Monday, 1 July 2013

Anew. A New. Ah Knew. Atichoo.


Last day as a 'Client Relations Manager' for a boutique Law firm, Manchester. 
Parting gifts; Aspinal of London iPad case - swishy, Jo Malone (Pommey Noir - yum) and various gubbins one would associate with my new career choice. The departure libations came quick, fast and packed a punch. Venturing to my current watering hole of choice, Grinch, I was treated to gin grins, bubbly beguilement & general drink delights. I almost shed a tear.


Started the day wondering why, so often, I insist on drinking on an empty stomach. Ignoring such familiar woe, I bopped to Sounds of the Sixties instead. Bloody marvellous. 
Sitting, standing and reclining was the order of the day. Beverage here, snooze there. Fixing a Mexican feast early evening, male and I watched Almost Famous - cracking flick. Indie enough to satisfy the most ardent of anti-Hollywood mainstream, but not entirely out of the realms of relatable. One criticism - Kate Hudson plays a 16 year old. Right.


Mexican regrets.
Power walk remedy.
Hummus heave-hoe. That's the way (ah ha, ah ha) I like it (ah ha, ah ha).

Visited The Lowry exhibition space to see 'Unseen Lowry' and ''My Generation' - perhaps not logically
placed together - but that's by the by.

Wandered down to Media City - specifically The Dock Grill where we played Jenga, had a burger, can of Ting & listened to the Werneth Concert Band.

Attempted to watch Flakes. Claimed to have remained awake throughout (lies) & now cannot comment on the film - if but to say, both films featured Zoey Dechanel - flipping chameleon that one. 


New career - Teaching Assistant. TA. Not Territorial Army. Partial similarities. 

Wednesday, 26 June 2013

Wah ye.

Sometimes you get a mental block.

From time to time you deem yourself a little unworthy.

Occasionally you just feel stagnant.

1. I wear pop-socks
2. I brush my teeth on the toilet
3. I have an irrational fear of lisps


Rather than look back in a nostalgia, pedal-stooling, regrettable haze. Rather than think the grass is always greener and things will 'happen' because I deserve them to. Rather than all of the former, I've decided to live in my own reality. Now.

I quit my job.

I'm going to learn Makaton.

Saturday, 9 March 2013

Marrakech, review.

I went to Africa darling. Africa. Bloody marvelous.

I wrote a review on Trip Advisor. They didn't pay me, honestly.


The site captured our vision of a luxury 5-star resort whilst retaining a solid heritage and Moroccan accent. To use the word magnificent would not be an overstatement.


From the moment of arrival, to the moment of departure we found the staff to be more than accommodating. I would urge you to disregard comments that Brits were/are ostracised due to it being a predominantly French resort, this is not the case and to be frank, this is a blinkered and ignorant view. The staff were courteous, altruistic and genuinely went out of their way to be of help – from the cleaning team to security – I couldn't find fault.

The variety of activities/services on offer was astounding. From the choice of 3 pools to going to the on site club after hours – Kenzi Club has the whole package; tennis, dance classes, archery, football and cookery to name but a few. The 'Animation Team' were superb in this respect – they planned optional activities from 10am – 10pm. A stalwart group with unyielding energy and passion for what they did.
There were also a most useful, free, shuttle bus to Medina Square (10 minute journey), which we used regularly.


To attempt to describe the layout of the site would do it an injustice. Whether you wished to indulge in sport or relax on the plethora of lounging options the options are a-plenty. I personally indulged in using the spa. Comparative to the UK, the treatment (Hamman Massage) surpassed I have had previously. Charging a very reasonable fee, I felt rejuvenated, reenergised and perfectly tranquil – smashing.


My friend and I had heard horror stories of all inclusive food. Kenzi Club quashed these; breakfast, lunch, mid-afternoon snacks and dinner saw variety, impressive presentation and something for everyone. As a somewhat fussy, yet inquisitive, eater I found my taste buds excited but also enjoyed the option of plainer food.

We did not sample the Moroccan set menu available in the second restaurant, but by all accounts it was descent.

Outside the resort.

There were many planned excursions available of which we id a short tour of the gardens and palaces. Though useful, it could be done without a guide. Note – do not go on a tour of the Souks, total scam.
As two 24-year-old girls alone, we were rather intimidated by the Souks/Square – this was expected due to our being in a predominantly male orientated, impoverished, Muslim area. This is not a slur on the experience or place, merely and observation. Once we had escorts, in the form of two fellow holiday-makers (male), we felt much more confident and thoroughly enjoyed shopping in, and indeed getting lost in, the warren-like Souks. The traders are persistent and rather cheeky (bordering on rude), but confidence is key and eye-contact is not recommended.

We ended up going to night clubs (555 & Pascha), having henna tattoos and trying unusual local delicacies – the orange juice is out of this world.


I would regard myself as well travelled and I have stayed in a variety of hotels – ranging from 1*-6*, Kenzi Club was simply superb. I could gush further about my experience, littering my description with superlatives but in summary I would recommend Kenzi Club entirely – I would 100% visit again. We had an absolute blast.

Saturday, 5 January 2013


I'm 'doing' dry January. Cue eye-rolling. 

As I awake, I won't say fresh as a daisy, I realise, with such clarity, that I truly am my mothers child, and she hers. My first thought? A hybrid of apprehension of the day ahead and the unmistakable craving for tea. When I say tea, I do not mean green tea, oh no hipsters I can't drink earth, not matter how many oxymorons are in there.*

I have turned into an Irish housewife. Fantastic. 

