my children were anything other than A grade superstar children. They’d all study at the local equivalent of the Jenkintown Funk Academy because I couldn’t bear to loosen the apron strings any further and they’d probably spend most of the young lives thinking I was a gigantic pain in the butt.



In which case, maybe it’s a good thing my vagina is going to remain entrance only.