Saturday, 10 December 2016

We had a meeting and we decided that you definitely need to be asleep

babies never sleep. ever.

that is all.

I think your machine needs calibrating there lady, it's showing two heads

That's what I said to the ultrasound lady who was doing my early scan. Ultrasound must have an echo, look at that, it's showing double the image. Hah, lady you should fix that up. 

"The machine doesn't need calibrating." The technician doesn't turn around.

"But.. it's showing a mirror image, look at it, two heads. Clearly needs some kind of adjusting. There's two heads." I privately rolled my eyes at the technician.

She smears more gel around, pushes here, pushes there.

"No, definitely not the machine. There's two."

"Say what now, there's two what now. Two what. Two babies?"


"There's two babies? There's two babies? Are you kidding me?"

I look at my Bear. He is laughing and grinning.

I look back at the screen.

I look at her face. She turns from the screen, smiling. "Yes, there's two in there. You've got two babies here."

All of a sudden the screen is all I can see. There's two baby shapes, curled up like beans, side by side. Holy fucking crap on a bike. I'm having two babies? All of a sudden my new relationship with my baby is dissolved into fiction, and I'm left with a blank place where a baby was. Two babies? How will I get to know two babies? How do I even hold two babies at once? What the actual fuck, TWO BABIES?? I've not prepared the emotional nest for two babies, I can't wrap my head around loving a crowd of people for god's sake, how will I be mother to an AUDIENCE OF TWO? All of a sudden my intimate relationship with my child is violently gear-changed into a generic relationship with a faceless mass of children that I'll never get to know properly.

It took about half an hour for the news to sink in. Two little babies, two little beans who will need my love like they'll need air, food and water. And two little creatures who will have each other too. They took the blood in four vials for the genetic tests that will tell us if they're at high risk of having downs syndrome and another two genetic diseases. I remember looking at the vials sitting on the kidney dish and wishing with all my heart: Be good my babies, be good and perfect and come back to me with perfect news. And with that, my new relationship in my mind burst into life - my babies that I love, that I will nurse and protect and guide for my whole life. My two babies that I love so much already.

It's going to be fucking chaos but it'll be our chaos, all four of us. Now, we wait for the blood tests to come back. Let the universe follow through on all this amazing luck, and complete this incredible streak of outrageous fortune with a clear test result, two babies growing to as close to full term as possible, and the arrival of our healthy cubs unharmed. 

Holy crap, it's twins.

Monday, 30 September 2013


I am running an experiment to see if Facebook is a drain on our creative energies and eats our time like some kind of bingeing singularity trying to fill the endless void gouged from having no family or friends - I didn't set out to prove exactly that, initially I thought it might help me to not procrastinate. I didn't think it would work either, given I am the queen of putting shit off till later, and in fact I have several gold medals that I won for England in this field waiting to be picked up at the post office, as soon as I find the time.

I was facebooking at every idle moment. waiting for tubes, trains, elevators, ordering food, loo, while excel opened, while I clicked in a cell, while I saved my word document, while I booted my laptop, in between breaths. The difference it made - no one was as surprised as me. Not only has it given me time back, something else has happened. I'm in a better mood. I'm not constantly seeing how well everyone is doing, specifically and exactly how much better everyone is doing. I had morphed into some coveting jealous mouth breather, wilfully forgetting to be happy for people when people were happy. Facebook had turned me into a cunt.

Not only that, but I am a billion times less anxious, I'm essentially what one might call a 'total utter fucking pussy', and really can't handle any meaness, aggressiveness, hostility of any kind and specifically anyone heckling my beliefs or gags, or even Facebook updates. Do you know how stressful that is? Especially if you're naturally inclined to be a bit shit and a bit cheesy?

