What and Who

What I should be doing rarely coincides with what I am doing.

Who I should be doing rarely coincides with who I am doing.

The Christmas Dinner - Review

A couple of types of people that are entertaining to watch and listen to are comedians and obnoxious people. The absolute most entertaining people to watch and listen to are obnoxious people who think they’re comedians and that’s just what Second Skin Theatre’s new venture, “The Christmas Dinner”, by Duncan Stevens, provides. What could be better to get you into the Christmas mood than watch four characters you definitely couldn’t stand in real life drive each other crazy with anecdotes that would shame the Daily Mail (not that that’s difficult) and scandals to rock the purple walled basement boat.

Clara and Terrence are having a Christmas meal complete with expensive brandy and refillable bottles of red burgundy (as you do) and even with a rather unimpressive centrepiece they endeavour to get sloshed with their friends Richard and Rachel. What follows is a partly improvised performance of some of the worst – in a good way – jokes you will hear this Christmas, including those your Uncle decides to share after a few glasses of port. From Rachel’s third world experiences that changed her, apparently from an irritating but wholesomely hilarious high society diva who laughs at her own poor jokes to an equally irritating high society diva but who’s been on a safari on a gin addled stomach... and still laughs at her own very poor jokes. Then there’s Richard’s homework from the couple therapy sessions that prove more embarrassing as a result of his own guilt and Terrence’s resulting wordplay that really makes the audience gleam with guiltily gleeful giggles, a response all the actor’s feed off. The meal soon turns into something more sinister and disturbing but in a very different way.

Andy McQuade directs leaving room for the small and the big changes that a partly improvised script needs, but never forgetting the crucial moments that make the story work. The performances here are so easy to watch with a chemistry and a true ensemble that never wanes. George Collie performs Richard with a terrific posh pout whenever he is interrupted and a notorious “yah” at the end of each sentence so as to ensure the lowly beings in the room are grasping the significance of his words and the importance of his presence, a hard feat with a wife like Rachel and her sarcastic input between wine slurps. From the coke snorting to the agonising embarrassment, Collie is a riot. Sarita Plowman makes Rachel the perfect self aware and slightly intoxicated sidekick whose main aim is to bring her husband back down to a more manageable level, which sometimes seems to be six feet under where the ground has swallowed him up. Then there’s the lovely Clara, played by Sally Lofthouse, who brings the most low key performance to the table, quite literally and purposefully. Lofthouse still conveys one-liners and utter disgust with gusto but displays at least a little sense and human decency, or so she would have you think. Terrence is her husband, a cocky city worker with a penchant for defending his very purple surroundings and with a knack for poking fun at the others with satisfyingly quick puns. Matthew Howell portrays very real joy at his own comedic success which is sometimes funnier than the wordplay and brings a completely relaxed and unashamed presence to the room.

Duncan Stevens has written a show of disturbing intensity whether the characters are talking rubbish, making jokes, eating food, being menacing or dealing with the end of their days, but it never ceases to leave the audience and the characters on the edge, waiting for the inevitable doom you kind of hope comes to them. He writes with a wicked sense of humour that effortlessly translates to stage and to Andy McQuade’s dark direction.

You won’t be disappointed. Just go and laugh at some annoyingly posh people and their ultimate demise... Playing until Sunday.

Ten Things

(I know, I know, you wait and wait for a blog entry and then three come along at once, like buses and orgasms)

Ten things that ain't my bag baby.

1 - Telling someone to "shut their face". An old fashioned shut up or fuck off should suffice.

2 - Slow internet. It's 2012, I just paid 2 British pounds to use this computer, you bastard.

3 - Coffee you hadn't realised had gone cold and subsequently took a large gulp of. Ugh.

4 - Text talk. I'm well old now and texts from my friends should back this up.

5 - Farmville requests from Mother. It's not big and it's not clever and I don't care about the virtual butter churn!

6 - Sexy men who don't find me sexy remotely. What are you for?!

7 - Game releases that subsequently cause 90% of the men in my life to mysteriously vanish.

8 - Racism. It's not cool. I'm a humanist. You're a human. Come here and give me a bloody hug.

9 - Raves, to enjoy them you apparently need a lot of drugs. Throw me in a mosh pit any time, where all you need is long hair and a penchant for brutality.

10 - Sushi. It's just laziness isn't it.

You might describe most of those as "First World Problems". But this isn't Twitter. So hush.

