tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56826141156300158822024-03-13T04:12:44.191+00:00Biscuits & BlistersLouise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.comBlogger200125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-82981459158687684722021-02-28T11:13:00.002+00:002021-03-08T12:33:53.673+00:00She's not my cat<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoeFYD-d6h_NZm7AksOotVGNpNQs0HAfMDQ953jXvz62kkQokddDNrEdjpEJa2HWOdN-5nbfXSWA0hBYmeQjJCVypRAW6f4lPAAJP7q17ImDQbCJiWKtSg5eWsFaQGZk7as_bRfcV6qXQ/s1600/WhatsApp+Image+2021-02-05+at+16.18.09.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoeFYD-d6h_NZm7AksOotVGNpNQs0HAfMDQ953jXvz62kkQokddDNrEdjpEJa2HWOdN-5nbfXSWA0hBYmeQjJCVypRAW6f4lPAAJP7q17ImDQbCJiWKtSg5eWsFaQGZk7as_bRfcV6qXQ/w480-h640/WhatsApp+Image+2021-02-05+at+16.18.09.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A moment of silence for my lockdown roots, if you please</i>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>When I was in primary school, we had to create a book. Like the whole thing, not just write the words. Fold the paper, draw the illustrations, devise the marketing campaign (maybe not that one, can't remember). And I think it had to be an instructional book because I created mine on how to look after a cat.<p></p><p>I wanted a cat. I wasn't allowed a cat, and thought that I could prove to my parents that I was very knowledgeable and capable in looking after a cat by creating (not just writing, remember) a book on the very subject. This was in the 90s without the internet so my knowledge had to come from my own tiny primary school brain. </p><p>Anyway, I was proud of the book but I still wasn't allowed a cat.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p>I am still, aged 27 and nearly-a-half and back in my childhood home, not allowed a cat. But what I didn't realise when I was a kid, what I missed out in my book, is that you can still have a cat without being allowed a cat.</p><p>This is Ali...</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjrFrM6kGDAKP4mHlwAqvkcbNPtaAupHhykSt1iz9A5rc-Woy-qh3GROe-U1VNjtIolrvaOlB1EnP_wRA6yFZRsJEIAeP8WArwCuyg4osx85OjE3ON5oKy_AcOCp2Ds8DniuGV-zeK0jk/s2048/146856215_2160561430740388_687692708004498674_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjrFrM6kGDAKP4mHlwAqvkcbNPtaAupHhykSt1iz9A5rc-Woy-qh3GROe-U1VNjtIolrvaOlB1EnP_wRA6yFZRsJEIAeP8WArwCuyg4osx85OjE3ON5oKy_AcOCp2Ds8DniuGV-zeK0jk/w640-h480/146856215_2160561430740388_687692708004498674_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />Ali lives at No. 5. We do not live at No. 5. And yet, Ali spends 20 hours a day in our house. <p></p><p>Mwahahaha. </p><p>At first, when she wandered in a couple of years ago, all hell broke loose. It's inside. Oh my God. Why is it here. How did it get in?! Martin, get it out. Why is it staring at me? No I will not stroke it. It's ON THE IRONING BOARD. Mum wasn't a fan.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><blockquote class="twitter-tweet"><p dir="ltr" lang="en">how it started how it’s going <a href="https://t.co/9suNqrufwF">pic.twitter.com/9suNqrufwF</a></p>— Louise ✨ (@louisejonesetc) <a href="https://twitter.com/louisejonesetc/status/1357735347409588226?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">February 5, 2021</a></blockquote> <script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script>
Seeing a cat in our house was like seeing a teacher in Asda. But she kept coming back. She'd wander in, would have a mooch around, then leave. Then she started mooching around, sniffing things, sitting on things, then would leave. Then she went upstairs! Then she lay down. Then she closed her eyes. And she never left.</div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHB6zDTp03sFhwf65j0EYX9w4JVYKJ8KaEKpZTaWsGpuRZXcjRs-yoWyfc9LU_rPAZu0y9LW66wjGnfFN5tOVLyPSP3xthn6C3ch8Fcd16avisf-fCdz1qQ1HPwZNCyaL0hEKs6Q_jJ58/s2048/146482077_254744436277913_6565298054218376825_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHB6zDTp03sFhwf65j0EYX9w4JVYKJ8KaEKpZTaWsGpuRZXcjRs-yoWyfc9LU_rPAZu0y9LW66wjGnfFN5tOVLyPSP3xthn6C3ch8Fcd16avisf-fCdz1qQ1HPwZNCyaL0hEKs6Q_jJ58/w480-h640/146482077_254744436277913_6565298054218376825_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br />I could not believe that after years of not being allowed a cat - of dreaming up names and fantasising about finding a stray kitten in a bush - it was as simple as opening your back door and waiting it out. The cat chooses to have you, you do not choose to have the cat.<p></p><p>Until last year, Ali's visits were sporadic but since the pandemic she now absolutely lives here. We don't feed her, we haven't bought things for her (oh the temptation) and yet, she comes back every day. She leaps on to the conservatory roof, under my bedroom at a (godforsakenly early) time of her choice in the morning, and will sit and meow on my windowsill until my lazy human arse opens the window to let her in. And I moan about it, but... I'm a bit obsessed with her. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ptzxb8G4Zctps_OQCn11Zsb3RVUxS6DVh3PYgX3k-JDkgSzo1d0I04fBGOlFnbz_oYqxZ00w3PZJgw8gI4Gi_u5c2cY5NhzQW0lAEPCSCZPf41NXQgJgeLNCYdA4pKlUWwsfkoIJpjg/s2048/146934478_1044535189363265_9122086915302009786_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ptzxb8G4Zctps_OQCn11Zsb3RVUxS6DVh3PYgX3k-JDkgSzo1d0I04fBGOlFnbz_oYqxZ00w3PZJgw8gI4Gi_u5c2cY5NhzQW0lAEPCSCZPf41NXQgJgeLNCYdA4pKlUWwsfkoIJpjg/w480-h640/146934478_1044535189363265_9122086915302009786_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br />I like her padding on my back as I try to get back to sleep. I like her sitting next to me on the sofa as I'm eating beans on toast. I like using her as a pillow and her allowing it (for a bit). I like putting things on her head as she sleeps like Buckaroo.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh6N8EEF8dTFj9ojg0d7qg6j6L_wdRHIEgI3gaSxy2aW3J0MaBUS1tn9Yjm_ntqIZJKtGfam39OpJKK9MtTFu943EcW0amGKXWrz5__CLY7ONnEKdKVo7VnESLDitIPWSwfmMROfwLcYg/s2048/147053830_759113534719050_7339946009342325037_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh6N8EEF8dTFj9ojg0d7qg6j6L_wdRHIEgI3gaSxy2aW3J0MaBUS1tn9Yjm_ntqIZJKtGfam39OpJKK9MtTFu943EcW0amGKXWrz5__CLY7ONnEKdKVo7VnESLDitIPWSwfmMROfwLcYg/w480-h640/147053830_759113534719050_7339946009342325037_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p>I like calling her a loaf, my Ali-cat, my furry baby. I like her burying her head in the crook of my elbow when I pick her up to chuck her out at bedtime (10pm, girl's got boundaries) like if she can't see me then I can't see her and she won't have to leave. I like her falling asleep mid-clean.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3jr5bgCe-MghvnfjcoUjnjfrcMT4V7uCR-UajWVpEHmxVZyflBQatPm3tVWk0Q_MFBuzbernQ1VM6J3SAKClhNjE7Hv5d5TRmiIYGO-4-7NT7uAP8srKA2-3Byb66iVupTjy_EaxBl1c/s2048/146597198_3728472633897695_7679789431406328481_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3jr5bgCe-MghvnfjcoUjnjfrcMT4V7uCR-UajWVpEHmxVZyflBQatPm3tVWk0Q_MFBuzbernQ1VM6J3SAKClhNjE7Hv5d5TRmiIYGO-4-7NT7uAP8srKA2-3Byb66iVupTjy_EaxBl1c/w480-h640/146597198_3728472633897695_7679789431406328481_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p>I like her darting up the ladder into the loft as Dad mutters, 'For God's sake, not again.' I like rescuing her from the loft. I like picking dust off her whiskers after she's been rescued from the loft. I like her sitting on my feet under the desk as I work. I like her sitting <i>on</i> desk as I work. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOKRJPyn4PYbMvFwQ5vI02reJL7uMdMVdoh5Cus-6AIuZI0K3Ko3KIs1KK-veESBB4iiJGYtg0fIF5hi2uRQ_rKa8WBweAR4yxWyHKHT0EV_qUXKUigL7hSZEOA8cJcr1ss34Szps2EmI/s2048/147412324_483344573067794_8752121642062403440_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOKRJPyn4PYbMvFwQ5vI02reJL7uMdMVdoh5Cus-6AIuZI0K3Ko3KIs1KK-veESBB4iiJGYtg0fIF5hi2uRQ_rKa8WBweAR4yxWyHKHT0EV_qUXKUigL7hSZEOA8cJcr1ss34Szps2EmI/w480-h640/147412324_483344573067794_8752121642062403440_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br />I like her picking <i>my</i> jumper to sleep on. I like her shoving her paw under the door when I'm trying to have a poo in peace. I like tucking her in for her fifth cat nap of the day. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhmmIPkNWh6ecimBVAT0uYoYNldb8dpwAhxPDqzLvFohjFs_ZpmzKef9fL6aqw9JrS7GWUgND2Eidfk6DUCEJK9voGHwbC1wqik7McCX4PtdNpwdJ2JP-Sz5wzinKDZikQXpmtb9731tI/s1472/146597208_864136607852436_4181792682933839162_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1472" data-original-width="828" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhmmIPkNWh6ecimBVAT0uYoYNldb8dpwAhxPDqzLvFohjFs_ZpmzKef9fL6aqw9JrS7GWUgND2Eidfk6DUCEJK9voGHwbC1wqik7McCX4PtdNpwdJ2JP-Sz5wzinKDZikQXpmtb9731tI/w360-h640/146597208_864136607852436_4181792682933839162_n.jpg" width="360" /></a></div><p>I like her clawing at my thighs ready to tear through my femoral artery. I like her being handy content for my 1 Second Everyday app. I like her choosing my lap.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBhWI5gKr3j_r4oalztM7i8h1ifZtxxliPOB88aB3SqqzpQ6MXJ_PFIOWbSNjTbpbFeuizjkMrfm2CrYilcjtUY95mNJpGSLjI54WZ4IvVq_NDgA6sK-ALAYkmKnKxS2AY8ZWynh__Vog/s2048/146634299_3677074772339990_6525126362707903100_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBhWI5gKr3j_r4oalztM7i8h1ifZtxxliPOB88aB3SqqzpQ6MXJ_PFIOWbSNjTbpbFeuizjkMrfm2CrYilcjtUY95mNJpGSLjI54WZ4IvVq_NDgA6sK-ALAYkmKnKxS2AY8ZWynh__Vog/w640-h480/146634299_3677074772339990_6525126362707903100_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSZmCX9yMVjKUAHb38JSyuYcg-ceeqxQjhYWoyF27FgWolNvgPec11pzLUu3GCSdKAkKt0UdeFUE2Jo4pvqzqZOSZXH-JHJcxgCQ8xD6GADWXboO_VByz9BPjKelrXkct7jeZ3lW7iObE/s2048/147969672_3721669174579167_6103112088942462711_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSZmCX9yMVjKUAHb38JSyuYcg-ceeqxQjhYWoyF27FgWolNvgPec11pzLUu3GCSdKAkKt0UdeFUE2Jo4pvqzqZOSZXH-JHJcxgCQ8xD6GADWXboO_VByz9BPjKelrXkct7jeZ3lW7iObE/w640-h480/147969672_3721669174579167_6103112088942462711_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>And I like her lying next to me as I'm wallowing in bed on Day 872987 of the pandemic with her head on my lap as I try to find my next lockdown watch.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA0ZyVebK-W8bZmknRG_jlxf3yZQFMKjRdK6NQcv781zfQyk4RfEaCB7giZFVR2W6Xj85jtUOOpCTFcBvRgnSEJp3X3WvwdtNTi-CZUurFt78J5tND9AFkOnQd5vDriaL7Tlue1JA7jn4/s2048/147500989_2717549088510783_1451984912348407764_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA0ZyVebK-W8bZmknRG_jlxf3yZQFMKjRdK6NQcv781zfQyk4RfEaCB7giZFVR2W6Xj85jtUOOpCTFcBvRgnSEJp3X3WvwdtNTi-CZUurFt78J5tND9AFkOnQd5vDriaL7Tlue1JA7jn4/w640-h360/147500989_2717549088510783_1451984912348407764_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>This cat, this cat who is not my cat, has been a constant during a time of zero constances. If I could rely on one thing during the pandemic, it's The Cat turning up. And I didn't appreciate how much I relied on that until she didn't turn up for two (2) days last month. I was bereft, I couldn't concentrate on anything and floated around the house in a mope like Moaning fucking Myrtle. I was sure she wasn't ever going to come back and it was then that I realised that 1) I have attachment issues, and 2) what a source of comfort she's been. In a world of instability, every morning that cat is on my windowsill and every day I have some company, some cuddles and another heartbeat nearby. A furry one, but I'll take what I'm given. I felt lost without my little shadow in those two days, even if she does often pretend she's not having a good time???</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgL2wwavCqncOZ8gJvmuNEcwAUIBoAtGtjfWbk2suaObjPb7rvRVVxC5cR7jC7Uy9Nf8WJCJj0Fijw08VN5qo3-U1372ptHErHjFmHu5Q0pu3Ub_7qPNv9lTdF53OMh3zK0Dl7O7rBnls/s1600/146717687_2832539443669607_8650668821312697935_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgL2wwavCqncOZ8gJvmuNEcwAUIBoAtGtjfWbk2suaObjPb7rvRVVxC5cR7jC7Uy9Nf8WJCJj0Fijw08VN5qo3-U1372ptHErHjFmHu5Q0pu3Ub_7qPNv9lTdF53OMh3zK0Dl7O7rBnls/w480-h640/146717687_2832539443669607_8650668821312697935_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p>Obviously she then waltzed back in like she'd never been away. Peace had been restored, pandemic or not.</p><p>She's not my cat. Her owners - y'know, the ones who named her, pay for her vet bills, feed her - know she's here. If their kids jump on their trampoline high enough, they can see her on my windowsill. Like peering through the gates of Buckingham Palace hoping to see the Queen, which the cat obviously is. She likes spending time here, I have a new (mal)adaptive coping mechanism. Win/win.</p><p>So if you see a (very pretty, the prettiest of cats) cat on my Instagram, or stumble upon my doing-all-the-cat-trends-for-as-long-as-she-lets-me TikTok, know that she is not mine. But she kind of is.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyvsJgZd7ofqEp6W-wHKoBOgOHY0WhkgITfzJmd6YLLsFW7kNXhoTKwcmvN8bWpXKDYMxuJ5vtVTueSSk0M7FS03OK4A1N1Fu4pRzvaXjwwcqr5hVkaeOFvaDAniaggggPCQcN-FRaVPA/s2048/147753470_273462234221253_6218016711601137947_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyvsJgZd7ofqEp6W-wHKoBOgOHY0WhkgITfzJmd6YLLsFW7kNXhoTKwcmvN8bWpXKDYMxuJ5vtVTueSSk0M7FS03OK4A1N1Fu4pRzvaXjwwcqr5hVkaeOFvaDAniaggggPCQcN-FRaVPA/w480-h640/147753470_273462234221253_6218016711601137947_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-61922073126042136692020-10-31T13:02:00.004+00:002020-10-31T16:32:28.852+00:00Three words <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg11ocAWgylqWzviUM-iLPPo-D4d_cuWUCJ8mg4f1SK-vnanAvKKv7wgZE4bQwpEcEdvwscFiVb5EWR3qUkCHRmR2MEaeglEHV86Cwc4hPoaH_oHr0RcII8vb7SVI4mgvEbxvb6Z7GNhYI/s1080/Boundaries.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg11ocAWgylqWzviUM-iLPPo-D4d_cuWUCJ8mg4f1SK-vnanAvKKv7wgZE4bQwpEcEdvwscFiVb5EWR3qUkCHRmR2MEaeglEHV86Cwc4hPoaH_oHr0RcII8vb7SVI4mgvEbxvb6Z7GNhYI/w640-h640/Boundaries.png" width="640" /></a></div><br />In September 2019 (six decades ago, right?) I booked myself a ticket to join <a href="https://www.hollyjunesmith.co.uk/coaching-intention-seekers.html" target="_blank">Intention Seekers,</a> a guided workshop run by <a href="https://www.hollyjunesmith.co.uk/" target="_blank">Holly June Smith</a>. She's a life coach and a wedding celebrant and very wise and eloquent and kind. An all round good egg, they'd say.