It's been an an eye opener. Firstly, quite a few of the sweetest people that I love the most can be quite brutal online, in general. Secondly, so can I. Don't get be wrong, the lols totally outweigh the racs (rage at computer, thank you, just coined it, no really, thank you, it was nothing) but that's essentially another problem in itself, funny is like an appetite, it runs out once you satisfy it, leaving no room for any of the funny you have in the fridge at home. You end up wasting it, throwing it away, and hating yourself. Ok maybe not hating yourself. But yeah. Hating yourself.

I wouldn't say that Facebook is a waste of time, but it was like an addiction; like super Hans from Peep Show said when he was smoking crack at a wedding; "it's really moorish."

It's just good not to waste too much of your time on the things that are little.

shit, scuse me, have to go, I'm missing Gogglebox.

Thursday, 7 March 2013

"Get out of my armpit!"

That was about me. THAT is what a fellow peak hour morning commuter tweeted about me, this morning. Because I was reading my magazine and whenever the train yawed, it moved us all in a single mass except for the sharp corners of my magazine, which moved just a fraction further to crinkle themselves against his rib cage. I know it must have been uncomfortable. I know it was scratchy and sharpy and pointy and that's not what you want in the morning.

However, northern line tube at 8 30 am via bank is going to be hell on earth - pointy sharpy papery jabs in your rib cage would suck, let's be fair about it. But it's the least of your worries. You could have someone's backpack in your boob. IN YOUR BOOB. The pregnant hemisphere of nylon and scratchy seems ramming its round payload into your boob with every carriage yaw, smushing your breast up against your rib cage, which in turn smushes your magazine against someone else's rib cage.

But the only difference is I don't hate the owner of the bag, I don't. I don't even hate the bag, or the carriage. In fact the heaving mass of humans flanking me on all sides and their quaint little satchels full of treasures and 'necessities' endears me no end to my fellow passengers - my fellow creatures - we're all the same; we live in this great big city all together, we all have jobs we slog at even though the pay is shit and there's always an idiot and there's always the office hand grenade and we could be treated at least a billion per cent better by our manager... That's why no matter what happens I always try not to get the rage, and I always try to make room.

What's that King's Cross south-bound Bank Branch? There's no room and you want to get on? And your boss is probably a fiendish time-nazi TWAT just like mine, and you're probably on your last performance review legs because you coast on bare minimum just like me, and who wouldn't write blogs instead of working? Of course there's room for you. Come on! I'll move just a little bit and that person will move just a little bit and like a big family we all try to make room for each other. Nobody wants to be late, we all want to fuck off early this friday and we are all totally going to have a life and make our manager furious because of it, and that's why none of us can be late, and that's why there's always room for you, you, you and you. Worse, you could be our manager, poor bastard. Room for him as well, what a total shit sandwhich of a team he's forced to manage, day after day, every departmental meeting ending with him faceplanting at the myriad of lacklustre fucksticks doing bare minimum and not doing a very good job of even that, definitely move over for him, in fact you - get up - he deserves a fucking SEAT.

So mr 'get out of my armpit' tweeter, I totally understand your frustration, I even empathise with you, my magazine's corners especially glossy and hurty, but I love you you little shit so make a bit more room for me so I can read my magazine in peace and I can let you tweet in peace and we can both focus our attentions on the fucking weekend and in how many ways we are going to get massively on it and spend all our cash and have a rad time with all of our friends, and each other - our fellow humans!

Stand Clear, Doors Closing!

Tuesday, 12 February 2013

The invention of being able to do whatever the hell you want

I was meandering in the Canary Wharf subterranean shopping district trying to slay my bad mood I got as a result of one meeting before I went into another. It was about ten past ten in the morning, I had been cornered in the last meeting by a klusterfuck of idiots who’d not understood that ‘Please ensure you have the first draft of the System Architecture Design ready by (today) so we can go through it as a project team’, ‘oh you mean today, oh you mean a System Architecture Design document, oh you mean come to work in an office, oh you mean like, speak a language and be human and interact in society, THAT thing, OH…’

As I found myself standing in front of friendly coffee merchants my eyes fell upon a slice of new York baked cheesecake sitting in a simple plastic box, looking all lovely and delicious.

