Hello, Goodbye

HELLO Reader.

I have missed your face.

Listen, I'm sorry I left without saying so much as 'Cheerio' but times were/are tough and I didn't/don't want to grim the place up. This is a quick post to say the following things:

THANK YOU for reading, commenting, posting and sharing the posts from this blog over the time it was active. I'll always be eternally grateful for the positive comments I received from you. I never thought I'd have anyone to read the posts in the first place so it was somewhat of a massive bonus.

THANK YOU to those who have emailed me enquiring as to where the hell I went. You've all been very kind and it's always nice to be missed. No. I'm not dead.

I'M SORRY I just buggered off and turned off the lights unannounced. It was terribly over dramatic but in the mind set I was in at the time, it was fitting and (admittedly) rather satisfying. My personal life was too much to cope with and if I'm having trouble keeping my closest friends in the loop you can imagine what difficulty I had coming up with light hearted posts for this blog.

Just to let you know, I'm making this blog public again so those of you that requested it can read the old posts.

I'm not giving up writing altogether. In fact, I wrote yesterday thanks to the good people of Culch.ie (See 'My Secret Admirer') but what I'm trying to say is that unless I'm hit with the sudden urge, I don't imagine I'll be posting here at the moment.

You can still contact me via email and if you are bored, wander over to Laikaa where I keep various stuff and things of a debatable level of amusement.

GOODBYE

No Means No Dammit!

When I used to work in retail one thing I hated the most was having to ‘hard sell’.

I worked for an American company who clearly didn’t appreciate that people in Belfast shop in a very different way from Americans. We don’t want sales assistants to smile and ask about our day and suggest we buy certain things. We want them to ignore us until we need them and when we do, we want the necessary interaction to be as quick as possible so we can go on with our lives. If someone were to tell us to “Have a nice day” we’d look upon them with suspicion. I knew this so I was terrible at ‘hard selling’. I maintained my distance, smiling to the customers as they entered just so they knew where I was if they needed me and if I happened to see someone about to buy something and I knew they could get a better deal if they took advantage of an offer, I told them about it. Of course this was no good for the bosses who would stare at me until I started ‘hard selling’ the nearest poor sap to me who only came in for a browse and I would end up guilt tripping them into buying their Christmas shopping for the next 12 years. We had a ‘hard sell’ script to follow, there was no alternative and I hated it. A little bit of me died every time I had to do it.

When I was in town the other day making another unwise but completely crucial at the time purchase, I smiled to myself as the girl behind the counter began rhyming off their store ‘hard sell’ script in order to sell me a store card. I knew what she was up to and she had my pity.

“No thanks” I said before she got too far in. “I wouldn’t trust myself with a store card in here” And then I laughed to indicate I made a little joke.

“Yes but if you do decide to get a store card today, you’ll save 15% off your purchase today!”

“Oh…” I said, pretended to be still interested to be polite. “What would that be?”

“Um… £4?”

I raised an eyebrow and politely declined again. Normally this is where people give up and continue the rest of the transaction process in awkward silence; me drowning my guilt and she, overwhelmed by the crushing failure. Not this one. Oh no.

“The way the card works is…” And off she went blabbering on about how the payment process works, how much the interest cost, what you could buy with it, available offers yadda yadda. All I heard was words like “PAYMENT” and “INTEREST RATE” and “MONTHLY FEE” and “PURCHASES” and I thought about the last store card I got which ended with me sobbing over a frighteningly large bill as I cut it up with scissors. I promised myself that I would never get another store card and I wasn’t about to bend to this girl because she doesn’t understand the word ‘No’.

My eyes were glazing over as I waited for her to take a breath so I could reconfirm that I wasn’t taking the bloody card but she didn’t stop. On and on she went and I was nodding at everything she said so much I looked imbecilic. I was tempted to let my pleasant customer face slip into an obvious frown to show that I was unhappy that she was still talking to me but then I remembered what it was like having to hard sell to the general public with a manager breathing down my neck and jabbing a finger at a statistics page and I decided to let her finish.

10 MINUTES. 10 FUCKING MINUTES LATER and she stops to await my answer.

“No thank you. I don’t think I’ll get one. Thanks though!”

“Fine” she snapped AS IF IT WAS MY FAULT that she failed to get me to hand over my bank details. I clearly told her I wasn’t interested but she ignored me and here she was thumping down on the till keys and roughly handling my new clothes as she shoved them into the plastic bag as if I had climbed onto the counter and pissed on her face. I had empathised with this girl and this was how she was treating me?