<p></p><p>Intention Seekers is a satisfyingly-worded workshop which helps you to dust off your foundations and reconnect with, or even identify, your values, needs, and wants. I won't go into it all because SPOILERS in case Holly runs it again, but I found it incredibly helpful, wholesome and strengthening. The bit I do want to go into is her final task: <b>choose a word that will ground you for the next month, season, year...</b></p><p>One word? Impossible. I'm a copywriter, I like words, but to pick just one? A nightmare. You couldn't pay me enough. </p><p>So I chose three. Fuck it. Three words to act as a lens through which I made my future choices, dealt with future feelings, and bring me back to my foundations when I was in a kerfuffle. </p><p><b>Boundaries. Energy. Intention.</b></p><p>I didn't really expect to be using them during a year of break-ups, bereavements and banned-from-doing-nice-things-and-seeing-loved-ones pandemics, but there we are. These three words were truly put to the test and I found them powerful. This is what they mean to me...<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p><b><u>Boundaries</u></b></p><p>I used to think boundaries was a boring, restrictive word. I thought it was about holding back and not being honest and having to be professional at all times. Bollocks to boundaries, I thought. I'm going to share what I'm feeling all the time! With everyone! This is good! This is open! This is helpful to people! People will learn! I'm going to document my life! My experiences! My thoughts! My struggles! My breakdowns! My traumas! Oh! This is actually quite a lot!</p><p>I felt like I had to share all of me all the time with everyone, in order to be liked or successful or different. And that is inordinately unhealthy.</p><p>I realised in the last couple of years that I was very tired and felt very exposed. I figured that I had not processed some shit, was not good at dealing with my feelings or self-soothing, and that I was stuck in a cycle of 'be super open on social media and get (lovely, tbf) attention to validate these unprocessed feelings and help people with their own shit by being open and then be open some more and some more and some more' until all this mess was out there and yet I still felt like tangled earphones. I was addicted, you could say, to talking about what was going on in my head in order to help other people - because then it made all the mess worth it. </p><p>Oof. </p><p>So I stopped. This year, aside from talking about my nan dying, I stopped talking to thousands of strangers (mostly) about my personal life. And my god does that feel <i>freeing.</i> <b>Boundaries are freeing!</b> Who knew!</p><p>Having boundaries does not mean shutting yourself off and burying your thoughts, feelings, experiences. Boundaries mean choosing who you let in, who you share with, and considering why you're sharing that thing with that person. It's about having control over your sense of self and personal life. It's learning to say 'no' to people who want to gossip with you, who want your latest drama, who want your time when it's either not going to do you any good or you're not going to get anything back. It's learning to respect yourself, to evaluate your relationships both with people and online, and where you get your energy from (more on that later). And, importantly, it's about <b>stating your boundaries</b> when you need to and learning others' boundaries too. </p><p>I've felt so much safer in myself and my circles since consciously practising boundaries. I don't feel the bad kind of vulnerable. It's still scary and I still get it wrong, but I can recognise now when I've gone too far. I feel and acknowledge the ick, and learn from it. </p><p>No one deserves anything from you, that's the bottom line. <b>No one deserves your time and energy. </b>Boundaries build integrity and a stronger sense of self-worth. </p><p><b><u>Energy</u></b></p><p>It sounds wanky, but stick with me. If boundaries are about choosing what you share and with who, energy is about how that act of sharing translates, and whether it's worth it. Hear me out.</p><p>I'm a yes person. I get FOMO and I want to be involved and I don't want to disappoint anyone - I'm a people-pleaser and attention-seeker. I like being liked and accepted into social circles. But a side effect of sharing that energy willy nilly is sometimes not getting any energy back. I'd often be e x h a u s t e d. I'd give too much energy to people or things or situations that either couldn't address the balance or didn't serve me at all. I was over-extending myself to be liked or interesting, or in fear of not being/doing enough. In reality, I was simply doing too much for everything and everyone.</p><p>Now, I'm very aware of my energy and my own restorative process. Is doing this thing going to serve me? Am I going to get anything back from it? If it serves others, will I enjoy it or at least be able to chill after? <b>Does this give me energy or drain it?</b> Do I feel exposed or overly vulnerable after sharing something with someone? Was there no comfort or reason in it?</p><p>I especially check myself when I realise I'm doing something in the hope it means I'm better or more-liked person. I know that I have different friends for different things - I don't need to share everything with everyone, I don't have to have the same level of friendship with everyone. Sometimes I know I'll be exhausted after spending my day a certain way, but I'll remember to restore that energy afterwards (THIS SOUNDS SO WANKY, GOD) either with a certain routine or by having a clear following day.</p><p>Do I get it right? Absolutely bloody not, but at least I now realise when I don't.</p><p><b><u>Intention</u></b></p><p>Why why why. This is my why. Energy is the what, boundaries are the how, and intention is the why. <b>What is my real intention here?</b> This is where I <i>really </i>check myself and pull myself up on my bullshit. Before I even consider my boundaries and energy in a particular situation, I have to check my intention. Why am I doing this and who am I doing this for? It's totally ok to do something for someone else, obviously, but am I doing it because there's a need or want to genuinely help out - because it's the right thing to do - or because I want to be perceived in a certain way? The red flag's a'glowin'. </p><p>Such an important thing I learnt in Holly's Intention Seekers workshop (clue's in the name) is that my thoughts and behaviours are (were, hopefully) a result of how I wanted to be perceived by others rather than actually meeting my own wants and needs. I had never even considered my personal wants and needs, really. I didn't know what they were. I did things for others, even if that was in a roundabout way. My actions would only be worth it if they affected others, either in their own selves or in their perception of me. </p><p>Twisted, innit. I blame social media. It's all a game. </p><p>I'm not going to share how practising the behaviours behind those words has helped me this year, because BOUNDARIES (lmao, look at me go) but here are some questions I ask myself on the reg, just in they they help you too:</p><p><i>- Do I really want to spend time doing that thing/with this person? Or do I just feel like I have to?</i></p><p><i>- Am I doing this for me or for others? If for others, is it negatively affecting me in some way or am I chill?</i></p><p><i>- Does this align with my values?</i></p><p><i>- Will I gain or lose energy from doing this thing or being with this person? Is that ok?</i></p><p><i>- Am I happy right now doing this thing, and can I stop if I want to?</i></p><p><i>- Do I need or really want to share this info with that person or online? Why do I want to? What is the effect? Will it serve me?</i></p><p><i>- Have I slotted in some rest time after 'doing things' time, like a Sim who needs to up their energy level?</i></p><p><i>- Do I really need or want to get involved in that activity/drama/with that person? Or is it not worth it, not healthy, not protecting my peace?</i></p><p>I'm so thankful I went to that workshop, and grateful to Holly June Smith always. <a href="https://instagram.com/hollyjunesmith?igshid=1jxglxhfae5hq" target="_blank">You should follow her.</a></p><p>I'm going to choose another new word for next year. Just one word this time. And hope that practising these three continues but becomes more unconscious. You should pick a word/s too. I hope it/they ground you. I hope you can feel as wanky yet realigned and true to yourself as I do. After all, as a wise woman once told me, you do you and look after number one. Always.</p>Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-24176665752463139652020-09-08T17:32:00.010+01:002020-10-31T13:03:25.932+00:00Dear Louise, by popular demand...<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZueOStGemgTNPQU33JBrGvBaOxCt3fdI4soyu2eP3IGiDJpSCLTxRL6nMDuWyhuRil5TleqVzBQr0R69dzPJ_lp5Rffdia6mX4CR7Rz7CJXvEoR0qoNnkyYULT2ueSxAbDQ7Rlxq9l2A/s1800/118941385_764602080989808_4462567820287549778_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZueOStGemgTNPQU33JBrGvBaOxCt3fdI4soyu2eP3IGiDJpSCLTxRL6nMDuWyhuRil5TleqVzBQr0R69dzPJ_lp5Rffdia6mX4CR7Rz7CJXvEoR0qoNnkyYULT2ueSxAbDQ7Rlxq9l2A/w512-h640/118941385_764602080989808_4462567820287549778_n.jpg" width="512" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>05/09/2020</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div></i>Hello... how are you? You nearly-40-year-old in 2030, you. *sweats*<div><br /></div><div>I hate to ask but, um, are you still alive?<p></p><p><a href="https://www.biscuitsandblisters.co.uk/2010/07/dear-louise.html" target="_blank">When I wrote a letter at 16 years old to my 26-year-old self</a>, I never considered that I might have actually died in those next 10 years. It was all future and hope, not death and misery. Imagine not thinking about death, like, 96% of the time. Bliss. </p><p>Anyway, I hope you're still alive.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><a href="http://www.biscuitsandblisters.co.uk/2020/07/dear-louise-again.html" target="_blank">When I responded to that letter</a> the other month, aged 26, people seemed to love it. They wanted to do it themselves and asked if I'd write a letter to my 36-year-old self, and we're people-pleasers with unhealthy need for validation, so. Here we are. <p></p><p>It's your birthday tomorrow. Happy 37th to you! To us! Boy. 37. How... is it? How's your back? Knees? I know we're not OLD, don't come for me, but y'know... 37 feels a lot older than 27. Are you still doing yoga? You've just gotten into yoga during the 2020 pandemic (did it end?) so maybe you stuck with it and are actually quite flexible at 37. You definitely can't do the crow still though, can you?</p><p>Are you still running? I do bang on, sorry to bring it up so soon, but are you? Because you like running. Do you have any more scars? Medals? PBs? parkrun milestone t-shirts? Did you do another marathon? I hope so. You mad woman.</p><p>I'm genuinely finding it hard to know what else to say because when I replied to our 16 year old's letter at 26, I hated it. So much had changed (obviously?!) and life was totally different to how I imagined it, how i wanted it. I dreaded replying, I didn't want to be disappointed in myself, and I knew I had a lot more gusto at 16 than I do now. But it turned out alright, actually, I grinned a lot when I read it back. I was nostalgic seeing teenage me with that attitude but didn't miss being her, which is how it should be. But I still want to save my future self - you - from feeling anything less than happy when reading this back.</p><p>...are you happy? Where are you? What are you doing? Are you still in the charity sector? Who are you WITH? How's our family, do we have new members? I'm going to fully assume we've lost some and I'm sorry. I can't believe Nanny will have been gone 10 years.</p><p>How about our friends? How are they? I hope they're fantastically well. Do we have some new friends? I assume so, although that's weird. Where do you make new friends as an adult? Don't say online, we don't do that anymore. </p><p>Do you still fret and overthink that you should have more - more friends, more family, more close relationships, more hobbies, more of a career plan? Be more educated, smart, funny, talented, ambitious, disciplined, kind, determined? You were looking at Cambridge courses the other week, let's not beat around the bush, you were having a flap about a warped perceived lack of success based on a pandemic, social media, and the deep awareness of your escaping youth. But deep down or, ironically, taking a step back, you know there is no empty space where you think there is an empty space... it's a process.</p><p>That was deep.</p><p>What are you doing for your birthday?</p><p>That just sounds like hairdresser small talk.</p><p>Have you got the hang of growing tomatoes? Did you get your veg patch? Are you still hooked on the Roasting Tin books? Do you still cross-stitch? Read? Do you have <i>new </i>hobbies? How many more seasons of Selling Sunset were there? </p><p>What music do we like? Are The 1975... too old now? HAIM? Harry Styles? Did Lorde ever reappear? Are we still using Spotify, Netflix, Amazon Prime? You're buying an iPhone 11 tomorrow. Which number are we up to now? Is there new tech? Tell me about the new tech! Although it's probably more terrifying than exciting...</p><p>When did you go back to the theatre? What's the best thing you've seen? And when did you go back on holiday? Please tell me you went to Cornwall. Actually, a better question - did you DRIVE to Cornwall? Can you drive? WAS IT OK? How many times did you cry? Did you do your Scotland road trip? Do we like driving? Let me know, no rush, just having a panic in 2020.