Without a moment’s thought, I bought it.

Oh my GOD, I thought wildly, feverishly walking back to my office, cake in hand. I literally just bought cake for NO OTHER REASON than I simply WANTED some. It wasn’t morning tea, it wasn’t someone’s birthday, I hadn’t missed lunch or wasn’t going to the gym later, I hadn’t won anything and it was nowhere even close to a special occasion.

I just bought it because I fancied some.

As the walls of order and civilisation crumbled around my screaming head, the curtain of the world as I knew it lifted, and beyond it lay CHAOS – if I can eat cheesecake at 10 past ten in the morning then I can eat it ANY TIME. I can eat it ALL DAY LONG. In fact I can eat it for dinner. In bed, in the shower, on a train. I can eat one and I can follow that one with another.

And I was afraid.

Trembling, I put the cake away in the fridge, unmarked, and clearly visible to the thieving whores I work with. I walked away. Halfway back to my desk, I turned around, and went back for it. If I’m going to destroy my sense of calm and centred place in the world, I may as well enjoy the spoils.

It’s the apocalypse, bitches!! Tonight: ICECREAM and KFC. Maybe even together.

Wednesday, 14 November 2012

Dear Bubble Tea Shop Down The Road

Dear Bubble Tea Shop Down The Road

We love you. I mean, we really, really, really love you. My best friend and I live together and your Bubble teas are always our favourite little treat. We celebrate with a bubble tea, we cheer ourselves up with a bubble tea, we get a bubble tea for strength and courage before a tough week. Bubble tea is therapy.      

So we have both had a very tough week due to crappy work dramas and hideous bosses, and we were so miserable we made a deal, I would go and get us a bubble tea and she would go and get ingredients for a wintery comforting mash-and-stuff dinner. I looked on your website, saw you were open until 6:30, and argued hard with my difficult boss to let me go at 5:30 to make sure I'd make it. After I promised to WORK CHRISTMAS, he let me go. CHRISTMAS.      

I negotiated about a billion people on the tube, ran to change lines at Morgate, negotiated about another billion people, this time all sneezing on me, and then literally VAULTED over the ticket barricades (while placing my Oyster on the reader briefly, like an Jason-Bourne-esque free-runner) and ran as fast as I could with work bags and tourists and shopping and signs and buildings and cars all conspiring to occupy the very space I needed to be free in order to get to YOU, Bubble Tea Shop Down The Road.       

Breathless, I ran up the little stone steps and at exactly 6:11PM, I smiled and put my hands up against your bright, warm glass doors, beyond which lay the little counter full of lovely lovely bubbles, and our bubble teas, our bubble teas that were going to make it all okay.

And you were CLOSED, Bubble Tea Shop, CLOSED. the girl at the counter looked at my confused face and shook her head. I tried to tell her through the glass, 'But it's not 6:30 yet! but.. But it's not 6:30 yet!!!' she shook her face again, (this time with an apology face it must be said). I stood there, I think I may even have started to crinkle my chin into an almost-cry, 'but... but.. but... ' I was CRUSHED. I nearly did cry to be honest, which makes me feel very, very silly as it is just Bubble tea, but deep down inside we all know some days, no Bubble tea when you really want, nay NEED, a Bubble tea, is the MOST devastating thing that can happen to a person.

Bubble Tea Shop Down The Road, please don't say you're open until 6:30 if you aren't. You are crushing people's spirits, diminishing lives, devastating our days.      

All we wanted in the world yesterday, was a Bubble tea. :(      

- FirstworldproblemsHQ, North London chapter

 NB. I may have had my foot on the exaggerator and some or all of the information in this email may or may not be in there for the lols, but we really were quite disappointed, disproportionally so as we have access to unlimited clean running water, food, and the regular absence of torture, war and disease, but anyhoo.      