Well I never.

If there is one thing I learned from ‘hard selling’ all those years it’s that even if a customer says no, you still lick their arse and call it ice cream otherwise you’ll never sell anything, particularly if the customer behind can see the swift change in attitude.

The conclusion from this post is this: The Retail Experience, for both customer and employee, is shit.

Photo of the Day #520

#520 NEVER FORGET

I Don't Know Any Gravy Puns...



Electric Picnic Photos by the amazing Annie Rhiannon



The closest thing I have had to a holiday this year was a somewhat damp weekend camping in a field in Co. Laois.

First world problems eh? I can hear your hearts breaking for me. If I’m honest it wasn’t really just me and a bunch of my mates, a few bottles of whiskey and more than many moments debating if we could get a sheep home on the train without any arrests. As wonderful as that sounds. No, we were at Electric Picnic, championed as the only Irish Arts & Music festival worth forking out the GDP of a small African country for. However, this isn’t going to be a post about the festival and how brilliant it is (when it isn't pissing down) yadda yadda.

No. This post is about chips. Most importantly, gravy chips.

Now there is a few things our cousins in the South of Ireland just don’t do well (My kingdom for a decent fry in Dublin) and some things that they just don’t do at all.

Many years ago after an evening of heavy drinking, I had a craving. That craving was for a great big dirty gravy chip. For American readers, ‘gravy chips’ are basically fries swimming in homemade gravy; the kind you would have during a Christmas dinner or every Sunday roast if you are The Queen. It hits a spot deep in your soul that makes you forget the world is a terrible place. It is delicious. That night I needed one and I needed one immediately. Get your mind out of the gutter Reader.

“Gravy chips please” I asked merrily or as merrily as I could be with mascara down my face carrying a single shoe.

“You want what?”

“Some gravy chips”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I would like some chips with some gravy?...No?”

“Never heard of it”

Never. Heard. Of. It.

Reader my world was rocked and shaken to the core. This was not an anomaly. This was everywhere I went. Apparently people south of Newry just don't 'do' chips and gravy. Chips and curry? Sometimes but chips and gravy? I might as well have been asked for deep fried monkey bollocks for the looks I got. I began to pity my Southern friends who would never know the true joy of a gravy chip to soak up the booze of a great night out. Poor bastards.

It’s a universal truth that you never want something more than when you can’t have it at all.

OM NOM NOM

So there I was, standing in my rainwear, in the middle of the festival about 2 in the morning. I wanted to go to the Gramophone Disco but I couldn’t muster the energy. I was starving but unsure what to eat. I was standing outside the Ostrich Burger stall and my appetite had been somewhat affected. It was then that I saw it.

The Chip n’ Dip van. There, written neatly in chalk on the board...

GRAVY

Sweet merciful God in Heaven! I literally ran over dragging Boyfriend by the arm.

“A gravy chip please” I said trying not to salivate rudely in front of the nice men giving me tasty food.

The staff were English. Of course. No wonder there was gravy available. English people love gravy.

“Thank you! Thank you so, so much” I said to them fighting back the tears. “You don’t know how difficult it is to get gravy chips down here”

“Why do people keep saying that to us?” the lads behind the till wondered.

“All people from the North yes? Well we have suffered many years until this day”

When I was handed my cone of gravy chips (I know, a cone. I wasn’t going to question) and tasted that first chip dripping in God sauce I was transported to a better, warmer place. T’was the nectar of the Gods. I tried not to dance around in case I dropped one because Reader, I won’t lie, I would have immediately fallen to the grass and picked it up with my teeth.

“Thank you. Thank you…for this” I said solemnly. “This has truly made my weekend”

Reader, I wasn’t even lying. It really, really had.

“… That’s a bit sad you know”

Maybe so but I didn’t care.

Photo of the Day #519

#519 And yet I would still give my left leg to go back to having two months of summer off. Well... maybe not my left leg. Maybe my left baby toe. I don't really need that surely?

Photo of the Day #518

#518 I'm so doing this or rather I would do this if I had the time, the imagination or was capable of making effort of any kind. Oh the things I could accomplish if I could only be arsed. World, I can only apologise.

Photo of the Day #517

#517 "Thank God this sign was here eh chaps? I would have dove into the rapids none-the-wiser to meet my inevitable horrible death" [/sarcasm]

And Now On WRTV

If you watch any of the videos in this post, watch this one. It's bloody brilliant.

I'm going to dedicate this video to my dear friend Mr Andrew Gaffney of Culch.ie. This is exactly the kind of romantic crap he laps up.