Still, a brew is truly polychronic. All I need now is a teasmaid. 

Women are like tea bags.They do not know how strong they are until they get into hot water. - Eleanor Roosevelt

As long as it is hot, wet and goes down the right way, its fine with me. - Sarah Fergerson
If you are cold, tea will warm you. If you are too heated, it will cool you. If you are depressed, it will cheer you. If you are excited, it will calm you. - William Gladstone

* amusing no

Friday, 14 December 2012


Ill. Poorly. Below par. Indisposed. Sickly. Under the weather.

Without beating around the proverbial bush, I am unwell.

What started off as a common cold has snowballed into my pins giving way, delirium being heightened, a strange Michelin man look about me and the loss of my voice. Cue violins.

Last night was my works Christmas bash. 

Held at Grill on the Alley, Manchester, it was everything a firm's party should be; flowing wine, personable (accommodating) waiting on staff, drinking games (21's), crummy cracker offerings and a night permeated with, for want of a better word, 'banter'. 

Food = top notch, which is no mean feat being that there was 30 of us. Excellent work team (name check Lizzy, an absolute sugar). A special mention to my friend and part-time living doll Mo Wang for facilitating.

Amusing that intoxication allows logic to be replaced with idiocy. I felt on top of the world (albeit with a very husky/sexline tone) until I skipped into a vehicle homeward bound, became violently ill, was taken to A&E who kindly informed me I have a flu strand. 

verb (used with object)
to drive or leave (a ship, fish, etc.) aground or ashore: The receding tide stranded the whale.
(usually used in the passive) to bring into or leave in a helpless position: He was stranded in the middle of nowhere.
verb (used without object)
to be driven or left ashore; run aground.
to be halted or struck by a difficult situation: He stranded in the middle of his speech.
the land bordering the sea, a lake, or a river; shore; beach.
I didn't care for such melodramatic insinuations.
As I sit here, rendered silent, I can't help but weep as an emoticon summarises my feelings perfectly:


Sunday, 2 December 2012

Double You.

4 months.

4 facts.

I went to the Aurora Ball last month. Held at the Waldorf, London, in support of the charity Richard House. I have interdenominational views on such affairs. Restraining my trite rambling, I will paint an image that summed up the night: Several mothers of terminally ill children who benefit(ed) from Richard House were present (making up around 2% of those in attendance). As an individual who has close family who are physically and mentally disabled, I felt a slight affiliation with these women so made an effort to speak to them. On their way out, I shook their hands and wished them all the luck for the future, they beamed at me noting that I was only one of a handful of people who had spoken to them, asked about their children, and taken an interest. They had had a superb evening, had a glimpse into 'another world' but were under no illusions that this was a reality. Such selfabnegation, such humility - such a rarity. My heart hurts thinking about it.

This is what I wore;

Taken in my hotel room (Park Grand London - sterling chambers)*. 

People who feel lonely are more likely to take longer showers and longer baths (from WTFFacts)

I believe it time to admit I have an irrational fear of lisps. Wayward.

*Little did I think that 92% of women at said event, would wear black. I cannot tell a lie, I enjoyed this fact (marginally). 

Saturday, 4 August 2012


In my circle of friends, or any circle of friends for that matter, there's one that seems to … disappear. They come, they're fickle, they put their left leg in, they put their right leg out, flutter round the venue acquiring new bosom buddies, littering their night with flirting, loosening their tongue and losing the ability to control their emotions.

That friend is me. I admit it.

On reflection, I can see how vexatious this standing must be for my cronies, but, call me egocentric, I cannot help it.

Take last night for example. Libation and snacks kicked off around 4pm at work, I hop on public transport around 7 to meet a dear friend of mine in a local joint. We chitter chatter for an hour til I see the girl who washes my mane, I invite her to join us, I'm just nice like that. She brings her strange chum who I can only descirbe as an annorak. The most thrilling sentence in his stream of gab included his supporting of gypsies and paying in cash rather than credit. Interminable.

My eye is caught. I see someone who I vagualy know, but names or any details escape me. Sane members of society would leave it at that, wake up the following day in a lightbulb moment and think 'AH, that's who it was'. Not I. I stroll over, interrogate him as to how I know him and after what seems a frustating exchange, my Eureka moment came. He was holidaying in the same resort as I a mere 5 years ago. Not only that, but my best-bud had a hol-romance with him, that old chesnut.

Where is my dear friend in all of this? Sat with wash and anorak, I cleverly combine both parties to make an awkward assembly. Another bottle of wine comes and the evening takes a queer turn, I'm sat surrounded by a troupe of mis-matched proportions: a Greek Othadox priest, russian waitress, insurance broker, a dentist who converted to Greek Orthadox 15 years ago (bought yours truly a drink), all who drank, smoked and were seeminly normal. 

I found myself deep in conversation* with the priest who I decide to tell all my problems to – from my absent father, to my decision whether to study for more qualifications. I'm travelling down to crazy town making like road runner. I'm offending people with my narrow minded, parsimonious opinions.

Crocodile tears fuelled by liquor ensure. Coyote got me.

If my blonde-bombshell casts her eye of this, I apologise. I may get a set of reins like I had at the height of toddler chic. Smooch central.

Note, one drink is never one drink. It's a cyclonic episode of catastropic proportions that will form yet another story for a female who already has too many unfabricated absurd incidents in her catalogue.

*incoherrant babble