</p><p>I'm not going to hope for huge things for you this time. We're not in that place. Sorry to sound like a whimsy wanker, but we're going through one hell of a transitional growth period. Learning a lot. We all are in this pandemic, really (did I mention there's a pandemic, etc). I just deeply, viscerally hope you're not just happy, but settled. Physically, emotionally, financially. I hope you're grateful and kind and so very sure of yourself. How are we doing on the boundaries front? How are we doing with putting the same amount of investment into ourselves as we do others? Hmm?</p><p>I hope you've had some adventures. I hope you've tried a bunch of new things, visited new places, and made some new friends. And I hope, if anything has exploded, which I know that it will, that you handled it in the best way you could and healed from it well.</p><p>How much therapy have you had now, speaking of? Was it... good?</p><p>Did you ever win more than £25 on the Premium Bonds?</p><p>I'm sure I didn't ask this many questions last time. Sorry.</p><p>You scored a 150 point word on Words With Friends against Dad yesterday, well done. </p><p>I'd like an update on social media, please. What are we using? Anything, or did it crumble in toxicity? Was TikTok <i>ever </i>banned? How's Donald? Boris? Distant memories? What a time. Tell me it's all better with affordable housing and cheaper public transport and better interest rates and no police brutality and no racism and zero child poverty and la la la can't hear you if there's a bad answer la la la la la la...</p><p>I hope, wherever you are, that you have a garden. I hope you laugh a lot and give a lot and rest a lot. Do we like red wine and mushrooms now? I kind of hope so because it's a faff sometimes that we don't. Maybe we're veggie... are we?!</p><p>It's hard to know during a pandemic what else I wish for you, us, in a decade's time apart from the basics. Just some peace would be nice. (Do you have kids? Do you say 'I just want some peace' a lot now? Why am I saying this in brackets?)</p><p>What have your 30s been like compared to your 20s? Your 20s were a ride. I wonder what the last three years of them were like. Most people say your 30s are the best years, so. Good. </p><p>Please tell me five things you've learnt in your 30s. </p><p>I think I hope for peace for you because that's what you want now, but I think really, in 10 years' time, I hope for more. The healthy kind of more. More self-assurance, confidence, and belief in yourself. I hope you've gone for stuff, taken opportunities, and not worried about if it's perfect or goes well. But baby steps, eh. </p><p>I'm going to go and throw some chicken kievs in the oven now. Bye pal (if you're still alive).</p><p>x</p></div>Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-20504444149567446842020-08-05T11:49:00.006+01:002020-08-05T16:49:21.746+01:00Weren't we lucky<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7f-OcsacLdZPPmtDTXAgMnGYoLxBIQItqkvyC4YJhAV98vGIPfmfAPGNgnBihHVVZrNFhqulc1I53WgJXm0B7nE-d4yrfQZWIgvek2b8rbbreK3xDhb2ZVCvBGOD36Z9SLnvFKAknNTQ/s603/91876566_10156776028201022_8439616582090489856_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="603" height="449" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7f-OcsacLdZPPmtDTXAgMnGYoLxBIQItqkvyC4YJhAV98vGIPfmfAPGNgnBihHVVZrNFhqulc1I53WgJXm0B7nE-d4yrfQZWIgvek2b8rbbreK3xDhb2ZVCvBGOD36Z9SLnvFKAknNTQ/w640-h449/91876566_10156776028201022_8439616582090489856_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Whenever we used to visit my grandparents, my nan would come to the door, open it and say, 'No thank you, not today!' and it'd be hilarious and we'd all laugh. <div><br /></div><div>Grief's a bit like that. Approaching the outside world every morning, saying, 'No thank you, not today!' and laughing at how silly it all is. Because what else can you do but laugh? </div><div><br /></div><div>Whenever my grandparents visited and left ours to go home, my nan would roll down the car window, give a royal wave, and call out, 'Bye, Sarah! Bye, Catherine!' and we'd all laugh as if calling us by the wrong names on purpose was the funniest thing in the world. </div><div><br /></div><div>I would give a kidney for her to call me the wrong name now. </div><div><br /></div><div>My nan, Doreen Joan, died 129 days ago. She was 82. It would have been her 83rd birthday today. <a href="http://www.biscuitsandblisters.co.uk/2020/04/she-died-i-think.html" target="_blank">I said when I wrote about her dying during a pandemic</a> that one day I'd write about her - just her and everything she was - so today seems fitting. </div><div><br /></div><div>Which is an absolute lie, because no day is fitting to write about your glorious, silly, kind, funny, stubborn, childlike, caring, interested-in-anything-and-everything-about-you but now dead nan.<span><a name='more'></a></span></div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqusAbegFVBdLWrL0cIo4bf2VM2AoNBjqnAkuGQQK-JYjf4btesm8gVasqyU3ZyZ4OtBYcXM_N5p9niDmmTIhirUZs9MuuDmTUhMYT0hBESj0tYbf5hA9brOvHIdPCjoy3BOvMG_6pG9U/s960/91342874_10156773957221022_3171956669491970048_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqusAbegFVBdLWrL0cIo4bf2VM2AoNBjqnAkuGQQK-JYjf4btesm8gVasqyU3ZyZ4OtBYcXM_N5p9niDmmTIhirUZs9MuuDmTUhMYT0hBESj0tYbf5hA9brOvHIdPCjoy3BOvMG_6pG9U/w640-h640/91342874_10156773957221022_3171956669491970048_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Tomfoolery</i></div><div><br /></div><div>But I want you to know about her. I want you to know about how my nan lived, rather than how she died. And I know even before writing this will not be enough and I'll be frustrated by the end, because I cannot possibly tell you everything about her. I want to give you my brain so you can sift through my memories and experience everything that she was all for yourself, to the depths that I did. </div><div><br /></div><div>But all I have is this. So... here we are. </div><div><br /></div><div>She was a menace. She never did as she was told. Mum would snap at her and Nanny would look at me all sheepish and mouth, 'She just told me off...' She was stubborn. She never did her physio. She had to make the tea even when we told her to 'bloody sit down'. She wouldn't smile properly in photos unless you made her laugh. She'd touch your bum, she'd whip up her skirt in public to show you her hip replacement scar, she'd pull down your top without warning to see your boobs that you'd been moaning about. She was very cheeky and very unapologetic about it.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZ2kGuOK0_P2oy6GAVcMcujDoghGI3mhIWdDPC2i9iKQh1LBhScMscnJoP59YUHJqGaUw_AUdhj930jj9b7S96NfayA37CqQgT9uD7R8_oIOMfqNA6uBVaYbq61x1FUYuKF6Dmc4i_ls/s4032/IMG_3526.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZ2kGuOK0_P2oy6GAVcMcujDoghGI3mhIWdDPC2i9iKQh1LBhScMscnJoP59YUHJqGaUw_AUdhj930jj9b7S96NfayA37CqQgT9uD7R8_oIOMfqNA6uBVaYbq61x1FUYuKF6Dmc4i_ls/s640/IMG_3526.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>She was obsessed with the weather. It would never ruin a plan - we'd still go to Bournemouth beach in the pouring rain on holiday - but boy did you know if it was sunny. </div><div><br /></div><div>'Aren't we lucky with the weather!' Every time. Mum and I would look at each other and smirk. She even knew what the weather was like when someone else went away. 'Weren't you lucky!' She was just so happy in the sun. To Nanny, we really were lucky to have beautiful weather. Like a child with its toes in the sand for the first time, or a puppy bounding in fresh snow. Good weather was worth noticing and being thankful for.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgobPE-hn5adVA4dDyZfAzJ8P2f3F34Sj8OIHnRLQ5ogb6Tyg36JCxv7QrFBOslbanTB5ipJ3-jPE-zuWNg1Hf6t5ogfDy-GQLqdJI_BkM03Eq2eskDrTrSdMJUKOTuMQLRGAAHarq2qt0/s4032/IMG_3524.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgobPE-hn5adVA4dDyZfAzJ8P2f3F34Sj8OIHnRLQ5ogb6Tyg36JCxv7QrFBOslbanTB5ipJ3-jPE-zuWNg1Hf6t5ogfDy-GQLqdJI_BkM03Eq2eskDrTrSdMJUKOTuMQLRGAAHarq2qt0/s640/IMG_3524.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>My grandparents were from the East End and moved to the 'London side' of Essex when my mum was small. Therefore: red London buses. Thrilling. When I used to stay for the weekend, Nanny would take me to Romford on the bus for a look around the shops and lunch in the Debenhams cafe. I'd race to the top deck and sit at the front, obviously. When I was a bit older and realised that Nanny was actually an old lady now (surely not), I scarified the upstairs for downstairs with the peasants. She'd still try to persuade me upstairs... then ended up having two hips and a knee replaced, so. That put a stop to that.</div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnZjL-t-RqPoLoeF3HYJgX-l31whw-7Im9wyWUjhB5gBHfovvtiyzN3Y5ALYZ5bngNNZG6YUKjcmCcf-H7fjeX2h-BBD98a1wioO57Sw6bpF38tu-dK4ZGpWUZ6JR3yqDsX49Utr9LbKM/s603/10398887_76332156021_190675_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="603" data-original-width="412" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnZjL-t-RqPoLoeF3HYJgX-l31whw-7Im9wyWUjhB5gBHfovvtiyzN3Y5ALYZ5bngNNZG6YUKjcmCcf-H7fjeX2h-BBD98a1wioO57Sw6bpF38tu-dK4ZGpWUZ6JR3yqDsX49Utr9LbKM/w437-h640/10398887_76332156021_190675_n.jpg" width="437" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Although this nonsense probably didn't help her joints at all...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div>There'd always be an obligatory trip to the fishmongers in Romford market and I bloody hated it. It stank. But Nanny loved pointing out the massive fish with even more massive eyes to me, like we were in an aquarium morgue, before buying Grandad's fish for dinner. </div><div><br /></div><div>I remember walking away from the fishmongers just as the eclipse was about to happen in the early 2000s. I'd have been about 8? Nanny ran into WHSmith and bought a magazine which had the wonderfully tacky cardboard sunglasses to wear, and we wore them and stared and it was magical.</div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhr_DGHgX9wOd2MTxwf7XOSZh7Ni-dCi5_DgPsPE0u9FwA2s6AuWoUNLH0a_nm5W-LU4Q2nOH1xciwDFcjSwgl1e6l7x8o4tOLR4JuRC7PNzVXvoXJ2Avts1WViRY3UjZYgywPUPaGpsc/s4032/IMG_3523.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhr_DGHgX9wOd2MTxwf7XOSZh7Ni-dCi5_DgPsPE0u9FwA2s6AuWoUNLH0a_nm5W-LU4Q2nOH1xciwDFcjSwgl1e6l7x8o4tOLR4JuRC7PNzVXvoXJ2Avts1WViRY3UjZYgywPUPaGpsc/s640/IMG_3523.HEIC" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes, if I was lucky, we'd go to Valentine's Park in Ilford so I could swing on the monkey bars. Or we'd go to Hainault Country Park so I could climb trees. At Christmas, we'd always go to the big garden centres to see the big Christmas displays and buy some unnecessary decorations that my dad would roll his eyes at. It's weird to think that one of those trips as kids were the last ever ones, and I never knew. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't remember my very last sleepover, but it might have been when I was 17 and writing a journalism essay for my A-levels. I decided to interview Nanny on growing up and getting married in the 50s. She told me all about having to quit her job when she married Grandad, and how normal it seemed at the time. We sat on her bed, right where she died, and I recorded us talking on my phone. I should have kept it.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhatdpZDMTAJwbRALUywl5whAP-zN3ShHw9txHmTFEXJg1C3wO-If9MHW2-WGqySJ_BynORpm90IQnCNzk8FZIzWqX2_N45N2U9Uozl7mkAwKfz7LNnWCNdwtGTmBFR_IDzQuWaA6JEuZY/s960/91458027_10156773957036022_2280883730190958592_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhatdpZDMTAJwbRALUywl5whAP-zN3ShHw9txHmTFEXJg1C3wO-If9MHW2-WGqySJ_BynORpm90IQnCNzk8FZIzWqX2_N45N2U9Uozl7mkAwKfz7LNnWCNdwtGTmBFR_IDzQuWaA6JEuZY/w640-h640/91458027_10156773957036022_2280883730190958592_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Nanny was absolutely the kind of old lady who would repeat a conversation she'd had with you the day before, but her long-term memory was spot on. She always had new stories. When you thought you knew everything, she'd come out with another from her childhood. Last Christmas, she told me a story about her dad working on the docks and breaking his leg by falling off a container. Or something. Someone broke something in a nasty fall... I can't remember and wish I wrote it down.</div><div><br /></div><div>In my wardrobe, I have a box full of the letters and postcards Nanny sent me in the 26 years I was lucky to have her. She loved a letter. She'd chat some rubbish and be excited about anything and everything. She'd draw little smiley faces, try her hand and txt spk, and write kisses all around the edge of the letter. Whenever she'd been shopping, she'd tell me she'd been out 'spending Grandad's money!!' and whenever I got a new job, she always ask, 'Can I have a loan???' or 'You been fired yet???' Grandad would often cut out newspaper clippings for me and include them in the letter, and my nan would write, 'I have no idea why he wants you to have this.' I never knew you could miss someone's handwriting so much.</div><div><br /></div><div>Nanny's postcards made a great game of bingo. </div><div><b style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">✓ </b>Map on the front, location of where they were circled in biro, OR a rude one of people naked on the beach.</div><div><b style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">✓ </b>Aren't we lucky with the weather!</div><div><b style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">✓ </b>I've been spending Grandad's money.</div><div><b style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">✓ </b>Having an ice cream on the pier. </div><div><b style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">✓ </b>We've used the buses, not used the car at all!</div><div><b style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">✓ </b>Would you go on the Bournemouth zipwire??? (Yes, every time, the answer does not change.)