Chapter One

He asked her if she knew her name.

She cried "no!".

He asked her if she would look at him.

She cried "no!"

He asked her if she knew where she was.

She cried "no!"

He asked her why she wept.

She cried "no!"

He left and she lifted her head and sighed, tears running from her eyes.

Echos shivered down the corridor and into her dark room.

(The lights made her shake. They learnt this early on.)

She listened hard and heard the man yell in the distance like a shrieking guttural ape.

"She'll remember, you bastard!"

She peeked at the camera, light glowing red.

It heard every word and so did she.

And she remembered.

Mighty Interesting Letter of Note

(Borrowed from 'Letters from an Atheist Nation' (1903) via LettersOfNote.com)

Why am I an Atheist

Because it has dawned upon me that it is right to be so, and upon investigation I find no real evidence of the divine origin of the scriptures. And because I cannot, as a refined and respectable woman, take to my bosom as a daily guide a book of such low morals and degrading influences. Written by a lot of priests, I cannot accept a salvation that is based wholly upon the dreams of an ancient and superstitious people, with no proof save blind faith.

Everything that so many people think transpires from the supernatural, and many things that would really perplex the average mind, have a natural and material foundation in the workings of the human mind; that is, things that are not connected with our solar system.

It is ignorance of the scientific working of their own natures and mind that keep so much "mystery" in the air; and as long as there is a mystery afloat the people will ascribe it to the supernatural.

I am an Atheist because I know the Bible will not do to depend upon. I have tried it, and found it wanting.

In fact, I found in the scriptures the origin of woman's slayer, and that it was one of God's main points to oppress women and keep them in the realms of ignorance.

I am in the ranks of Liberalism because of its elevating principles, its broad road to freedom of thought, speech, and investigation.

MINNIE O. PARRISH
23 years old
Leonard, Texas

(1903)

Reading

Now I have a 30-40 minute commute every morning and every evening I find myself reading 1984 by George Orwell, a book I've always wanted to read but life got in the way. By that I mean when I pause for breath, I just want to watch crappy tv, surf the net, reorganise my room again, tut at my wardrobe or worry about a deadline without having to concentrate on something I want to take the time to know well.

During my commute there's not much else to do but subtly snuggle up to strangers and be consumed in words I've heard a lot about, but never experienced.

I'm about a third way through now and I find myself pondering a world without certain givens. A world without coffee shops, a world without music, a world without plastic wrapping, a world without knives, a world without guilt and a world without lips. Different and separate worlds of course, as a world without all of those would pretty much be Mars and we'd all be pretty bored right now. 

I also find myself pondering whether you could really have a world without attractive people. If we were all ugly and undesirable surely we'd find new definitions for the words?

On a lighter note, a nice gentlemen noted how much he enjoyed 1984 to me yesterday when he saw me reading it, as he took the seat next to me on the train (in the middle of a three seater with spare seats elsewhere - who does that?). Then he proceeded to take out his Kindle, unlock it and return to the book he was reading. I can't put the name of it here, it would shame my blog. But its basically The Secretary (the film) but crap. If you've read it then I surely hope it was for a joke, you won money and you are getting counselling. Or you're at least appropriately ashamed of yourself.

J and I have made a pact not to read it. We only read good books. Like classics and Buffy novels.

Dos and don'ts...

As much as you like the theatre, fellow thespians and the warm glow of a well aimed Fresnel you are not always going to like the show. Maybe the set is frighteningly unstable or your arse is more numb than the actor’s facial expression or the script is about as exciting as the opening spiel of a telemarketer or that actor is just too darn pretty to be playing a brute. Whatever it is, unless you’re sat at the back, near the door, in a rather large theatre and have no shame, well, you aren’t going anywhere and there’s nothing you can do about it. So in case you need a hand to keep yourself awake, to cease the mind numbing ache of monotonous tones or to stop yourself from screaming, here are a few things you can DO.

1 - Got a pad and paper? – write that play you’ve always thought about. The incessant notes will intrigue your neighbours, who will surely make others aware of your talents and word of mouth will surely ensure your debut is an instant West End hit, despite being a musical about a postman.

2 - Check out your surrounding fellow theatre goers’ concentration faces. Enjoy.

3 - Imagine the gorgeous lead naked on a bed of silk with a certain look in his/her eye... – add secret fetish here - ... leave with a satisfied naughty smirk that none of the other equally disappointed patrons can comprehend.

