Bearded feminists and other Near Year bugbears

I hear resolutions have gone out of fashion, so very early Noughties. Suddenly we’re all resolving not to resolve. Admittedly there is something a tad trite, predictable and paradoxically indulgent about them. According to Elle Macpherson, gracing Red magazine like the kale-juicing goddess she is (hello, my name is January and I’m a middle-aged foregone conclusion) one should eschew resolutions all together, swapping them instead for new year ‘solutions’ and finding ‘co-dreamers’ to build one’s very own new-age, mindful, sirtfood-spiralising, beetroot pureeing enterprise. Thanks for the tip Elle, but giving it some thought, I have a nagging suspicion it’s a bit easier sourcing co-dreamers when possessing a 40 inch...

Why today’s feminism ain’t my bag

Why today’s feminism ain’t my bag

In this current climate political accord and social unity, I’m given pause for thought on this movement we call feminism– specifically what it stands for me as an unremarkable, middle-age, non do-it-all Fortune 500 CEO superwoman, stay-at-home mother of two (tragic). So here goes– sharpen your daggers ladies because I have come to one indisputable, (if controversial) revelation–  deep breath– I am not a feminist. I appreciate I’m letting down the side here a bit. But before you dismiss me as some stiff n’ starchy Victorian dinosaur, hear me out. I’m certainly not poo-pooing women or our many and varied strengths, abilities and overall fabulousness- far from it. I just don’t feel the need to cleave to an ‘ism’ to know this. There’s...

10 reasons to love the shorter days

10 reasons to love the shorter days

As we pass the autumnal equinox and the sun dips ever lower on the horizon in favour of our rival rugby nations, I confess I’m filled with glee. Odd you say, this penchant that flies in the face of conventional wisdom professing we, as Vitamin D deficient Brits must all worship the sun and mourn its loss come every September, I can’t help myself. It’s the crisp crackle in the air I crave that feels like the start of a new year, much more so than dreary January (Yea, yea, ha ha.). Not convinced? Here are my ten reasons to cheer the dark days ahead. 10. Return of Downton. Who knew narratives revolving around missing cufflinks and critical dinnertime wardrobe decisions (tails or dinner jacket? Oh the shenanigans) could prove so captivating? However...

FOMO? More like EOF

There are few things in life more stressful than throwing a surprise party. Divorce? Moving house? Greek debt negotiations? Cake walk. Please. They pale in comparison to the clandestine planning, covert organising, negotiating and spending (oh, the spending) involved in creating that all too perfect and more often than not elusive moment lasting all of two seconds… SURPRISE!! Only it never works out like in the movies (just how nobody ever says ‘I’d like that,’ or ‘My , look at the time.’) Said surprise-ee  always finds out. I guess that’s the cost of being a family of nosy snoops, always taking furtive glances at pinging texts regardless whose phone—the deck was always going to be stacked against me. Bygones. It’s trouble enough booking a suitable date,...

If everyone’s special…

If everyone’s special…

Bless. It’s that time of year again. The time my fellow aspirational child-rearers across The Pond regale us underachieving parents in Blighty with their kids’ year-end accomplishments and awards ceremonies on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Tumblr and every other social media outlet known to man. The time when I see nothing but a running feed of updates on little Timmy’s reading award, Mia’s skipping award (huh?) and little Luka clutching with glee his perfect attendance certificate, (ranking just behind ‘Most Improved’) Yikes. With no whiff of irony, last week I saw a ‘totes adore’ #tbt post of a friend’s toddler boy in a paper mortarboard ‘graduating’ from the INFANT ROOM of his nursery. Wait. It...

Time for a holiday

Time for a holiday

As I sit here trying to contemplate something worthy to say, I type in a sort of sleep-deprived delirium, pickled and coated in a thin, pungent, sticky veneer of recycled air that clings to the skin (and somehow manages to linger despite showering)– the tell-tale signs and unavoidable pitfalls of long-haul air travel (Awww, diddums. I can already hear the high pitch tuning of baby violins.) Sure, I question the wisdom of posting after only five hours combined sleep in two days, I write between extended blinks– I’m impressed I can even string together a coherent thought (debatable, yes)– but after so many weeks’ absence I feel needs must. It ticks a box, and though certainly not worthy, for the obsessive-compulisve in me is bizarrely...

A job–(ish)

I’ve been on a blogging hiatus of late. (Quite. Sounds a wee bit familiar, no?) Indeed, for a writer it would appear I don’t write much. Well, I am happy to report there is something behind my absence, and whilst it is not a book deal, it’s nonetheless something to get my name out there. Yes people, I have finally found some work. Paid work, no less. Truthfully the monetary compensation pales in comparison to the sight of my own byline. (No, really. It does.) But what it does serve is to quash that persistent, nagging doubt squirrelled away in the back of my mind that I’m a fraud in literary clothing. See, I never tell anyone I’m a writer. Like the proverbial tree in the forest, if it falls and nobody is there to hear it, does it...