Yes that is a dancing whale. I know, I couldn't believe it either.

Quality advert from Meteor if only for the last line which made me burst out laughing.

As we say in Belfast when we come across a bit of Schadenfreude - "AH GEE!"

This is, without doubt, one of the most disturbing and pathetic things I have ever seen.
Jesus Girl, have some bloody dignity.

Oh The Shame...

[WR Note] - I was going to post an image related to the post below but when the search results for the items in particular made me question my faith in all that is good in the world; I decided against it. SO, instead please enjoy this charming photograph of five adorable St Bernard puppies that are so cute, my ovaries hurt just looking at them.

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I was on the bus on my way home. This was not unusual.

I decided to listen to some music and proceeded to pull out my oversized novelty headphones so that I could listen to the greatest of my guilty pleasures without another soul judging me. Again, nothing unusual here.

As I was doing so, pulling at the final piece of headphone cord that had seemingly stuck to the bottom of my handbag, I made a final yank when to my absolute horror, five or six items that one wouldn’t normally like to unveil to strangers fell out of my bag and onto the floor.

Those items?

*heavy sigh*

Lady pads. Girly items. Aunt Scarlet’s bloomers. FECKIN FEMININE GOODS. Sanitary towels in their bright blue packaging.

Mortified, I hit the floor to scoop them into my bag hoping that the people in the seats behind me hadn’t noticed when suddenly, as the bus descended down a hill, it broke abruptly sending the pads sliding down the front of the bus in different directions like ice hockey pucks. One of them slid down and hit the heel of the man at the front of the bus who picked it up and held it aloft for someone (i.e. me) to claim it.

I froze. I felt my face burn. Those in front wouldn’t really know it was me if I just looked out the window and tried to look lost in thought. I was getting really hot in my face now. I glanced around and noticed that I was only female of the species sitting on the bus. BLAST.  

Oh the very shame of it.

Photo of the Day #516

#516 It's a horse. It's wearing a hat. What more do you want?!

Photo of the Day #515

#515 SOON...

My Kingdom For A Library Room

Recently I have been gutting out my bedroom to make room to re-decorate and I have been finding the truth in phrase ‘You don’t realise how much shit you have until you have to move it’. What? That’s not a phrase? Of course it is Reader. Don’t be so ridiculous. *cough* Where was I before you distracted me? Oh yes. In order to make the ‘gutting’ process easier; I had to ask myself a series of questions for each item.

DO I NEED THIS? Most of the time the answer was no. "No I don’t need a birdcage. No I don’t need that small novelty skateboard that I only stood on once to make a crap impression of a surfer. No I don’t need bongos. No I don’t need that large and quite frankly terrifying portrait of a baby sitting on a lily pad."

DO I USE THIS? "Who in bejesus would wear a jumper with some running wild horses on it? THIS GUY."

DO I WANT THIS? "Yes. Sort of. I’m afraid to say no in case I want it after I’ve got rid of it and spend all future evenings rocking back and forth mourning the loss of whatever that particular item was."

IF I’M GOING TO KEEP THIS WHERE CAN I PUT IT? "Uh…um… ON THE ROOF! Tis the neighbours problem now."

The biggest issue I have is my books. Four large 100 litre boxes full of them. I’d say 80% of the books I have read, I will probably never read again and as there is a circle of hell reserved for people who throw their books in the bin, I am stuck for what to do with them. My options include:

SELL THE BOOKS ON EBAY OR AMAZON
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Pro: MONEY! SWEET DELICIOUS MONEY! I get rid of the books.

Con: Sellers fees and the sheer herculean effort involved in posting things. I have let packages sit unposted for years just because I can’t muster the effort to walk to the Post Office.

DONATE THE MONEY TO CHARITY
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Pro: I will get into heaven and I get rid of the books.
Con: Charity yes, but which charity?! Dammit now I have to use my brain!

BOOK CROSSING
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Pro: I get rid of the books!

Con: I don’t know what Book Crossing is if I'm honest. I presume it involves making books ever so slightly angrier than they were before.

THROW THE BOOKS AT PASSING CHILDREN FROM MY WINDOW

Pro: Stress relief. I could be credited for ‘encouraging the youth of today to read’

Con: The inevitable arrest.

RECYCLE THE BOOKS
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Pro: I make Captain Planet proud...and I get rid of the books

Con: In order to recycle the aformentioned books; I need to get out of my chair and since I have quite a spectacular ass groove going on right now, this would make me very sad.