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilPDEq59kXxGm-PV78kbK1t5kWF6FsZKHraB9f2j93m5lsdxS1AF1TLC5AQzcCHQ4vqKBojcMTnYiOSSogf_CAltudwxlY-GaDHevY14FwLWW5iCYfdZknyoYkCviEB-Bm6DCg_1tFBLM/s4032/IMG_3530.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilPDEq59kXxGm-PV78kbK1t5kWF6FsZKHraB9f2j93m5lsdxS1AF1TLC5AQzcCHQ4vqKBojcMTnYiOSSogf_CAltudwxlY-GaDHevY14FwLWW5iCYfdZknyoYkCviEB-Bm6DCg_1tFBLM/w640-h480/IMG_3530.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>When we saw them post-holiday, we'd get a little carrier bag full of the mini jams, butter and toiletries they'd stolen from the hotel. Plus multiple boxes of chocolates. Nanny was a True Nan, she'd pile on the food like we'd been neglected for years. Pringles (stale), digestives, walnut whips, tiny coconut cakes, ham and cucumber sandwiches with too much butter in them.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I used to stay, we'd make cakes and pies and bung anything in 'em. I always remember crumbling Bourbons into a chocolate cake mix. And dunking my finger into a cherry pie before launching it in front of Nanny's face, pretending I'd cut it. Classic.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgowFuMBuUWAXCa4hKFYQSua22KdnAeRBtJkW9PcAJTdMv03I-CVB5VhhwebPXqGj3Bb6cP9_O1Na4XFQGsrCj2JprY_4bSQguE44BafvL4oA_ZYXcRRo4URfRL9_V3PF-pO5uIJKHZwF4/s4032/IMG_3525.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgowFuMBuUWAXCa4hKFYQSua22KdnAeRBtJkW9PcAJTdMv03I-CVB5VhhwebPXqGj3Bb6cP9_O1Na4XFQGsrCj2JprY_4bSQguE44BafvL4oA_ZYXcRRo4URfRL9_V3PF-pO5uIJKHZwF4/s640/IMG_3525.HEIC" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Nanny was the dessert goddess. She'd make three for us to choose from even for just a Sunday lunch. But family parties in our back garden were her favourite. We'd hold them for big birthdays or anniversaries and invite family scattered across the country (and world). It'd be the only time we'd all meet up. We'd have a gazebo, various plastic and wooden tables would be dusted down from the garage, and Mum would spend months planning a buffet. Nanny would arrive first and be straight in the kitchen, dumping her desserts on the side and asking if she could help with anything (no, sit down).</div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRl7X5dIgUMWKkHmcjaYLNa0iBRl95ZiVlY6xA9bEmep348dgR3aT-6xILB9rg5-JTToFSfdULE6J1VgTDN4W3VjS4lFen7K_2QlPZWJMA7zNbc35oLUgjiNfv9iqac0Cf5mkoYcQU4Xs/s2228/IMG_3297.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2228" data-original-width="2228" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRl7X5dIgUMWKkHmcjaYLNa0iBRl95ZiVlY6xA9bEmep348dgR3aT-6xILB9rg5-JTToFSfdULE6J1VgTDN4W3VjS4lFen7K_2QlPZWJMA7zNbc35oLUgjiNfv9iqac0Cf5mkoYcQU4Xs/w640-h640/IMG_3297.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Guess who was the stubborn sister...</i></div><div><br /></div><div>My nan loved her extended family. She didn't see a lot of them, but when she did see them, she treated them like she saw them only last week. And she cared, so deeply, about every single life in that garden. How are you, what have you been up to, have you been on any holidays, do you still do *enter hobby here*, do you still talk to *friend you haven't seen in years*, how's the rest of the family, how's work... she just really, really cared. She was interested. She spent so much of her last years in pain but never had a grumble to say about it when she was with family. She would sit and people would come to her, fighting for a seat to talk to Doreen. She'd try and stand for the buffet opening and everyone would offer to pile up a plate for her. She was the most loved woman in that garden, and I absolutely took that for granted.</div><div><br /></div><div><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSXGmEnXmE9W0mU5oDJJlegMXk_MhbZ5XBRky5vxP7LDQZ8Dky0zJ8IfysRT6b0ML-az4au9dYdjyrLA7yOU9hXlBgr8Rit6zJbND1-emfLilNrfZusWKTbAQZCb5HOvXL3BBFmgfFa78/w640-h640/91905715_10156773957521022_347126966329016320_n.jpg" width="640" /></div><div><br /></div><div>I miss her. How much I miss her is hard to say during a global pandemic. But I know that today, on her birthday, I really, bloody miss her. And I don't know how to live a life missing someone this much. It's exhausting. She was everything. We were a duo, I was her only grandaughter. I was her mini-me. What do I do with that? I don't know where to put the love I had for her, and I miss the love she had for me. It was all-consuming. It was soft, it was comforting, it was safe.</div><div><br /></div><div>We were lucky. Too lucky. And I wish I had something more healing to say. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvbS62YufAKtYueA-I27pcyoV1YY9WvgpZDNexGi8LQH7n4N2SqYIWpI3kh9rSpOSRD9crK2-gs8GqmaIsh448Dcqt_0x7ScTA4QqNztQzYVYqblBBm6tujDi4aFAoyPEsM94z9QDrFS0/s2376/IMG_2831.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2376" data-original-width="2376" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvbS62YufAKtYueA-I27pcyoV1YY9WvgpZDNexGi8LQH7n4N2SqYIWpI3kh9rSpOSRD9crK2-gs8GqmaIsh448Dcqt_0x7ScTA4QqNztQzYVYqblBBm6tujDi4aFAoyPEsM94z9QDrFS0/w640-h640/IMG_2831.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-77388998394910306142020-07-08T12:31:00.007+01:002020-09-07T18:35:18.253+01:00Dear Louise, again...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHvQvTLSNuiprngs1-0oLBS7WC5gqJOkTGaB-k61wa7tFDsfeuBRQJTwyLpgvs-Ck8A_4VnUSHVFqRoUvmmLqdGD8mIbOzXvmNK3_rloSyOxrz5wOEl-37q0K4to7ZVkgdcFymaRreT7w/s2048/107159968_274308167131917_2358984229416336904_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHvQvTLSNuiprngs1-0oLBS7WC5gqJOkTGaB-k61wa7tFDsfeuBRQJTwyLpgvs-Ck8A_4VnUSHVFqRoUvmmLqdGD8mIbOzXvmNK3_rloSyOxrz5wOEl-37q0K4to7ZVkgdcFymaRreT7w/w640-h640/107159968_274308167131917_2358984229416336904_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Ah, fuck. </div><div><div><br /></div><div>10 years ago today, 8 July 2010, I wrote a blog post called <a href="https://www.biscuitsandblisters.co.uk/2010/07/dear-louise.html" target="_blank">'Dear Louise...'</a>. It was a letter to my future self from 16-year-old me. I wrote it, I published it, and I told myself not to read it again until I was 26. Today. 10 years later. A decade later. 2010 to 2020. It's happened. We're here. Time has done the thing. I'm about to read it and reply.</div><div><br /></div><div>CAN YOU SENSE THE EXISTENTIALISM. CAN YOU. Buckle in and hold my damn hand.<span><a name='more'></a></span></div><div><br /></div><div>***</div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>It's 2020. Blimey that sounds futuristic. How's it going? What are you DOING?</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>*looks to camera, rises, leaves room, screams, enters and sits back down*</div><div><br /></div><div>It is quite funny, isn't it? Imagine being 16 and writing this post, thinking about 2020 and how utterly wondrous it must be and then BAM... global pandemic. Everything's on fire. Brilliant. We have to laugh. We HAVE TO LAUGH.</div><div><br /></div><div><img alt="Hey, Look At Us GIF by Ashy | Gfycat" src="https://thumbs.gfycat.com/TerrificYearlyKingfisher-size_restricted.gif" /></div><div><i><b><br /></b></i></div><div><i><b>You're 2</b></i><i><b>6 now, proper grown up, no more complaining about being treated like a child, if that's still happening then you can't use excuses, you've fucked that up yourself. </b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Feisty. No, you're not treated like a child. HOWEVER, that doesn't mean you sometimes revert to acting like a child because it's actually quite nice and being an adult is terrible and you just want to be looked after, like all the time. </div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>Ten years have passed Jones, or ARE you still Jones? You can't be married at 26, can you? Do you have children? I can't see that happening myself, but maybe that's what's happened. Anything could happen in ten years I suppose. Maybe you met someone on holiday, or at work, or at Uni.</b></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Eeesh. Ouch. No, you couldn't be further away from marriage and kids. So well done on that prediction. But you did want it, and you nearly had it. But thank fuck you don't, quite frankly. Now you're fairly recently single again after 7 years and that is, turns out, exactly where you need to be. Ride it out, baby Lou.</div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>Did you go to Uni? Did you brave it out? Or did you play chicken, freak out and go it your own way? I wouldn't be surprised. Your 16 year old self writing this is shit scared about Uni and would rather not go, being the "I JUST WANNA DO IT NOW" person I am. I kind of hope you did go, and went to one in London like you always hoped. Was it worth it?</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>You went to uni, dude. You went to Bournemouth and studied English. And you kinda hated it. I'm not sure if it was a case of not being ready or just bad timing, but it wasn't great. And I'm really, really sorry. Because it sucked. And if you went now, if you could redo it all, after everything you've learned and grown through, you would. But you can only do your best with the information you have at the time, so when it goes tits up, don't hate yourself. It wasn't your fault, you didn't let anyone down.</div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>I guess the main question I really should ask is, ARE YOU A JOURNALIST? Did you do it? Did you achieve everything you dreamed of as a teen? I wonder who you're working for, a magazine? Newspaper? Maybe you're freelance, I hope you're bloody freelance girl. Although at 26, you might have only just started out and don't have a choice. Ha, I can imagine you being the 'new girl', starting at the bottom and getting told what to do all the time. You'll hate that, being told what to do, you'll want to do your own thing, come up with your own ideas.</b></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Ok, there's a lot to unpack here. No, you're not a journalist. And let's nip this 'no' thing in the bud because I've said it a lot and it doesn't sound great... who you are 16 will not be who you are at 17. 20. 23. 26. At 16, you think you have it all figured out. You think you know exactly what you want to do, which is great at 16, but you're only 16 and have so much learning and growth to experience! Have I mentioned you're 16?</div><div><br /></div><div>So no, you're not a journalist. And that's ok because 26-year-old you doesn't want to be. But you'll win this national blogging competition thing with Channel 4 News super soon! In like, four months! Which sounds weird now, it wouldn't happen in 2020, but it'll be huge for the time, and pretty life-changing for a 17 year old. You'll have so many opportunities and it'll even lead you to baffling things like being a London 2012 Olympic Torchbearer(!) which remains the absolute bloody best day of your life. But it'll place so, so, so many expectations on you, and you'll end up always chasing more... more, more, more. You'll be set up for never feeling satisfied, that you're a failure, and that you're never quite good enough... oh boy, sorry. </div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0x7DD8mwu3pv9qtQWUBZtvYm5Ty2EQDDbfhsVESK0jvomcEB7qbua_m97NBIfT9uLgcBQqr7entVpFABAHY0SJqcpbbdRdITQKcVcfgYJO10redLrFcrimmKy1TtpK_DfH6hcXWk3I4c/s960/10492596_10152170386141022_5329811769625655294_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0x7DD8mwu3pv9qtQWUBZtvYm5Ty2EQDDbfhsVESK0jvomcEB7qbua_m97NBIfT9uLgcBQqr7entVpFABAHY0SJqcpbbdRdITQKcVcfgYJO10redLrFcrimmKy1TtpK_DfH6hcXWk3I4c/w640-h640/10492596_10152170386141022_5329811769625655294_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>You'll seem pretty set for journalism after all that, though. There's no going back, right? *yet another look to camera* But then you'll have a pressured panic about studying journalism at uni so will switch to English last minute. You know you want to write, but aren't sure how. If I could go back now, I'd do something completely different. Or wouldn't have gone to uni at all, at least straightaway. I wish you took all that passion and determination you had and had a go to see what you could do with it, instead doing what you thought you should do - you were impatient after all. But hindsight is a bittersweet thing. You're happy with where you are now. That's what matters.</div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>What about writing books? Still doing that? You a best selling author yet? I wonder if your first ever book, the one I'm writing right now, managed to get published. Probably not. But what if it did? You're a bloody genius girl if it did, I'd be proud of you. </b></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>You know what? You smashed it. You did finish that book. It took you years, but you finished it. You thought it was brilliant. And you had an agent - you signed with a fabulous one at 19 - but that also went tits up a few years later. But you wrote a book. And maybe you'll write another one one day. Who knows.</div><div><br /></div><div>Things do go tits up quite a bit. A huge thing you'll learn is that no matter how brilliantly things seem to go (and they do go quite brilliantly), they can quite easily go tits up when you least expect it. You can't control it all and the world doesn't owe you anything. But you have such high expectations of yourself that when shit happens, you'll run away and think you're terrible and a failure, but that's absolute rubbish. You need to learn to pick yourself up and push on. In the same breath, you're allowed to take some time out. That's ok. Don't stress. You are not a failure if your life doesn't continue at the same pace of success and happiness as it did when you were an overachieving, full-of-life teenager. Chill the fuck out and ride the wave.</div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>But what if you're not doing anything to do with journalism and writing at all? Maybe you changed your mind, decided to become a secretary, a receptionist, a cashier. I hope not. That would be shit and would prove my 16th year of living an absolute waste of time. Do you even remember how this all started? How a couple of random quick though actions changed your life?