I don’t want no scrub
A scrub is a guy that can’t get no love from me
Hanging out the passenger side
Of his best friend’s ride
Trying to holler at me
You know the song. I know the song. We spent the bulk of 1999 being educated by the magical TLC about the dangers of getting involved with a scrub; thus shaping and reinforcing our dating guidelines excluding scrubs, or just generally learning about what a scrub is and filing it away for future reference.
This dog has blogging to do, but would rather be outside. A tale of woe.
I’m back. After finishing up with all my IT drama and moving my files back to where they should be, I took some time to catch up on all the work that had fallen by the wayside during the every-computer-in-the-house-meltdown. Then my iPhone felt a little left out of the whole palaver and died. So I had to erase that and reinstall everything, thus losing all my photos (nothing too drastic, I barely use my phone camera) and phone numbers and what have you.
It’s been a month of resurrection. Right now I’m giving my iPad the side eye with a smattering of COME AT ME BITCH. It’s the only thing that hasn’t tried any funny business.
Anyway, taking all this time away from blogging has given me a chance to clear my mind and have a proper think about blogging. There’s not much else you can do while waiting for your life to reboot without proper access to What’s App. Continue reading
How do you define ‘home’? Right now, ‘home’ is London, ‘home’ is Greenwich, ‘home’ is where ever I can hang out with my husband away from the rest of the world.
But when people ask where I’m from, home is New Zealand. That’s where my family is, that’s where I grew up, that’s what shaped me.
In London, people ask where you’re from A LOT. Coz everyone is from somewhere. Even the London people have a specific part of London that they feel is uniquely theirs. I’ve found that how I answer this question depends on who’s asking and the conversation tends to go one of three ways.
If you’re from a big famous place that everyone knows – Paris, Chicago, Sydney – your answer to “where are you from?” is probably a lot less complicated than if you’re from somewhere a little further off the beaten track.
If, like me, you’re from Invercargill, New Zealand, the conversation tends to go like this: Continue reading
Ok so the entire fucking world fell apart this fortnight. Like, all of it. Not just talking politics here, everything else took a tumble down shit mountain on a luge made of pointy cactus as well.
If re-incarnation is ever proved to be real I must have done something rather salty last life and I’d prefer not to find out what it is.
First, my external hard drive died. The one with everything on it. Photographs. Client work. Fonts. The whole shebang. I managed to save some of it. However, while fighting that fire my MacBook worked itself up into a jealous rage and let its internal hard drive have a fucking meltdown because it is apparently an attention seeking dick. It was all LOOK YOU CAN’T ACCESS ME NOW EITHER, POKE AROUND IN MY INNER MOST WORKINGS AND GIVE ME THE NEW INSTALLATIONS YOU HOLD OUT BITCH I’M THE MOST IMPORTANT ONE HERE.
So basically, no blogging for me because blogging is a computer based sport and fuck you if you think I’m gonna use my phone for that shit. I’m not fucking 20 any more and I’m not doing shit on my phone. Also, my phone is a rather more senior specimen from a bygone era – where you have Twitter app I have “Dinosaur Alert Safety App”, where you have iTorch my phone just bursts into flames. It really can’t do shit apart from those two things so even if I wanted to be cool and blog on my phone it would just die on me and then we’d all get eaten by a velociraptor.
I’m supposed to be predicting the future, not bitching about my life. Oops.
Celebrate by confusing the hell out of the person next to you.
Let me explain. Bloomsday is a celebration of Irish author James Joyce and it takes place on 16 June every year because that’s the day the events in his big, famous, important, OMG everyone knows it, novel Ulysses take place. The day is named for Leopold Bloom, the lead character in the piece.
I have read Ulysses. It’s not a thin tome and this was in the days before I bought an eReader, so deciding to read Ulysses committed me to lug an enormous book around everywhere.
It wouldn’t surprise me if personal trainers prescribed Ulysses for weight loss. Not only did I carry this heavy bitch to and from work every day for an extended period of time, the bulky nature of it also considerably cuts down on the amount of lunch you can take with you. Continue reading
Ok, you got me, you probably will believe it. But who cares, you’re already reading it now and you’re damned well going to stay and read to the end even if I have to come round and do some Clockwork Orange inspired shenanigans to force the issue.
I got to thinking about clickbait the other day and the thought stayed with me. It niggled so, like one of those brain eating superbugs that just nibbles away at your grey matter and replaces all capacity for normal thought with the one clickbait-y thought that it wants you to think about until you can barely conjugate verbs any more coz click bait bait click clickety clickbait how about that clickbait?
I noticed more people around my corner of the web using it and, more importantly, more people taking the piss out of it and decided that I could jump on that band wagon. I get why people use clickbait; coz it works. It gets clicks. The danger lies in the content that lies behind the clickbait title not living up to the hyped up headline that encouraged the click in the first place, thus leaving you in a kind of “ten reasons why crying wolf is actually a bad idea” type dilemma. Continue reading
Time for another selection of five links I’ve found to be interesting recently. Interesting enough to spark good conversations between me and the people I’m forced to interact with each week. I’m sharing them with you to save you from having to tell your co-workers what you really got up to this weekend. Remember, they’re not necessarily new stories, just interesting stories. Continue reading
This month’s travel link up topic is “unexpected places” and I want to talk about the Isle of Wight, specifically Cowes.
Now, Cowes wasn’t exactly unexpected to me, though it wasn’t a major blip on my radar, really. To me it was just the place the Red Jet catamaran service took you to from Southampton and I figured we’d take a bus from there down to Newport as that’s where my grandfather had spent his childhood. That was the extent of my Cowes-based thoughts.
The whole purpose of my trip to the Isle of Wight was really to just explore the place where my grandfather grew up, take a photo of the house he lived in to send to my father and generally have a relaxing time. I didn’t have a whole lot planned, apart from spending a day at Carisbrooke Castle, because obviously A CASTLE WITH A DONKEY, hello, that’s a winner of a day in Frankie land. Anyway, I took the husband creature along and he was in full Gilmore Girls “where you lead I will follow” mode because this holiday was about me sharing my family history and experience with him. Or so I thought. Continue reading
OMG guys! Summer is here! It’s here! Everyone in Britain BE ON GUARD. Seriously, eyes peeled, those three hot days we’re contractually entitled to each year could appear at any moment now and you don’t want to miss them because you were busy sniffing that homemade hummus in the back of the fridge to see if it’s still good or not. That shit can really soak up your time.
Now, I suppose I could just tell you when the three hot days will be, using my super future-telling-powers, but no. This isn’t “Mystical Weather Report” it’s June Horoscopes, so you just do as you’re told and remain vigilant. Here’s the information you’re entitled to this month. Continue reading
Last week I hung out at the Le Petit Ballon press party, drinking wine with a friend in a little basement bar that offers pétanque as a distraction. Good times were had.
To further elaborate, Le Petit Ballon is a monthly subscription box (those are all the rage right now, aren’t they?) for wine. You sign up and each month the sommelier from the Paris Ritz sends you two bottles of wine, specifically chosen to fit your taste profile. Continue reading