BURN AND/OR SHRED THE BOOKS-

Pro: I welcome any opportunity to burn and/or shred things AND I get rid of the books!

Con: Could end up in an unfortunate accident when (not if) I get carried away.

GIVE THE BOOKS TO PEOPLE (BUT NOT STRANGERS)

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Pro: I get rid of the books!

Con: I live in the eternal fear of repeating history. Many years ago, I gave a friend my 1st edition copy of Harry Potter to borrow and I never got it back. I have since discovered that it is worth a small fortune. At the time I didn’t think a book about a boy wizard would be as big as it is now so I can’t risk the same thing happening to my copies of How to thwart your enemies & get away with it and What’s this rash?.

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BUILD A BOOK FORT UNLIKE ANYTHING THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEN-

Pro: I will prove to humanity once and for all that I am awesome AND I get rid of the books.

Con: I struggle to find a downside here.

KEEP THE BOOKS

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Pro: In the house that I don’t own yet, guests shall look upon my book lined walls and know that I am a woman of intelligence, taste and class. "BEHOLD MY HEAVING IKEA BILLY BOOKCASES FRIENDS AND BE AMAZED!" I shall say and then I’ll offer them some cheesecake and invite them to retire to my cinema room for that is how I see my life in 10 years.

Con: I still have the books. Bah.

Photo of the Day #514

#514 Now this is the kind of Christmas I could get behind. Uncomfortable silences and the omnipresent stench of disappointment and despair.

Tyra's Masterpiece

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Some people are just not meant to be writers. Tyra Banks is one of them.

Now don’t let the following post deceive you Reader. I actually love her. I think she is absolutely batshit insane in the most entertaining way. I saw this public display of madness and thought for a moment that she severed the last sanity wire in her brain until I discovered it was actually a deliberate parody of Oprah. This has led me to conclude that Tyra Banks is actually a genius. For someone who successfully made the word ‘smize’ a popular verb I almost feel guilty that I’m about to take the piss out of something she supposedly dedicated 5 human years to conceiving and writing but fuck it. It’s too laughably bad not too. By the way for any males who may be reading this who may be unfamilar with what 'smizing' is...

This is smizing. Smizing is meant to be 'smiling with your eyes' or as Tyra regularly demonstrates 'looking possessed during a bowel movement'

MODELLAND - The first and hopefully not the last fictional novel from Tyra 'Squat. Pull Forward. Pee' Banks. Have a read of the blurb.
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No one gets in without being asked. And with her untamable hair, large forehead, and gawky body, Tookie De La Crème isn’t expecting an invitation. Modelland—the exclusive, mysterious place on top of the mountain—never dares to make an appearance in her dreams.

But someone has plans for Tookie. Before she can blink her mismatched eyes, Tookie finds herself in the very place every girl in the world obsesses about. And three unlikely girls have joined her.

Only seven extraordinary young women become Intoxibellas each year. Famous. Worshipped. Magical. What happens to those who don’t make it? Well, no one really speaks of that. Some things are better left unsaid.

Thrown into a world where she doesn’t seem to belong, Tookie glimpses a future that could be hers—if she survives the beastly Catwalk Corridor and terrifying Thigh-High Boot Camp. Or could it? Dark rumors like silken threads swirl around the question of why Tookie and her new friends were selected . . . and the shadows around Modelland hide sinister secrets.

Are you ready? Modelland is waiting for you. . . .

Firstly her protagonist is called Tookie De La Crème. Tookie. Tookie as in Stanley Williams Tookie? Secondly, the description of Tookie. I wonder who Tyra could possibly be (pardon the pun) modelling Tookie on with her 'untamable hair' and 'large forehead'?

Also Tookie has mismatched eyes? Is she some sort of hideous mutant?

As a devoted America’s Next Top Model viewer, something I freely admit without shame, I read this blurb in Tyra’s voice. “Only seven extraordinary young women” automatically makes my brain jump to “Will continue on in the hopes of becoming America’s Next Top Model”. Also seven girls become ‘magical’ Intoxibellas? Not one? Those are quite good odds given that according to the blurb there is only 3 other girls in the competition. If anything there must be something seriously wrong with Tookie if she doesn't get into Modelland; whatever Modelland is. Beastly Catwalk Corridor? Thigh-High Boot Camp? At this point I should point out that this is in fact a children’s book. Yes, every child should be able to empathise with the struggles surrounding wearing thigh high boots. Why I recall many a school Assembly dedicated to chaffing related dangers.