</b></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Why are you so fucking cryptic and what do all these typos mean? I have no idea what you're talking about which probably proves a point. But if I may bring you up quite swiftly: there's nothing wrong with being a secretary, a receptionist, or a cashier. Get a grip and be nice. You'll get a job at Waitrose when you're 18, you'll bloody love it and will have much more respect for those working in customer service, so shut up. Whatever you do at 16 also will not be a waste of time, no matter what happens. You're not paving the way for your whole future - that's a lot of expectation on fragile shoulders.</div><div><br /></div><div>To answer your question... you <i>are</i> a writer! You get paid to write and that's truly wonderful. It just won't be in the way you imagined. You'll thud your way into the charity sector when you leave uni - writing articles for young people on everything from sex and relationships, to mental health and money, and you'll love it. It's perfect for you. You'll do some freelancing too, you little networking scamp, and then move on full-time to Anthony Nolan, where you are now. You'll try your hand in copywriting - something you never thought you'd want to do - and find out you're absolutely cracking at it, mate. You adore your job and you adore the charity sector. I think you'd be proud of me.</div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqYDrmxWZKV-SElnZ-IjsYqI7z_a6s_A4X1f6usDueFkR1DH_QDPV3_FANyXCKU8WJ0NyerwWEVVOLOikRlt0hwFkzVyvtVgZu-mCWytxDhByLciXLRwaxyLF1RAgqJF1Pb2RB9Qq7xRA/s923/IMG_E1176.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="923" data-original-width="750" height="781" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqYDrmxWZKV-SElnZ-IjsYqI7z_a6s_A4X1f6usDueFkR1DH_QDPV3_FANyXCKU8WJ0NyerwWEVVOLOikRlt0hwFkzVyvtVgZu-mCWytxDhByLciXLRwaxyLF1RAgqJF1Pb2RB9Qq7xRA/w635-h781/IMG_E1176.JPG" width="635" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>So, how's @louisejones_x? Swear to God you better still be tweeting, that is if Twitter's still going. Mind you, ten years IS a long time and something new and probably started up, wouldn't surprise me.</b></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>We ditched _x for etc but yes, you're still on Twitter for your sins. It's a cesspit and not the funny, friendly, escapism space it was back then, but you just can't quit. Instagram is nicer, and you'll be on TikTok until midnight most nights. </div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>Are you still 'friends' with the people you met on Twitter? What about the people that helped you out and did things for you that you never expected them to do, and you go !!!!!!!!!!!! quite a lot? I sincerely hope you are, maybe you're proper friends now? Now you're 26 you're 'allowed' to be proper friends with them, go out for drinks, parties and whatnot. If they want you to, obv. Maybe you turned out to be a right bitch and they turned you away. If that did happen, then I hate you. If it didn't and you ARE proper friends with them, then HIGHFIVE. </b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Again, so much to unpack here. I never realised how obsessed and reliant you were on others. You had so much support from some fantastic writers (yes, still friends with them) when you started out, but you are a child and they are adults so it's not the friendship you think it is. They're supportive role models, there's a power imbalance. One day you'll learn about the fabulous concept of boundaries, and how to rely on yourself more. Your worth is not defined by others, lady. </div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>I wonder how many followers you managed to get, over a thousand? Few thousand? Perhaps somehow you're famous and have tens of thousands. I want your autograph if you are famous. </b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Ah, the cute days of being obsessed with follower counts. That is over. We care about meaningful engagement. Growth.</div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>I just hope you're happy, 26 year old me. I hope you're successful. I hope you're doing everything you wanted to do. I hope you fought your way through A levels, Uni, and the start of life. Your 16 year old self doesn't really understand life yet, no matter how much she rabbles on about it and complaining about how she DOES understand things. I don't think she does. Am I doing things right now? Going the right way about things? I'm just watching and listening right now, gaining experiences, and people are influencing me hella loads atm.</b></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>You're smashing it, little Lou. You're doing all the right things. It's a lot, and it's about to get even more of a lot... quite overwhelming, in fact. But you'll love it. And then it'll get messy, because that's what happens, but you'll deal with it marvellously for your age and experience. Because you <i>do</i> know things and you're very wise and very emotionally intelligent and that should never, ever, be underestimated. It's the most valuable trait you have. But it will absolutely be taken advantage of and you will not be safeguarded. I'm really sorry, it's not your fault, and please get therapy sooner than at 26. Many thanks.</div><div><br /></div><div>So sorry, I'm now doing the cryptic thing, aren't I? That's where I got it from.</div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>I just hope I'm not screwing things up and going too far with things. I am 16 after all. I'm meant to be going to parties, hanging around parks, getting drunk, making stupid teen mistakes, and crying over boys. But I'm not. Should I be? Did I miss out? Please tell me I didn't miss out.</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>You'll do all your crying over boys in your 20s, don't worry about that. I'm very much here for all this self-awareness, but you never wanted to do all those things. So no, you didn't miss out. You weren't 'meant' to be doing anything. You were doing you... But yes ok I wish you got drunk in parks more because it hits differently in your 20s. </div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i><b>I wonder what life is like in 2020. </b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Haha.</div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>Have we still got a fucked up government? Probably.</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Hahahahahaha.</div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>Is Apple still making pointless yet still amazeballs products?</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>We don't say 'amazeballs' anymore and we've all succumbed to Apple, sorry.</div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>Are we still at war with Iraq/Iran/Afghanistan? Probably. I hope it's alright. I hope it hasn't changed that much from now, 2010. Ooh I hope they made hovercrafts, or flying cars, or somehow created a way for people to fly. Bloody hell that would be incredible.</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Steady now.</div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>I bet books don't even exist now. Do people even know how to write still? Or have gone back to cavemen and converse in grunts because the internet has taken over the world? Again, I wouldn't be surprised.</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Right, genuinely, my handwriting is so much worse now and I blame computers. And yes, we do talk in grunts because we're all depressed. But books do still exist and you still hate Kindles, you'll be pleased to know.</div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><b>DID BIG BROTHER COME BACK? Did it really move to Channel 5? Was I on BB if it did? I would have auditioned I'm telling you now.</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>FUNNY STORY. Yes, it did come back, and yes to Channel 5. And you'll be asked to be a part of a PR stunt which would never happen now, where you and a group of other journalists and 'people on Twitter' were asked to spend a day in the new BB house and livetweet it. It was fucking great and in hindsight, very weird and niche. Congrats on predicting this gem, you. </div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>What about Doctor Who? Daleks still pissing around?</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah but it's shit now.</div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>I wonder how many footballers have admitted to cheating. All of them, I'm guessing. I bet we don't even HAVE a national football team now cos we're so shit.</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Excuse you, the England team of the World Cup 2018 are national treasures. </div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>Is Prince Harry King yet? He better be. OMG did you marry him? Maybe you're living in Buck Pal with all your little posh kids running around, going to Ascot and taking part in Trooping the Colour. Cor, good on you girl if you are, GOOD ON YA.</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Close enough...</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfBn0cfk3ThyfUPCYlCit9DfINBTWya7jl_lEI1CE5PWpNOlSOo9tzltdk0jj5kjcWoIGm0PV8IFOrz4i-9_pA2Bnj5n4i_h_Y6Ob2mDynhHdUKpRLZOwIAbKcDD05tR9PC_ce8EXOnbU/s933/IMG_0414.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="747" height="625" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfBn0cfk3ThyfUPCYlCit9DfINBTWya7jl_lEI1CE5PWpNOlSOo9tzltdk0jj5kjcWoIGm0PV8IFOrz4i-9_pA2Bnj5n4i_h_Y6Ob2mDynhHdUKpRLZOwIAbKcDD05tR9PC_ce8EXOnbU/w500-h625/IMG_0414.JPG" width="500" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>Well I'm off to carry on writing my book, you know, that best selling book that sold hundreds and hundreds of copies ten years ago? Yeah, that one. I just want you to remember everything, Louise. Remember all the things you did as a 16 year old, and how the hell you managed to do everything you did 'back in the day', how much you couldn't believe the things happening to you, the opportunities you started to have. You were one lucky sod. </b></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I remember, pal! Too much, maybe. I need to stop comparing myself to 16-year-old me, because it's weird and not sustainable, and you absolutely weren't living the most healthy life, no matter how wonderful it seemed. You gave so much of yourself and your energy away, all for the promise of opportunity. Red flags through rose-tinted glasses just look like flags, after all. (Thanks BoJack.)</div><div><br /></div><div>But I do bloody <b>love</b> the self-awareness and gratitude here, honestly. So wholesome. You did well. Still are. You're a good egg. A scrambled and fried egg, but a good egg. You were very lucky but deserving too (I can sense the imposter syndrome setting in at 16) and I love how much you loved life and everything you were doing. You had a lot of fire.</div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i><b>I really do hope, that by some miraculous reason, you manage to read this when the time comes.</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>I am! I'm reading it! I'm doing the thing!</div><div><i><b><br /></b></i></div><div><i><b>I guess the point of it is to see whether I'm everything I hoped I would be, and to see whether I grew up to be the lovely, funny, awesome woman I dream of being.</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>YOU ARE.</div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>Living in London with a gorgeous family, having amazing inspirational friends, writing books and being a freelance journalist. I mean, that's if the world doesn't end in 2012, that is...</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>You got a free pass for 2012 but beware for 2020. Seriously.</div><div><br /></div><div>***</div><div><br /></div><div>Ok, that wasn't as painful as expected! It was actually quite interesting to read my writing style (nerd) and see what I wanted to know about from 26 year old me. I'm sad that there was nothing in there about friends or family, or hobbies. I was just obsessed with writing and progressing and contacts and networking and opportunities. Really impressive at 16, but fuck me. I wish I chilled out a bit and spread out my priorities. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was scared of the reflection today, of feeling disappointed knowing that I hadn't achieved what I wanted at 16. But like I said, does <i>anyone</i> still want or do what they wanted at 16? Unlikely. <b>You were 16. </b>I still compare myself way too much to that very young, naive, fiery girl. And despite the arse-ripping of 2020 (and all the years in between) I love who I am a decade later and everything I've achieved. <i>If only </i>16-year-old me knew she'd run a marathon! I might not have nailed everything I wanted, but I certainly threw in some surprises.</div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/eS7QiUMZeoz7lKvLCRDosUg1b2WTeBhxenqtxgKin0C17DR09iVb2hNaHwXZyBhjZvSzX7Ubs0xq6FEFfx_sESxiacqoxKUKpoky387092CIQtCz3P2DMXkf4Cq4uCjt8QhZad70vkJ4dMQp7OejjCXoxxohLn-3DLm99izyOPJrCLiwoW6Hghy07oFsNd93YktFgqe0A4OCv2Uw0l1mfot40578oXIGwmSQ2nw6jpfbRmpUXbgMWREDc2MWB_OEARTEINdQN5-JABfy5fDai82gzHikSydE-qcjeuKS-QRhijImEJwTos3ws4qMkVpUHgzweuUOx2xViluComN9lZjL-CR4hKS4lReK6-WqsBNsdYCaLY4LdpMj_hv5a4b1RsTxc3R3riIeSOg4MNrrUGJKJXpKkPKDf4ZB4PhpKKuPVocWERlmI72d_WsAXfSZW6rJ9NHh4Tm2BIRkl86o9wao1Jh8hkV2wvu7v2Yb4tD_P9EbDeOQ2Fn0nm9cwrkWGSVnsX65B1jtO0BMn77NuLmR9eCPVFVC_0l4Y9avVbeox1jce3UJiKE3jHf-Pd9rGINEtra54Sio0UszsAMmsz9E1UHKeGivlWExjV8uL-HFh0ox6Fc2ThR7QUmvK8e4Q6Xk2FdKZoDxBnqdpwmr46oD64LfTgAXjorPS3_czWg3u_Vl_A6ptM9lsahPsQ=w990-h660-no?authuser=0" /></div><div><br /></div><div>I suppose, then, that I have to believe there is so much more to come - more than I know. If we can all survive 2020, obviously. Apparently, at 16, I'd have been surprised if I was married with kids at 26. But now, single and living back home, I've felt like I've fallen behind. That I haven't moved, that I'm stuck. I wrote this blog post in the same spot I wrote that one 10 years ago, for fuck's sake. It's bullshit, obviously, life is mad and I'm a grown up now (I AM, DAMN IT) but thoughts be thoughts, and comparison has no boundaries. But at 16, I knew that family life probably wasn't in my next decade. INTERESTING.