4 – Got hair? – plait it. Unplait it. Put it in a bun. Now a high bun. Undo the bun and attempt a French plait. Repeat. The concentration will amuse the people around you and you’ll get a subconscious arm work out. Not got hair? Plait the person’s hair in front of you.

5 – Imagine yourself in all the roles. Appreciate the irony of the fact you’re pretty sure you could quite possibly make it worse.

Here’s a few things you DON’T do.

1 – Start singing along with the songs. Whether they’re part of the show or just in your head it’s quite inappropriate, will get you nowhere with the ladies and, most importantly, it will distract the critics from the mess.

2 – Make a phone call. Only bastards make or answer calls in a theatre or cinema. Even if the film does feature Jennifer Lopez. Are you a bastard?

3 – Instigate a game of musical chairs during set changes.

4 – Get your iPad out. Especially to play Angry Birds. This is one of two examples on these two lists that I’ve actually seen occur.

I rarely see a bad show and this column is meant almost entirely in jest.  

Give me a deadline...

On my desktop, apart from the usual array of programs I never use and Google Chrome, is a file named "Scripts". This contains five Microsoft Word files and a PDF. One of the Word files and the PDF are complete and wonderful and I love them. The others are unfinished and I think this is because I love them more.

Two suffer from wherewasigoingwiththis-itis. Another from thissceneisrubbishandiwillnotmoveonuntilitisnt-osis and the other I am working on at the moment with a slower pace than the others, which I think is a good sign.

This file is like a lot of things in my life. Such as my bedroom. The wall scattered with notes and images and theatre tickets that have become - quite literally - part of the wallpaper and no longer inspire a great whim on which to build on. 

Like a lot of creatives I struggle to hold an idea in my head - that is wholly my own and without a deadline - without another idea shoving it out the way with Spartan vigour.

So, dear readers, I ask you this. Give me a deadline. Then, as with so many of my University essays, I will surely produce an awesome (and sometimes mediocre) piece of work and move on with my life. 

Cool Jobs

A little list of cool jobs. In my humble but accurate opinion.

1 - Crop Circle Maker (QI to thank for that one)
2 - Chocolate Taster (obviously, yes, you'd get fat, but fat people have friends too, and sex)
3 - Muscle Shiner - for the 300 prequel. (Can you imagine? I'd get bruises from the overwhelmed faints)
4 - Surrealist Painter (I'd paint any old shit. In the dark.)
5 - Columnist for a good paper (A serious one. Soz)
6 - Princess (I'm not that girly. I'd rather be King, but, you know, that's anatomically challenging and 'Queen' gives off a weird I'm-going-to-behead-you vibe. In Miss H's world)
7 - Speech Writer for George W. Bush (I'd write any old shit. In the dark)
8 - Masseuse for the Bourne movies. (As perve usual)
9 - Endless Blogger (I have a lot of thoughts. No... really)
10 - Swear word maker upper (You fondikirk, you! [Means he's a bit of a knob])

Too much information

Some information.

Currently half sat up and half lying down under the white, flowery covers and on top of my black sheet with similarly decorated pillows under my back. I am typing away while the terrific noise of Linkin Park playing live many miles away in Madrid (Spain, Europe, Earth) on Youtube (great website - highly recommended). They are playing "Breaking the Habit" and the audience are singing along to each lyric, word by word. It's lovely and I'm jealous. A paradox that I am sadly used to. Like when my flatmate buys a beautiful new dress. Inexpensively. It's always lovely. And I am always, always, jealous.

My wardrobe that spreads along one wall is half open with my clothing messily organised - no easy feat I tell you. Shoes spill out of the bottom of the opening from where I attempted to find the second of the pair I wore today. White, lace-less trainers with metal studs on the sides, if you're wondering. You're probably not.

My washing basket is over flowing. Sexy.

Linking Park are now playing "Shadow of the Day". Awesome.

My music taste is vast and often tasteless. I try to remedy this, but then I find I have no shame, especially in my own company. I ruined my Tuesday by Googling the following:

"Hey, I just met you"

...out of curiosity. I kept seeing these gags on 9gag.com, during my weekly perusing... okay daily... and I had no idea what they were talking about, which will just not do. What I discovered was horrific and the bloody, blasted, bastard tune was stuck in my head throughout the day. And, little tip. Singing "Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but here's my number, so call me maybe" over and over and over and over again during an 11hour day does not make one popular with your new colleagues. 