You can read the full first chapter (and the damning comments) here. Highlights include:

"There was no prearranged runway on which the girls could walk, so everyone created invisible ones wherever they were standing. Violence was not encouraged nor was it condemned, and some girls' parents insisted on adding martial arts training to their walking lessons in preparation for the big day. T-DOD Square was an every- man- for- himself or, more precisely, an every- girl- for- herself event."

"Two girls got into a fight at the end of their makeshift catwalk, rolling to the ground. "Kenya, use the Gyaku Zuki move!" her mother screamed. "Reverse- punch the hairy hag! But watch your hair, sweetie!" Tookie wheeled around. The hairy hag was Abigail Goode, sideburns in full glory, faint mustache above her upper lip, unshaven leg hair coating her calves, underarm hair swaying in the wind, and a DOWN WITH RAZORS! picket sign still in her hands. The girl she was fighting with tried out a karate move on her, but Abigail expertly evaded her blow."

"Actually, not only were eligible girls walking, but lots of other people were too. An elderly man on a power scooter shot a gap- toothed smile to the crowd as he steered his vehicle with his hands on his hips."

"He was seeing her, actually seeing her"

"Scouts? Where? Tookie stood on her tiptoes, her heart beating like mad. People stepped back from a nearby lamppost that had started to vibrate, staring at it with a mix of wonder and terror. The lamppost began to lengthen, like a long telescoping pole. Snap! It broke apart and reassembled as a slender, mysterious looking woman in a black metallic jumpsuit. Her head glowed as if it contained a lightbulb. More gasps and screams rose in the crowd as the huge clock in the square ticked past the six- minute mark. Suddenly, Scouts from Modelland were everywhere. An asteroid rocketed to earth, throwing up chunks of marble all around the square and causing nearby runway walkers to flee in hysterics. A stunning Scout emerged from the rubble, with skin that seemed to be made of rough stone. She wore a bathing suit ensemble that appeared to be made of rocks. She tapped a tall, long- haired girl in a plain, dingy cotton dress. The dress wasn't nearly as fancy as most of the outfits the other girls were wearing, and its front was wet with tears. When the girl looked up and saw the Scout, her jaw dropped."

"Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen . . . The tear in the fabric grew wider, until a human- sized hole appeared. And then a nearly naked woman emerged from the center of the tear and rose into the sky. She had long limbs and golden skin and wore shiny necklaces strategically placed over her chest and lower half. A gem- encrusted veil covered her face. Tookie gasped."

Then of course there are names such as 'Myrracle', 'Desperada', 'Kenya', 'Theophilus Lovelaces', 'Zarpessa Zarionneaux' and 'Mayor Rump' peppered throughout for extra ‘What the fuck?’.

This may truly be the greatest novel of our time.

Photo of the Day #513

#513 See this kind of thing worries me greatly. How long were people cocking their legs and shiting on train platforms before it merited an official sign?

What I Learnt From My Last Film Job

I AM A TERRIBLE SMOKER

I have never been a smoker. I didn’t grow up around smokers. I was never subjected to the peer pressure of the playground to become a smoker. Therefore, you can imagine how reluctant I was to pretend to be a smoker for a recent scene for a film. Now before you tie an angry letter to a brick and chuck it through the window of 'The Film Industry' condemning their evil practise of forcing vulnerable little extras to smoke their plump pink lungs away, I assure you they don't. They gave me some Honey Rose herbal cigarettes as a substitute for the real thing. As I was told they wouldn't do me any harm, I smoked them happily, doing my best to be convincing as I took draws of my 'fegs'.

When I think back, I must have looked like a child chewing on those candy cigarettes. I didn’t know what to do with my hands or how to hold them. I was supposed to look like I’d smoked all my life and my world would be incomplete if I didn’t have a cigarette in between my fingers but I looked as relaxed holding one as I would have holding a stick of dynamite in my teeth.

At first I thought that the herbal blend had quite a nice smell but as they tended to burn quite quickly, averaging one per scene, in the end I went through dozens of them. By the 12th draw I was ready to puke. The next morning, despite going through a pint of mouthwash, I could still taste them and smell them on my fingers. Days later I still had a feeling of general 'yuck' in my lungs akin to what I imagine having implants of lead in my chest would be like. The shit that I have coughed up would put the fear of God in you Reader I tell you.

The next time I’m asked to be a smoker for a film, I’m politely declining.