</div><div><br /></div><div>Interesting. It's all interesting and this has been a time. Congrats if you stuck with me through this existentialism, and congrats if you remember reading the first blog post 10(!) years ago. </div><div><br /></div><div>My question is: why the hell are you still here?</div></div>Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-58807282239539351182020-06-07T13:38:00.004+01:002020-09-07T18:33:01.971+01:00Luxembourg (February 2020)<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOzVN_C-2bekBtwPXlZBfGeb31NFkasrQoZ_yEmwVUwBwISZUSKrvGWqj5TjyMmthTbPXLX9huNqDtSgvhGGmnu3-AxZCoVsxAqNhX_HF9YjWXx0mQ1YE_H1T1y4a6BsoqOOL5QnzjFEE/s960/86794373_10156651751896022_4927657949121216512_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOzVN_C-2bekBtwPXlZBfGeb31NFkasrQoZ_yEmwVUwBwISZUSKrvGWqj5TjyMmthTbPXLX9huNqDtSgvhGGmnu3-AxZCoVsxAqNhX_HF9YjWXx0mQ1YE_H1T1y4a6BsoqOOL5QnzjFEE/w640-h480/86794373_10156651751896022_4927657949121216512_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>It's like Luxembourg City has its own model village</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>We all know I am not a spontaneous person. I love a plan. I love having a million tabs open, literally and metaphorically, and I love being and feeling prepared. I love feeling like I'm getting the best out of every morsel of energy and every penny spent. So, when I found myself booking too-expensive flights for my friend Claire and I to go to Luxembourg two weeks before we were due to go, that's when I knew 2020 was a true shady lady...<span><a name='more'></a></span><div><br /></div><div>'...why?'</div><div>'Where even is Luxembourg?'</div><div>'What, as in NEXT week?'</div><div>'Is that a city or a country?'</div><div>'Who's Claire?'</div><div>'Isn't that Valentine's weekend?'</div><div>'But it's too small to even scratch off on your map???'</div><div>'What about Claire's boyfriend, it's Valentine's Day?!' </div><div><br /></div><div>I knew I needed to do something over Valentine's weekend but I didn't know what. Should I just have the most indulgent self-care weekend? Should I spend it with my mum? Could I fly somewhere? Was I brave enough to fly somewhere? <a href="http://www.biscuitsandblisters.co.uk/2018/04/brussels-belgium-february-2018.html">We all know how bored of my own company I got in Brussels</a>, and that was just for one day. </div><div><br /></div><div>No, I wasn't brave enough to fly solo. But all my friends are coupled up, so I thought trying to persuade someone to spend the ol' V-day weekend with me would be practically impossible. I'll treat you well but you're not getting laid. I can't be bothered.</div><div><br /></div><div>Enter Claire (not like that, you animal). </div><div><br /></div><div>'I'LL COME WITH YA. BOOK THOSE FLIGHTS. SCREW VALENTINE'S. LET'S GO.'</div><div><br /></div><div>Unnervingly easy. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmk8UkzrOQ0exOUAdRPWA7PP3jHfk2wZzPPnPfVAoU5zaycz7w2LdOTGyQJ1rwBBtWmX8_0oHGrsnhYrEg3xC9EmcbOsJoINjm_iLUWCy-0btYWQOw2Dw0uF1YECp2W5d3Y1XdtKLg4Xo/s960/85225608_10156651752116022_8648392906534551552_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmk8UkzrOQ0exOUAdRPWA7PP3jHfk2wZzPPnPfVAoU5zaycz7w2LdOTGyQJ1rwBBtWmX8_0oHGrsnhYrEg3xC9EmcbOsJoINjm_iLUWCy-0btYWQOw2Dw0uF1YECp2W5d3Y1XdtKLg4Xo/w480-h640/85225608_10156651752116022_8648392906534551552_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div>I'd only known Claire for nine months at this point. She was still relatively new at <a href="anthonynolan.org">Anthony Nolan</a> and we got on really well, but well enough to go on a weekend trip together? RISKY. I was the brooding, sarcastic, overthinking YA protagonist and she was the loud, confident, lights-up-a-room new friend. The books had prepared me for this. </div><div><br /></div><div>We booked our EasyJet flights before they tipped into three figures, and a hotel room in the centre of Luxembourg. Why Luxembourg? No reason. Why not. 30 countries before 30 now seems hilariously unachievable but hey, we squeezed in at least one new lil country this year.</div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgswNuNWGy88EhuexKOs8ogEKBVwJ0Kamy3PJrpkbTMcmaU1mbRF6n_93ZbAKGCaGNWk0YzOQanmn36X9cH98n-tlq7knHwmN_ULiJuzrywohCGhrtsT4qz3Q5oAG3sAnTMiZ3r1ckshMU/s960/86731420_10156651752676022_3632432723320111104_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgswNuNWGy88EhuexKOs8ogEKBVwJ0Kamy3PJrpkbTMcmaU1mbRF6n_93ZbAKGCaGNWk0YzOQanmn36X9cH98n-tlq7knHwmN_ULiJuzrywohCGhrtsT4qz3Q5oAG3sAnTMiZ3r1ckshMU/w480-h640/86731420_10156651752676022_3632432723320111104_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>'We want to stay what we are'</i></div><div><br /></div><div>The flight time was just over an hour from Gatwick, and we landed late on the Friday night. A quick 15 minute bus trip for a couple of Euros took us to the city centre, then it was a 10 minute walk to our hotel, <a href="https://hotel-perrin.lu/">Hotel Perrin</a>. Our expectations for the hotel were fairly low. We booked it last minute and it was cheap... but the reception had high ceilings, a bloody chandelier, and a lovely grandad-style manager who gave us sweets and felt very smug giving us their Wi-Fi code. Nailed it.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyOvjTnxPgSTfLVb5ZHdbiiHBcZHNT35ga-JpT9WU2ibahYCsuee1ngrIz54D4sBR54amO13qM8oWgZSX5VXT5LwtlzYZs8X9i16HUjxYRUIr05La4GXLRWajIEbuw9wffidxvIaLaY9k/s2048/103149355_3071449809589202_784993354869750930_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyOvjTnxPgSTfLVb5ZHdbiiHBcZHNT35ga-JpT9WU2ibahYCsuee1ngrIz54D4sBR54amO13qM8oWgZSX5VXT5LwtlzYZs8X9i16HUjxYRUIr05La4GXLRWajIEbuw9wffidxvIaLaY9k/w640-h640/103149355_3071449809589202_784993354869750930_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Claire's hair, a story in three parts</i></div><div><br /></div><div>We had very few plans for the weekend, but one thing was for sure: my European breakfast buffet, and LAWD did it come through. Pastries for days, so many bread rolls, lukewarm hams and sweaty cheese, Nutella, tiny muffins, massive oranges that are impossible to peel. Actual heaven. </div><div><br /></div><div>Getting around Luxembourg City is incredibly easy. Because it's tiny. Obviously. But also because <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-51657085">they've recently made all public transport free</a>. Free! What a life!! Imagine the UK with free transport. Huge lols. We only used the free trams (sidenote: bloody love a tram) a couple of times, just to experience the thrill. We did a lot of walking otherwise. Including... a free walking tour. Classic.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYaSrY38gAq1d4rrw5PMtxt6ZIUh1XMdIvzfHGJadggayVSIw8NNUmKOBm0h-MCakllHdT9rZ1OOP5NZazCnRpfVV4juyeEhx2SlmXQBAEOLoZQq14Xd5gFs1jSkxZQxeWT7VeJ8acSSg/s960/86294946_10156651753766022_7576287572448509952_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYaSrY38gAq1d4rrw5PMtxt6ZIUh1XMdIvzfHGJadggayVSIw8NNUmKOBm0h-MCakllHdT9rZ1OOP5NZazCnRpfVV4juyeEhx2SlmXQBAEOLoZQq14Xd5gFs1jSkxZQxeWT7VeJ8acSSg/w640-h480/86294946_10156651753766022_7576287572448509952_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>After spending a few hours learning the history of Luxembourg, we headed to a cafe called <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Konradcafe/">Konrad</a> to meet Claire's friend from uni, who just so happened to be living out in Luxembourg. He was lovely and like another tour guide. He explained that the reason Luxembourg City felt so empty at the weekends is because a lot of people don't actually live there. Most people who work in Luxembourg commute in from other countries. A third of the country is covered in forest, being on minimum wage means getting over over 2,000 euros per month, and the whole country is the same size as Dorset. I'm so on board with an empty, rich, safe country full of forest. Let's all move to Luxembourg. But until then, it was a nice to just sit in a cafe in another country and chat for a couple of hours. This was the most chilled European city break I'd ever experienced, and it was glorious.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaJ48QMh9NCLVGSkOlwmnJ2y8yyidkzKnreAU4ELcdDd9R5icXNOxKwqz3Xk8XVibKAYpoVid8eekFBT3ttbyKTwxuzKhd15DarJZrcy7le-8WM-5j3fKjSrsd810GjKXtEqjE0cwUc-w/s960/86301721_10156651753906022_7627212003244769280_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaJ48QMh9NCLVGSkOlwmnJ2y8yyidkzKnreAU4ELcdDd9R5icXNOxKwqz3Xk8XVibKAYpoVid8eekFBT3ttbyKTwxuzKhd15DarJZrcy7le-8WM-5j3fKjSrsd810GjKXtEqjE0cwUc-w/w512-h640/86301721_10156651753906022_7627212003244769280_n.jpg" width="512" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Luxembourg City is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and as well as most of the country being green, the City is full of greenery too. The City is on two levels, with the lower level looking like a National Trust park. When you're on the upper city-scape level, it kinda feels like walking in the clouds as you're above the huge trees. It's a bit weird. ANYWAY. While the sun was out, we got a lot of our steps in heading down to the Grund and wandering around, before hiking back up to our hotel to get ready for dinner.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij6HHtVD_5hzVomB3q3-ylVSrXfn80Me_y1PGhodHZgRyaWd5oVjMxQpjnH6YUpX_glIqc3fFFvhNEBkRspnnY9npShwpqd9lQThInbQ79JNi1hlbXl90PDYZyeYUXzS3-9d-Kr6E9SoI/s960/86694938_10156651752666022_1279111066852261888_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij6HHtVD_5hzVomB3q3-ylVSrXfn80Me_y1PGhodHZgRyaWd5oVjMxQpjnH6YUpX_glIqc3fFFvhNEBkRspnnY9npShwpqd9lQThInbQ79JNi1hlbXl90PDYZyeYUXzS3-9d-Kr6E9SoI/w512-h640/86694938_10156651752666022_1279111066852261888_n.jpg" width="512" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>We decided to splash out a bit on the Saturday night for dinner, so I found a traditional restaurant hidden away called <a href="https://www.amtiirmschen.lu/">Am Tiirmschen</a> (ok, so I did a bit of planning, fine). We ordered some fancy-ass wine and some gorgeous food that we couldn't quite pronounce, and spent hours getting more drunk and escalating the oversharing stakes. And when it was time to leave, we weren't done, so we headed back to Konrad which turns into a proper bar in the evenings. Settling down in the very hipster-like basement with more cocktails, we nattered on every topic under the sun (moon) until drunkenly bickering about Meghan Markle at midnight made it clear that was our cue to head back to the hotel.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigWb5OxmFVCGs8lR9qT-Q2gnlRAiatMCMvMp5nJ6D_p9glM8Nh6oKsUKsxHEmt2uaTTKyVHvMJH9LXzBJYn7QTYO4dirqWS3dclNC4raujoSYxYpUv-ihUQVceVv7MYNdbHCQii-jDN_Q/s960/86731897_10156651752396022_6322406238709612544_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigWb5OxmFVCGs8lR9qT-Q2gnlRAiatMCMvMp5nJ6D_p9glM8Nh6oKsUKsxHEmt2uaTTKyVHvMJH9LXzBJYn7QTYO4dirqWS3dclNC4raujoSYxYpUv-ihUQVceVv7MYNdbHCQii-jDN_Q/w640-h640/86731897_10156651752396022_6322406238709612544_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>If you want an insight into how well I was sleeping in February, take a look at them bags</i></div><div><br /></div><div>The sun was back out on Sunday (it was meant to rain the whole weekend so, as my late nan would say, weren't we lucky with the weather) and we made the day a lazy one. We popped into the shops we spotted on Saturday to pick up some souvenirs (and bread and crisps), then spent the afternoon sat outside The Chocolate House. I knew by this point that I was super glad we'd gone for it with this weekend trip, but Claire sitting back down with a sheepishly thrilled look on her face after ordering double the amount of cake that we initially agreed on sealed the deal. What a legend.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpAFfS3nW0zCRrehgX8EaQ2xLg77PBsaOg3-56L5Lz62MqcRm8O_V3qqELOepue3LFJ4_dey9haDpCmI3DrYH-HI7GBx9AIien4g83co_Fe_4Z6r0eiPS1Y2uLFGAtEq0QNPcS8x9szSU/s960/86790904_10156651751996022_4262167077437046784_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpAFfS3nW0zCRrehgX8EaQ2xLg77PBsaOg3-56L5Lz62MqcRm8O_V3qqELOepue3LFJ4_dey9haDpCmI3DrYH-HI7GBx9AIien4g83co_Fe_4Z6r0eiPS1Y2uLFGAtEq0QNPcS8x9szSU/w512-h640/86790904_10156651751996022_4262167077437046784_n.jpg" width="512" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I won't bore you with the journey back home. Not because it's just: we got the bus back to the airport then flew back to Gatwick and got trains back to London, oh no. That would be too easy. We ended up delayed until the early hours the next day, so by the time we landed at Gatwick there were no trains and a super long wait for taxis/an Uber. Now, going on an emergency weekend away is one thing, but dealing with a delay together? That's risky. Claire's experienced my tired strops now and survived. We have to be friends. Anyway, one expensive Uber later, we turned up at Claire's flat at, like, 4am or something stupid, and I crashed out on the blow-up mattress her boyfriend had set up for me. Not only was he unbothered at me whisking his girlfriend off to another country for Valentine's Day, he made sure I was comfy when we got home too. Cute.