I rarely give advice, as it's something that annoys the hell out of me. Advice is rarely given in sincerity but instead in superiority. Also, it is so eagerly given by a lot of people. I understand it, the knowledge that someone listens to your thinking and takes it on board is addictive. But people so readily give it, in such pointless situations, such as when you have a cough, when you like a guy/girl, when you want a new song to listen to or when you are getting hounded by a charity telemarketer. In these situations, logic SHOULD kick in. If you have a cough - have some syrup, drink water, talk less, lay off the fags... If you like a guy/girl, think and act, or don't, it only effects you.... If you want some new music to listen to, check out the charts in your favourite genre, check out a friend's iTunes or go crazy and just buy a random album at Asda.... If you are getting hounded by a charity telemarketer, ask them to stop calling or tell them to fuck off. I am NOT advising you here. I am TELLING you to think for yourself.  So there.

But, in all seriousness, don't ever listen to that song, don't go Google it now, and don't ever think about it again. 

If you have already listened to it... let's totally make up a dance routine to go with it. Really, really annoy them. If you're going to do something, do it well.

Anyway, in case you're wondering (you're probably not), I'm wearing an old t-shirt of my Dad's - I think - with some faded information about an event in Berlin on the front. And pants. 

TMI. Brought to you by the now Self Employed and exhausted but happy Miss H.

(What I've Done has just started. Excellent)

If you don't like Linkin Park then you should either see a doctor or take off your Dr Dre headphones - the Dubstep is melting your brain

Love you really.

iTunes inspired

You can tell by the way I use my walk, that I'm a man's woman, with no time to talk.
So don't stop me to ask if I'm happy with my insurance. If I was insured, I'd have time to talk, and would be less concerned with how many times I get booped by cars.

Let meeeeeee entertain you!
When I'm pissed.

When a maaan loves a woooman....
He doth not need to rubbeth said love into all the women's faces. Eth.

Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy...
Yeah. 'Cos that song is on MY iTunes. You know the room you're in? Get out.

They tried to make me go to rehab and I said...
Mum, they don't have a chocoholics department, soz.

I'll keep you my dirty little secret...
Empty can of coke under my bedside table. That's been there for months. Yes the same one from my last blog.

Why don't you get a job?
I got one. And the first day was tiring. So night night dear readers.

Not Nervous At All

You know when you know you really have to go to sleep because you know that you have to be rested because you know that tomorrow's a big day that would probably go better if you knew you'd had a nice sleep. Well I know all this but I also know that the following pointless tasks need doing:

Filling up my water glass, even though it's half full. (what if I get mega thirsty in the night?!)

Arranging my handbag so oyster and headphones are balanced on top.

Writing this blog

Opening the window.

Making sure the plastic on my facewipes is sealed (Goddarn it, it's frustrating when they go dry)

Putting that empty D.Coke can in the bin.

Putting pants and socks out for the morning (NEVER do this normally, but why not)

Cleaning that smudge off that mirror.

Scrutinizing a potential wrinkle next to my eye (I'm 23! Why God why!)

Plumping pillows. Putting back them in cupboard. (I have too many pillows for my bed) (Women are mental)

Closing window.

Not doing these tasks would leave my brain open to be nervous about tomorrow, which means I won't be able to sleep.

I realise this might be a bit of a catch 22.

Might read One Day. That always sends me to sleep. Blah, love, blah, betrayal, blah, really not Shakespeare, blah, no I've not seen the film, blah, why did I buy this book, blah, why do I listen to recommendations, blah, love, blah, betrayal, blah, snore, blah, snore, snore...

Stand Up Comedy

I've just spent an unhealthy amount of time watching Stand Up Comedy on YouTube. It was one of my symptoms.

Sometimes I notice things that are quite amusing. Like the people on the tube who pretend they aren't listening to your frankly quite uninteresting conversation but still laugh when your friend says phenomenon instead of pheromone. Or when I realize my facial expression is inappropriately exaggerated in company. Or noticing other people's facial expressions when they're driving.



Or how eyes are inexplicably drawn to your pimple, but they deny knowing it was there when you mention it. Or just how fascinating I find the support that a sports bra gives you and how I literally can't think of anything else while I'm wearing one - which is one of the many reasons I give for not exercising, yet not the worst one.

Anyway, I could totally do stand up. People laugh at me often enough.

Night!

Independent Woman

Being independent has it's merits. I adore it. Do what I want, when I want, with who I want. Like a spoiled child "I want" is never a task but merely a given.

