Women. Men. Aliens. Etc.


I’m starting to realise that us females are all so alike, it’s kind of terrifying.

There I am in the office, doing what I think is ‘whispering’ about having to remind my boyfriend that it’s the anniversary of our first date next week (I know, right? They don’t write that stuff down?) And that he was then all like ‘that’s a thing?’ and that I had to tell him that ‘yes, it’s quite the thing actually’ and that ‘I suppose I’ll have to organise it all as usual’ and ‘oh yes by the way, a card wouldn’t go a miss’ – with a side note of ‘not that it will be very meaningful now that I’ve had to suggest it’.

Yep, that conversation, I’m sure you know it inside out, plus swear words, and the rest.

I heard a response over the desk to my not so whispery whisper, ‘yep, I’m afraid nothing changes, and that’s after 20 years.’ Great.

A further response – a male voice. Here we go. ‘Yeah, my girlfriend makes all these things into ‘things’ too, surely that’s just what you do when you’re married? And that won’t be happening.’ Charming.

And the debate picked up, one by one across the office, the women all rolly eyed with tuts and sighs while the male head shakes were tied with ‘I don’t get its’ and ‘how are we supposed to know thats’.

And then we all laughed at the sound of ourselves, as it was all so funny because it was all so true and we are all just so alike and so similarly different to men.

So sometimes, we don’t want to ask something because we feel like we shouldn’t have to. And then we get angry when our minds haven’t been read and the thing we decided not to ask hasn’t happened.

So sometimes, we make up a perfect scenario in our minds, again expecting our better lesser equal halves to become Derren Brown for the evening and we then proceed to be disappointed when the plan that we failed to share didn’t play out quite as we’d imagined.

So sometimes, we wake up in the morning and we’re just in a bad mood. We could have won the lottery or be lying next to [place appropriate hot celebrity crush here] and it wouldn’t change a thing. This mood occurs for no reason, and with no explanation, whatsover, but we’re just in need of a mini pity party and some sympathy and probably a few hours of guilt free shopping to numb the random sorrow, and a little cry – yep, still for no reason – all without being looked at like we’ve a) escaped from a mental asylum, b) have grown an extra head, or c) both. And, before you know it, we’ll be right as rain again, wondering if everyone else’s moods can change quicker than you can say ‘for your own safety don’t speak to me right now,’ or if we should in fact be thinking seriously about giving that mental asylum a call.

Because that’s just what we do, sometimes.

And I must admit, putting it all down into words can make a girl question her own sanity slightly, and can also make her confess that in the tiniest way we might just be a little bit of hard work and probably a weeny bit confusing. But, it would appear that we’re loved and accepted all the same – I mean, it’s endearing, right?

Then, on overhearing a taxi driver’s phone conversation, it struck me that, despite everything, there’s really only one thing that men will never accept or tolerate about us, and that’s our intolerance of the ‘F’ word…

‘Football’, that is:

“She wants me to come over tonight, but the Arsenal game’s on. I know, she’s crazy isn’t she! They just don’t get it.”

Hello Future Self.

A couple of weeks back, I attended a reunion at my primary school. It was the 25th anniversary of the school’s opening, where headteachers, teachers and students past and present reunited for tea and cake, to catch up with old faces and reminisce over the school photographs of every class since the beginning,

It was so lovely to see my old teachers, albeit a little strange to get used to the fact that they weren’t going to tell me off for talking or giggling or being too loud. And once I’d made it through the awkwardness of introducing myself – since I’ve lost my puppy fat and dyed my hair red and none of them recognised me – the adult conversation flowed.


I attended with one of my friends whom I met at that school nearly 20 years ago, and who I’m still close to now. That made me feel pretty old (I know, at 23, really?!)

Although it was such a long time ago now, that school was essentially where the person I am today began to form – only a lot littler and cuter and frecklier.

It got me to thinking what a perfect time being a six year old was, where my only worries were coming up with witty comebacks to the boys’ and their variations of ‘ginger’ jokes, choosing who my best friend would be that week and deciding what bow to wear in my hair that day,

Though as lovely as that little life seems, I’m sure when I’m older with a mortgage and a family, I’ll be writing about how lovely it would be to be 23, for my only worries to be about what my future will hold, which country to travel to next and losing my mobile phone.

If I could, I’d tell my six year old self to smile at those ‘ginger’ jokes, as that red hair will leave you laughing at boys one day. I’d also advise her to pick a couple of best friends and keep all of them for every week, as you’ll be needing them a lot, forever. And I’d break the news to her that sadly, worrying about how to wear your hair will actually always be a major life concern.

So today, because I can, and it’s not too late, I’m giving some advice to my 23 year old self: stop worrying, see what happens, say ‘yes’ to adventures, say ‘no’ to negativity, laugh always, be grateful, and make 43 year old you very proud.