</div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwBxAGe77dGv_lBwjf8Z_vH50hbnJ929AEbOaEFmipwcjvMenqb9sHKfijLK9XfrKaKm8a1gce-ti101YpH0iihKwpuy-bbB_T4LtFle9xi2Zo1KNFCSb6cbS6Bv0G_meV7F5dnNTxWq0/s960/84696295_10156651753556022_3462091197919526912_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwBxAGe77dGv_lBwjf8Z_vH50hbnJ929AEbOaEFmipwcjvMenqb9sHKfijLK9XfrKaKm8a1gce-ti101YpH0iihKwpuy-bbB_T4LtFle9xi2Zo1KNFCSb6cbS6Bv0G_meV7F5dnNTxWq0/w512-h640/84696295_10156651753556022_3462091197919526912_n.jpg" width="512" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Our little Luxembourg trip was lush and I'm so glad we did it. If you need an easy weekend to escape, Luxembourg is your friend. You can probably take Claire if you like. She's great. </div></div>Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-8874429020491232852020-05-17T12:28:00.003+01:002020-06-07T09:17:10.662+01:00Sense and flexibility<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOgjBUxOiQJoIRysWqihxe_zo7UMbppNpmifLLFrA8_pmvVPUxH437I4Fl7535dBjuASbTp2_rLG57veOUp16AGaqzIAVXV7sA6u8qbAxpRH-39HCHuZXbCIUaVUfQa7UdpNyBHE3-4xA/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOgjBUxOiQJoIRysWqihxe_zo7UMbppNpmifLLFrA8_pmvVPUxH437I4Fl7535dBjuASbTp2_rLG57veOUp16AGaqzIAVXV7sA6u8qbAxpRH-39HCHuZXbCIUaVUfQa7UdpNyBHE3-4xA/w640-h640/98004069_613156639308015_3942082947485532160_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>The holy lockdown symbol, praise be to the banana bread</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Every morning my neighbours, in their 70s, run up and down their (very big) garden. Every single morning. In their running gear. Early. They've taken to self-isolation like ducks to water, which is impressive considering they were truly living their best retired life by going on 2,837 cruises a year and were rarely to be seen at home.<div><br /></div><div>Watching them from my bedroom window (creepy) has become a staple of lockdown life. I love watching them run, do the gardening, walk up one side of their garden together with their hands behind their backs to inspect their carefully kept plants, take tea and a plate of biscuits to the bottom of the garden in the afternoon, and hearing the bell that she rings for him to come inside for dinner. It's all oddly idyllic, considering.<span><a name='more'></a></span></div><div><br /></div><div>I think I find the neighbours comforting because they're a constant. And finding any sort of constant right now is like gold dust. I'm clinging on to it. Other constants I'm clinging on to: Battenberg (obsessed - I had three boxes of the little ones, one massive one, and one I attempted to make on the go at one point...), cheesestrings, Richard Osman's House of Games, the gin that dad gives me every Friday at 4:30, Strava art, Words With Friends. My most intense coping mechanism is appointing myself 'The Organising Great Birthday Gifts for Colleagues Fairy (TOGBGFCF)'. It's keeping me very busy and it's a wonder I haven't created a spreadsheet.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg68DIjGebrvdHL34eP5GBUwlUbtVeYfxd0VpBXumOyN7mam5_AXsoZ7VK8BELK-g2F5gdsnAaSmValhn22N90aMf2eQp1bO5rRYWg3Eb39U5hmNuqPrkTMA5hf1E-_8rxDSPU3OaN_Fdk/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="847" data-original-width="847" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg68DIjGebrvdHL34eP5GBUwlUbtVeYfxd0VpBXumOyN7mam5_AXsoZ7VK8BELK-g2F5gdsnAaSmValhn22N90aMf2eQp1bO5rRYWg3Eb39U5hmNuqPrkTMA5hf1E-_8rxDSPU3OaN_Fdk/w640-h640/98186603_252879942617119_7881014733300563968_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>It's a decent attempt at a Battenberg, to be fair</i></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm finding lockdown ok now. And I'm really sorry about that because for most it's hell. I have to recognise my privilege (living at home with my Very Good parents, in a house, with a garden, still working with 100% pay doing a job I adore... I hate myself too, don't worry) and I know if I was still living in my tiny flat in London, I'd have Not Coped At All. Despite everything, I'm extremely lucky and grateful, and really feel for those in much, much tougher situations. </div><div><br /></div><div>When lockdown began, I'd been living back at home for about a fortnight. I was gagging for a new routine, to make all the plans, and to continue the great processing work I'd been doing with my therapist about the shitstorm that landed on my lap at the beginning of the year (absolutely not ready to write about that yet - hey look, boundaries). So when we were hit with a global pandemic, I panicked. I was so mad, it wasn't fair. This was meant to be my time! I desperately tried to come up with a new plan, any silver linings, and ways I could still be productive... but ended up just irritable. It felt like my brain had been hit by a lorry and was surrounded in airbags. It wasn't until my manager told me that the most productive thing I could do right now is <i>do nothing </i>that I stopped. I stopped trying to worm a routine into this weird new life, I stopped trying to plan and mourn that I couldn't, and stopped tying to make sense of anything. Then my nan died suddenly, which made the least sense in the world, and I did just... stop.</div><div><br /></div><div>Trying to make sense of life at the moment is practically impossible, and if you have other traumas on top of this global pandemic (hi) then you'd better prepare for some delayed processing. You got 99 problems but this bitch can be the only one. Pop the others on a shelf for later and hope they don't pass their best before date.</div><div><br /></div><div>Humans like reasons. We're obsessed with trying to make sense of things, to make them fit, to make them understandable so we can deal with and process them. But this? It's new, none of us have been through it before. Even those at the top have no fucking idea what they're doing. Nobody has the answers. There are no rules ('stay alert' is not a rule, it's vague, instils fear and not boundaries), so we're all a bit lost and just making it up.</div><div><br /></div><div>Which is why, I think, there's baffling anxiety around doing things wrong, feeling useless and helpless, and not 'using the time wisely'. In a culture of 'always on', always trying to be more and be better, we're stumped. We're stuck between instinct and survival, and complex humanity. We're looking for ways to cope and fit in with this new society, it's what we do. We're blindly following each other's lead. We're obsessively Googling sourdough starter recipes, we're baking banana bread, we're all runners now. We're upcycling, doing so many quizzes, and spending ridiculous money on jigsaws/Bloom & Wild flowers/Doughnut Time kits/delete as appropriate. We're feeling bad that we haven't started writing that novel, learnt a new language, or been as creative as we feel we <i>should</i> have been. Well, I am, anyway.</div><div><br /></div><div>But it's a global pandemic. Our brains are exhausted. <b>We're just trying to stay alive.</b></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTGFimrDZI4um1CaqxUnEBhi2Dw7rkgPviVDqlUXbTwcuR7HBxV9c1uEqYMFmgF7mrqEPgOFJr7kPr1byCBujY_p8hrWgygOYpwCSADQDCyl0ORY9rrEfwqUN-GatOhWZsu4823Dy55HI/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTGFimrDZI4um1CaqxUnEBhi2Dw7rkgPviVDqlUXbTwcuR7HBxV9c1uEqYMFmgF7mrqEPgOFJr7kPr1byCBujY_p8hrWgygOYpwCSADQDCyl0ORY9rrEfwqUN-GatOhWZsu4823Dy55HI/w512-h640/97238139_557597405131893_9082284311096328192_n.jpg" width="512" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>My 457th order from Bloom & Wild...</i></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div>I've felt bad that I haven't checked in on every single friend every single day. I've felt bad that I haven't been having regular Zoom catch-ups (I'm just mightily sick of seeing my own face at this point). But like everything else, social routine has gone out the window. Instead of having set times of socialising, dictated by work and family and sleep, we can socialise all the time. And all excuses have gone out the window. You're at home, you're not busy. But socialising constantly is not normal, and socialising purely over technology Is Not Normal. It's exhausting, it's a totally different kind of communication with different cues and contexts and interpretations. You do have an excuse and it's: I'm tired, technology-fatigued, and have nothing to bloody update you on anyway. I keep sending gifts to pals instead. 'Hey, talking is tough but here's something to keep you busy, I love you, I'm thinking of you, and you're doing really well.' It's ridiculous to judge each other and our friendships at this point. We're all just doing our best.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm used to spending time by myself now. I don't have the routine (I thought) I craved, but I've found the things I really do like doing. I've named all my plants and I love checking in on them (I can replant Joan the Tomato Plant soon!!) I can't stop repainting my nails and doing facepacks (is this what they call self-care??). My uncle, who has learning difficulties, is struggling with lockdown and my nan's death, so I had a great time making him some wordsearches full of his favourite things. I bake every weekend (cake, not bread, I don't want to bake bread and that is ok!) I'm running a lot. Like, a lot. Decently too and my blistered feet can tell. I watch a bit of telly, I read a bit. I'm buckled right back in on the Words With Friends bandwagon. I'm working flexibly and not struck with fear anymore that I don't have a solid work routine or that I'm not being as productive or creative as I could be. I'm still doing a good job (and I'm so proud of all the incredible work we're doing at <a href="https://www.anthonynolan.org/">Anthony Nolan</a> right now). We're not all just working from home, we're trying to fit some work in while trying to stay sane and alive.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxyHqo0POQEdb1OyCQY5WlesxfKO0ORTEyiEaPbWiUrX7mtzIlMSCKph4msPQfjvOKmepxLnj8r6ab6W8gihHvzx8MLCzuaUuVmMWFcGC-nUTCGl3p4io0Pn0-urDkSzXik_eOwA27Pgo/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxyHqo0POQEdb1OyCQY5WlesxfKO0ORTEyiEaPbWiUrX7mtzIlMSCKph4msPQfjvOKmepxLnj8r6ab6W8gihHvzx8MLCzuaUuVmMWFcGC-nUTCGl3p4io0Pn0-urDkSzXik_eOwA27Pgo/w640-h640/97599063_616703115857715_7329081993763749888_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm balancing dong nice things with doing nothing with a little productivity. If I do one productive thing a day, whether that's clearing out a drawer, having my turn to cook dinner, or even just showering, that will do. But if I spend all day in bed, that will do too. I've even treated myself, multiple times! As someone who is notoriously bad at spending time and money on herself, this is true revelation of lockdown. I bought myself a shiny new laptop (my version of the NHS rainbows is the constant rainbow pinwheel of doom, it was time), I bought myself some peonies, and I did a full face of make-up the other day and curled my hair. I looked great and really, truly loved myself more than I have done in a very long time, which I suspect is not just an effect of lockdown, but that's for another time...</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvKzNvqJg7afeIB81HvwjoEHTK0SatKLvDNcupyPo7NADRNICh3rsUB0Ow4QeqR0yhBgqnmDOf7kkRGqBm4pZiKhwNP0TxV1rh9HmCXkKvuLupNpEy-Xgn8IoQf_dEB_0oWPGW-_agWe8/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvKzNvqJg7afeIB81HvwjoEHTK0SatKLvDNcupyPo7NADRNICh3rsUB0Ow4QeqR0yhBgqnmDOf7kkRGqBm4pZiKhwNP0TxV1rh9HmCXkKvuLupNpEy-Xgn8IoQf_dEB_0oWPGW-_agWe8/w512-h640/97121211_638264803430910_4948218009106776064_n.jpg" width="512" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>See! I look good! This never happens!</i></div><div><br /></div><div>In all honesty, I'm super anxious about life after lockdown and after lots of hushed conversations, I know I'm not the only one. I'm used to this now. The thought of commuting and being surrounded by people every day, having plans, having goals, and going back into the rat race of life is actually quite terrifying. We were burning out! Who knew!! </div><div><br /></div><div>But that's a future that's out of reach. We'll get there and it'll be different and we'll appreciate what we loved and missed, and remove as much as we can of what we realised we didn't. Hopefully? We're fickle. For now, I'm happy taking a leaf from next door and living my best adapted retired life.</div>Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-11776029344990322082020-04-05T10:26:00.002+01:002020-05-17T12:45:20.880+01:00She died, I think<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrVFD7P5lf81T5aGwe1jjgK93CRG4o0T9GNDIsGlKhdrCMDANna3siu5CWyv-etu_UGV3A0fngFJVuU4LiBQkoVzuY5tHsRomC1Edt5oZfkW8sKenwywP34oFX0ajUVdLMO9ioPNA3K3c/s1600/nanny.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="360" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrVFD7P5lf81T5aGwe1jjgK93CRG4o0T9GNDIsGlKhdrCMDANna3siu5CWyv-etu_UGV3A0fngFJVuU4LiBQkoVzuY5tHsRomC1Edt5oZfkW8sKenwywP34oFX0ajUVdLMO9ioPNA3K3c/s640/nanny.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">They say when someone dies, you want the world to stop. You want everyone to be sad. You want the world as scheduled to pause and reshuffle and not ever be the same again. You want everyone to observe the fact that this incredible, integral, powerhouse of a person has gone, and how dare anyone try to carry on as normal. Why are you laughing? Work? Well, what's the point? Why are you going out, what could you simply <i>want</i> to be doing? Just stop.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My nan died a week ago. She didn't die from coronavirus but did die during coronavirus, and there's no difference. The rules are the same. There are rules, now, with dealing with death.<span><a name='more'></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There will be no more than 10 people at the funeral.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There will be no wake.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There will be no funeral cars</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There will be no hugs, no kisses, no physical contact at all.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There will be no visits from friends and family.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There will be no raising a glass in the pub.