It's only lacking I have been overcome with in this past hour. I take great pride in being able to look after myself but I fear when I wake up tomorrow morning I will be unable to do so due to an illness I have suffered before, but in company. It's one of the few things that frightens me, along with furbies, and like them I find myself powerless to shut the illness up and simply ignore it. Powerlessness is frightening.

A couple of phonecalls should be comforting though they also make me uneasy and slightly peeved. I know what to do (drink lots of water, go to the doctors first thing in the morning and perhaps a hot water bottle) but having others telling me so reminds me of the terrifying fact that sometimes I need looking after and sometimes no-one is going to be there. It's no-ones fault. This was my choice and 99.9999999998 percent of the time it seems like a positive one. However, this small percentage that I am experiencing is none-the-less agonizing and I wish someone were here to give me a hug, feed me painkillers and fill up my water bottle.

Good God I feel like a mega pile of shite.

Funny words

About to make some broth for my dinner. By make, I mean pour its ready made form from it's plastic container and put in a bowl, cover and microwave.
Anyway, "broth" is a funny word.

Inside Jokes

Twice today I've found myself in the confusing and unsettling position of laughing along to what was clearly a joke only because of the third person in your conversation is reacting accordingly. Otherwise it was just a weird thing to say. For example...

Person 1 - Oh God it's that Justin Beiber song...
Person 2 - Yeah, wouldn't want to be wearing a tutu now!
Person 3 - *giggle* (Genuine)
Person 1 - *giggle* (Why am I giggling?)

This is a stupid situation and I would like to make a plea to all these people who think that this is acceptable in today's society. It isn't. Either shut up or explain yourself immediately. Inside jokes will only excel your relationship with that one person - and that is just a waste of time and energy in this fast paced and cynical world. If everyone did this then life would be a very confusing engagement, as every other witty thought would only be witty in the company to one friend. That one friend would hopefully only make up a very small percentage of the people you count as friends and the likeliness that every witty comment you think up is relevant to the company your keeping will be low. Very low.
So pipe down.

Also, in-couple joke are worse. Much worse. Mainly because they have uncomfortable connotations. But also because they will soon become bitter, bitter memories. Remember that.

Anyway. It's Wednesday. Which means in a few hours I will be sat watching The Avengers on a big screen. I can't actually wait. It's supposed to be a date but if he distracts me at any point, he will be getting a slap. Which might be damning to any future happiness I might have, but a risk I'm willing to take.

Complaining

I was recently complaining about the fact that I find myself complaining a lot. I was bitching about the small things that warp my pretty comfortable existence into something more interesting to talk about... such as a train being late (I don't travel well), weather being too hot/cold, having too many pillows on my bed, not having won the lottery yet and putting on a couple of pounds. All these beefs can be simply solved whether it be by putting on an extra coat, removing a few pillows or not eating all the brownies and the rest can be even more simply be put up with as, let's be fair, I'm one of the lucky ones. I can afford to take that train, I'm normally going somewhere fabulous and the person meeting me doesn't give too much of a toss about 15 minutes and I have that extra quid to gamble once a week.

This is not be harping on about how lucky we all are but simply readjusting my brain to the point that things aren't perfect and not everyone wants or would like to know how not perfect they are. I purposely avoid conversations with those people who when you ask "How are you" you are immediately regretful as their mouth opens and their troubles however acute become your acute problems too. I do often have a good moan about these people but in doing so I begrudgingly become one of them. 

So I hereby will try to not complain or complain about complaining as much, as I don't want you going off complaining about my complaining about complaining blog.

I'm going to head off now and try not to complain about how the word complain and all it's derivatives have lost all meaning.

My Guilty Pleasures

Guilty Pleasures I Have Felt Not One Ounce Of Guilt About Taking Pleasure In.

In no particular order.

Eating a cookie while I make dinner.
Correcting someone when they say would of, could of or should of instead of would have, could have or should have.
Passing an exam with flying colours despite not studying for it and having spent every class thinking about the musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Digging for compliments.
Outwitting drunk people.
Pretending my bloated belly is a baby and naming her Leonie or him Spike. In my mind.
Playing alarming amounts of Bejewelled Blitz when I should be doing something productive and blaming the parent who beat my score for my non-productivity.
Waking my Mother when she falls asleep during a film and telling her it's been three hours when it's been three minutes.
Watching Inglorious Bastards and double checking - again - that the guy with the baseball bat isn't the cute kid with a guitar from School of Rock.
Singing a song until Connie tells me to stop showing off.
"Fuck you very much" "What was that?" "Wank you very much" "Sorry?" "THANK YOU VERY MUCH!
Pouring more wine in my glass than theirs.
Staring at handsome men through sunglasses yet swearing at men who beep at me from white vans and make me jump like I've been electrocuted by the pavement.