Friday, 17 August 2012

Hungover like a bastard

To this day it is still eye-wateringly shocking how completely wrecked i feel when I've gotten drunk the night before. I feel like someone has stretched my skin over a drum kit and is trying to play a techno track with spanners and a wet dog.

Nothing feels this bad, nothing. I am covered in a fine film of condensation, I have the shakes, I can't seem to put my spine into any shape other than a question mark and my teeth have been replaced with uneven squares of velour.

Unlike everyone else on this planet, I'm also cursed with the ability to remember everything about the night before. Others get to blackout and be blissfully oblivious to every single obnoxious and inappropriate thing they did, while I have to grapple with a perfect memory of the various and colourful examples of why nobody should ever be my friend.

Loud unholy glass-shattering screeches, inappropriate (and uninvited) divulging of very personal information, sharing of gossip and secrets that frankly I'm not entirely sure I haven't fabricated on the spot for the lols, brutally honest opinions better given over a long table opposite a therapist, and boring rants about the state of public transport in London. Urghhh. It's mortifying enough to remember with terrible clarity how hateful I can be, but to remember how boring as well?

I just want to DIE. Please, someone take pity, bullet, brain, stat. At the minimum throw some mash and gravy my way. Hopefully I'll choke to death.

After I send off my seven-part apology thesis to absolutely everyone who was at the pub last night, and possibly those who weren't, I am going to see if I can give myself type-2 diabetes by necking the highest GI foods I can get my clammy hands on. I  might get a double whopper with cheese and replace the buns with Crispy Cremes.

Which brings me to my next point; how to survive the rest of the day. I am under no illusion that I will not be able to carry out any kind of blagging, I am too hungover to even pretend to pretend to work. Nobody will be fooled. People will just shake their head at me and say, pathetic, why are you insulting us with your feeble attempts to suggest that you have a modicum of give-a-fuck today, stop it, immediately. We can see straight through you. Seriously. Your skin is actually translucent you're so dehydrated, we can see all your veins and flesh and blood vessels and lies.

I should probably face this with some dignity if I can. Try to fall with grace. If I am upfront and honest maybe I can be forgiven and allowed to wallow in my hangover,  I'm aiming for a 'there's nothing we can do to her that she's not done to herself' sort of vibe. I fess up. Nobody has mercy, instead they retaliate by booking me into back to back meetings from 4:30.

At lunch my colleague takes pity on me and takes me to the burrito place, possibly the only thing that can break down the lipids of shame and regret inside my soul. On the way back I bite into my burrito and as sour cream and re fried beans squirt out and into my ears and hair, we run into my ex boss, who did not like me and actually made my leaving card herself, with the word 'Finally' in bold and font 72 letters embossed on the front. Seeing that I am defenceless, my colleague proceeds to introduce himself as my carer. I fake-smile through the indignation and guacamole and carry on, there's absolutely nothing worse that can happen today.

Back at my desk and the cool laminate is irresistible, so I rest my face upon it. The last thing I see is my computer clock ticking over to 3pm. Some time later, I hear the sound of Styrofoam squeaking and I pry open my eyes to find white is all around me, like a blizzard. I shoot upright and the violence of the motion topples hundreds of light white angles and squares - the tower of packaging that's been carefully built on me while I was sleeping falls to the carpet like a derelict building being felled.

after cleaning it all up (while crying), 4:30 finally comes around and I go to the meetings. When I say go, I mean drag my carcass along the carpet slowly, using nothing but my eyebrows. Nobody is there, it was a practical joke. Thank Fuck.

To end this pointless story (you think you were bored? think of me!) I will leave you with this: alcohol, no matter how nice and fun it is at the time, is not your friend. It is a backstabbing prick of a thing that wants nothing more than your total and complete demise, for no reason other than sport and its own entertainment. Limit spending time with this absolute bastard to three, four times a week, max.

Disclaimer: I may or may not have had my foot on the exaggerator with some or all of the details in this blog entry.