MY LEFT HAND IS JUST FOR SYMMETRY

Whilst I was puffing away on my disgusting herbal cigarette, I was also supposed to be handed a flyer during the scene. Now this doesn’t seem too bad if it weren’t for the fact that the way I was standing, I needed to get this flyer using my left hand. My left hand is absolutely rubbish. It is there to keep the right hand company. Anything I ask it to do, it fails at and I know that if I were to give it responsibility, it will simply throw disappointment back in my face. Unfortunately for me, my left hand was now on camera, having to catch a flyer that an actor was to nonchalantly throw in my direction. Happy days I thought.

So there we were, standing about during the scene, as I waited to be chucked this flyer. We were on the fourth take when the flyer came my way. When the actor handed the flyer, a small breeze caught the paper causing it to fly past my open expectant hand, hit me in the chest and fall abruptly to my ankles. I panicked and slowly bent down to pick it up, looking to the crew to see if this would matter. SHIT! I broke the cardinal rule. Don’t look at the camera. Don’t look at the camera. Don’t look at the…DAMN YOU BRAIN. STOP LOOKING AT THE CAMERA.

CUT.

“Er…can we do that again? Scrap that altogether. I know *insert actor name* you liked that take but we need to do it again. This time WR, catch the bloody flyer will you?”

Mortified I was.  

I AM A SECRET MAGICIAN

My flyer slip up was not my only mistake. Sadly. There I was again, puffing away in front of the camera, when the wind blew hair into my eyes. Trying not to set myself alight, I went to move the stray hairs behind my ear when…Oh God… my large, tacky gold earring came off in my hands. Trying not to make it seem like an issue and attempting to hide the wild eyed panic on my face, I slowly pulled the earring down into my pocket. Perhaps my character fancied a more Piratey look? Erm…no.

CUT.

“Uh…WR?”

“…Yes?”

A heavy sigh from behind the megaphone. “Why did you take off your earring?”

“Um…”

“Yeah see you were wearing it one second and it disappeared the next. It’s not exactly great for continuity is it?”

“It fell off in my hand!” I yelled coming over quite sheepish.

“Riiight. You are not a magician. So let’s try that again but this time WR, try not to touch your face. Ever.”

Bollocks.

Photo of the Day #512

#512 When I grow up I want to be Jack Nicholson

R.I.P That House

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It might seem quite odd to mourn a house that I never actually lived in but I do.

For the last few years, the old red brick house that my friends lived in was the epicentre of our communal activities – it was, at the risk of sounding like a 10 year old, our headquarters.

It was the best house you could ask for to host parties and host many a party it did including but not limited to epic Halloween celebrations. It was the location for an annual Christmas dinner. It was the place our Southern mates crashed when they came up to Belfast to stay. It was the place we went to, to see each other when we were too skint/ couldn’t decide/ couldn’t be bothered to go out and when we did go out, it was the place where we started and ended the night. It was a place where we went to rant, cry on shoulders and grow closer as friends. Please take a moment to cringe at what I just said because I just did. I believe this sentimentality may be down to hormones or an undiagnosed mental illness.

Basically what I’m trying to say is that for me it was the second home I never actually paid for (but probably should have given how often I was there and the fact I had my own set of keys). Whilst my friends are more than likely delighted to be rid of the place; I had the advantage of being exempt from the cold winter nights without heating, the damp & the smell of said damp, the radiators that would spontaneously bounce off the walls and the ever present nagging fear that my bedroom was haunted. For me the house was a space where I could find my friends in one place where I’d be offered countless cups of tea and I could play with two adorable cats without having to go near a full litter tray. It was brilliant.

Unfortunately all good things come to an end and when their lease was up (with the landlord announces plans to demolish the house to make room for flats) it was time to leave.

We never really gave it a final farewell. We talked about it but the opportunity never really came about since life got in the way like the bastard that it is. My friends moved out, shut the door and moved on to their new places leaving me alone to stand in the garden of the old house and weep into my hands. Maybe. *cough* I suppose this change can only be for the better. I think it was Ghandi who said, "You close one very-worn-and-difficult-to-open-without-a-struggle door and you open a brand new one". What? He did. Probably.

Photo of the Day #511

#511 Upon first glance this seems like a rather boring property shot that is until you look closer and see...OH MY GOOD GOD WHAT IS THAT?! Kill it! Kill it with fire!

Holy Photoshop Batman!

Look at the person below and tell me who it is if you don’t mind dear Reader.

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Rachel Weiss maybe? Rose Byrne? If you squint with one eye and don't look out of the other could it be Keira Knightley? Nope. I should also clarify its absolutely, definitely not a man. Read more to find out.