Genuine pleasures. Genuine non-guilty feeling.

My actual guilty pleasures.
In no particular order.
You'll never know.

Perve.

Atheism

I've come to the conclusion I'm an atheist.

I don't understand how I could be any other way. I believe in evolution and the randomness of life.I believe that people are generally miserable despite their amazing selves and the opportunities presented such as chocolate and comedy and the creativity that their brain provides. I believe that governments are arseholes who can't do right for doing wrong simply because logic and morality is so warped and misguided through the mix of religious beliefs and stupidity on this planet that pleasing everyone is simply impossible so they endeavour to please themselves. I believe in the signals to my brain that create feelings of love when I see my family and friends or come across anyone who can make me laugh or doesn't dawdle in central London. I believe in laziness as well as inspiration. I believe in language and metaphors. I believe in Stephen Fry and his complexities. I believe in novels that take you to different worlds, times or dimensions. I believe that violence and cruelty are results of the imposers' religious beliefs, stupidity, mental illness or all three. I believe that I could write a book about a yellow dragon and in a couple of thousand years someone could discover it in whatever format and decide it is sacred fact and that everyone must worship this yellow dragon of Chocolateland simply because of the morality the story provides.

I believe in people's right to decide for themselves even if they decide to only listen to someone else's conclusions.

I believe that peace is nearly impossible in this world as we are too busy telling each other that peace is what our God or Gods want.... instead of reasonably thinking about it and coming to the conclusion that things would be better if smiles replaced guns and music replaced debt.

I also believe in Tom Hardy sweet patooty.

Sister, My

Having a video chat with my sister at the moment and because she posted a picture of me looking ghastly last time we spoke... well... let's not call it revenge... let's call it... retribution.

Anyway. My sister. 24 (I think) and more or less the same height as me, unless you take into account size of heel, hair style, hat/no hat and whether we are sitting/standing, and who does that? Really? She has a penchant for laziness, like the best of us, and I always thought if she'd won the lottery she'd buy a big house, with a maid or two, and adopt several children, with a nanny or two. She would call them all some variance of her name... therefore, in my head, she'd have a number of, slightly chubby, Kat's, Kathy's, Kate's and Tharines. As well as some boys who she'd call Peter or Pete or Andre, as in my head she still has a weird obsession with the overly tanned and shiny abbed guy of the nineties, who only got more annoying as the years went by, didn't he? She'd also have a room for me to stay in that is bigger than hers, with a four poster bed and a view of the sea. She won't know how she ended up with a room with a single bed and two windows, both of which have trees right outside - great big bushy ones at that - for even in this alternative universe, I still get my own way, even if deep down I know it's unfair. I don't think she's sat in the front seat of any car we've both been in since 1994. And that's only cos I actually wanted to sit in the back. Good times.  Anyway, that's if she won the lottery.

She has big boobs. This annoys me. Many the hour have passed with me looking down at my puppies and cursing the God or Gods.

My big sister has spindly hands like my Mum... her blue eyes, petite nose and ear size. Actually, we both got that. This is combined with my Dad's charming lankiness (you should see pictures of him in the 70s/80s) (He had hair then too) and his quick temper. She frowns a fair bit, which shouldn't hinder her getting a fella - have I mentioned her boobs? She has clear skin which I can only put down to her habit of wearing ever so slightly less make up than me on a day to day basis. Ok, that's a lie. She doesn't wear any and I wear a lot. Glad we've cleared that up. Her clothes mostly consist of my donations and my suggestions. Her lack of weekly clothes purchases is such a stark opposite to me that I sometimes think I, we or she's adopted. Then I realize we both look like Mother and often get told we look a lot like each other. We're both shaking a fist at those people. Which I find quite insulting, who wouldn't want to look like me? She also isn't very arrogant. Even in a jokey way. We're very, very different - which is fine - she'd probably annoy me more if she was like me.

The only person I've ever dreamt about punching in the face hurt my sister.

If I had to, I'd say I loved her quite a bit. If I had to. My blog though.