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There will be no nice family meal.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There will be no grieving together.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There will be no physically supporting each other.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There will be no seeing Grandad until the funeral, and there will be no seeing him after. For months.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The world has stopped, just like they wanted. And I have never wanted the world to carry on as normal more in my sodding life.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In all the times I imagined my grandparents dying - we all do it - it was never like this. Of course it wasn't. And it's so bloody typical of my nan to kick the bucket at the most awkward time. Knob.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It is virtually impossibly to grieve for someone when your world hasn't changed since hearing that news, when you're in a bubble of a new temporary reality. When your days are the same, when you're stuck in, when you're doing the same walks for your government-santioned exercise and cooking banana bread thrice a week.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But this is temporary, so maybe her dying is temporary too? It's just in this reality, right? Not for real. And anyway, I'm already grieving for the world we were living in, for the life we all had - aren't we all. Get in line, Nanny.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It seems ridiculous to comprehend someone dying when you couldn't see them indefinitely. This is what I expected, I was prepared to not see her for months on end. Nothing has changed. There is no difference. As far as my basic brain is concerned. my nan is still at home. She's still here. She's with my grandad. I just haven't see them since January.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I can only attempt to process the death of my nan through my mum's face. It's my mirror, my TV, my trigger for feeling something, anything. Her face holds the only tell that this has actually, genuinely, seriously, 100%ly, fo'realsies happened.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Mum was there. She's seen my grandad. She saw my nan on her bed after she died, after my grandad had to give her CPR, after the paramedics arrived and said, 'I'm sorry', and after they shook my grandad's hand and chose humanity over social distancing, after the police arrived because she died suddenly at home, after the funeral director arrived to 'I'll take care of your mum, Janice, you don't have to worry about a thing'. All these people. They joked as they all stood in the kitchen, shoulder to shoulder, that they were having a party. Apparently.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This is all a story. I'm experiencing a story, like when we went to that living museum on a school trip when I was 10. The phone is constantly ringing, I've heard Mum tell the story of how my nan died countless times, there's paperwork everywhere, the flowers and cards keep arriving. We've run out of vases. I never want to smell lilies again. All the signs of death are there without the effect, without the change. This house is a bubble, a simulacra of grief. Ceci n'est pas une pipe. Ceci n'est pas une mort.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'll write about her soon. Just her, just about Nanny. But right now, I think I just need people to know what this is like. What it's like to lose someone during a global pandemic and country lockdown. What it's like to lose the humanity of death.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There's no empty space at the table, yet. There's no empty chair at my nan and grandad's, yet. There are no hugs from family and friends, yet. There's no seeing the grief on my grandad's face, yet. There's no planning life without her, yet. There's no not hearing her voice amongst the rest of my family's, yet. There's no funeral, yet. There's no celebrating of her life, yet.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There's no missing her, yet.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There's no death, yet.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It's all just fucking weird, to be honest.</div>
Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-6769646513465068612019-10-11T19:48:00.002+01:002019-10-11T19:48:51.959+01:00Jury's out<div class="p1">
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<span class="s1"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Disclaimer: I’m not going to talk about any of the details of the trial here so if you’re looking for those juicy nuggets of trauma, sorry. Netflix is your friend.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I walked past someone who I did jury with on my way home from work today. Weird. She didn’t see me. We were crossing the road in opposite directions, and she was holding the hand of her ‘my little girl’ as she kept calling her with a smile in our two weeks together.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">My reaction was… extreme. It was like parallel universes crossing with nails-on-blackboard friction. My legs went, my bum felt weak like my insides were about to fall out, and the world seemed to bubble in my ears for a split second. I was, essentially, on the verge of a panic attack.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I quite desperately wanted to say something, get her attention. My instinct was to touch her shoulder - my arm twitched as we passed - but I thought 1) that’d be weird, and 2) she was very much back into her normal routine of being a mum and I didn’t want to disturb that.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">When I got my jury summons back in July, people were very jealous. That was the main reaction. They’d always wanted to do it, hoped I got a juicy case, and wanted to know everything once it was done.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">‘I hope it’s a big case but, like, not traumatic,’ and I ended up saying the same. I wanted the Hatton Garden boys, but expected fraud. Those who had already served their time recommended bringing a book because I was in for a lot of boredom, apparently.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I was put on a case within an hour of turning up on my first day. Obviously. I felt a bit cheated, I hadn’t even opened my book.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">There was very little preparation for what happened next. I’d sat on the loo at home reading the shitty A4-paper-folded-in-half ‘Getting Ready for Jury Service’ booklet, written in five different fonts in various sizes, either in too complex language or too patronising. At the end was a little paragraph about what do if it’s a traumatic case and you ‘feel affected’: ring the Samaritans.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Good. Thank you.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">There are no trigger warnings with jury duty. No words of warning, no comfort, no prep. You’re plucked from the public, drawn from a hat for your case, and plonked in front of a judge and real life human beings on trial. You’re sworn in. The charges are read.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">That is the first time you hear what your case is about.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> And all the blood in my body fell to my feet.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">There’s no opportunity to flag to the judge if you’re ‘unsuitable’ in any way for this case. If you have experience in the subject, if you’ve experienced trauma, if you ‘feel affected’. Did I expect there to be? Should there be? I don’t know. But if there’s not, there should a whole lot of fucking support before, during, and after your service.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">There is none. Two weeks after I first sat in that courtroom, we were let go. We filled in our expenses paperwork and we were free to go. That was it. Drop-kicked back into the world, having experienced a whole fucking lot.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-converted-space">In our second week, the jurors in the court opposite ours came out and said, brightly, 'We've got fraud! Started yesterday, will be done tomorrow! How about you?' We looked back at them like the wilting polyps Ursula turns merpeople into in The Little Mermaid. </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Jury service is a bubble. The jury is the last in and first out - as far as we knew, the people in that courtroom could have not moved for two weeks. They were permanent fixtures. I knew the courtroom wasn’t cleaned for two weeks because the bits of my nails I chewed off stayed on the floor by my seat. Gross, I know. Sorry Mum.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">You’re not allowed to talk about your case with anyone. Obviously. And that’s a lot to keep in, that’s a lot of weight of someone else’s baggage that is absolutely now your baggage. You carry it. You decide what happens to all this baggage. No pressure. And I’m a talker. All I wanted to do was offload but y’know, the contempt of court thing.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Interlude: my grandad told me that when he did jury service, another juror knitted throughout and at the end, the judge asked how many rows she’d knitted. He fined her £10 per row.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Even when I did talk about how hard it was, even as I write this, I feel guilty (lol). This case was not about me, it’s not my thing. Those involved have it oh so obviously so much harder. Woe is me, right? Two weeks off work, didn’t need to be there until 10am, was always home by 5pm. Wasn’t in court Friday and Monday so had a long weekend. Poor thing. I know. The guilt is strong but I feel what I feel, and being on a jury for a case like this is hard. It’s tough. It’s so painfully and bafflingly unsupported, I just couldn’t get over it. It was a constant punch in the face every day, I was exhausted. </span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">How on earth were we meant to just… get back to our own lives after all that? To leave the 11 other jurors? We didn’t want to leave each other. After two weeks (and the last two days of it being trapped in one small room, our only breaks allowed with the jury bailiff in a tiny outside space in the basement of the court) we'd bonded. We had such a strange, close attachment to each other, we didn’t want to leave the court, despite that being all we wanted to do. We didn’t even know each other’s names.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I dreaded going back to work for the inevitable questioning. It was my turn. I didn’t have the patience for anyone asking if it was juicy, outright asking for the details, talking about me having a free two week holiday. And I especially didn’t have the patience for anyone being jealous. Don’t be jealous. It’s not fun. It’s not like TV. Apart from when it is but you can't turn it off, because it's real life and these are real people going through the very worst time of their lives and you decide what happens next, without getting a 'one year later' update to close the loop after getting so damn invested.</span></span></div>
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Anyway, maybe you'll get fraud. </div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Regards, Juror #2</span></span></div>
Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-29814296256388287562019-09-02T17:30:00.000+01:002019-09-02T17:33:17.467+01:00I miss chatting shit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>Mmm, hormones. Tasty.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Hi my name’s Louise and apparently this is still my blog?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I posted a big ol’ thing on Instagram yesterday about being on the Pill and then coming off the Pill and then going back on the Pill. <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/B14K8ixn7Vq/" target="_blank">You should read it</a>. Long story short, I came off it because I thought I should come off it, because I thought the Pill was bad and that I should be my ‘natural’ self, but turns out my ‘natural self’ is a living fucking nightmare and nobody wants that, especially me (‘The only person you have to<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>deal with every day is yourself’ - someone smart in my Instagram comments) so I’m back on the Pill.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’m bored of trying to be better. That’s really why I came off the Pill, because I thought it’d make me a better feminist. That I’d feel more in control of my body, that I’d be empowered, that I’d suddenly feel more creative and would be more successful. That I’d have an epiphany and be enlightened. But the opposite happened. My skin’s gross, my mental health’s a shitshow, and I feel disconnected from everyone, everything, and especially myself. I’m not in control at all.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It’s a bunch of bullshit. All power to you if coming off the Pill has given you that freedom, honestly. I have a good handful of friends who have had that experience and I, for one, am jealous, I have to admit. I’d love nothing more than to feel free and in control of my own ‘natural’ body, but the world is awful and people are complicated, so whatcha gonna do?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Anyway. My mental health has been piss poor these past few months, and maybe it’s because of the lack of fake hormones, maybe it’s not. I’d guess a bit of both. But now, on the second glorious day of being back on the Pill, still in bed on a Monday lunchtime because I’m off work with the shits, I want to blog for the sake of blogging. Because fuck, I miss it! I miss chatting shit! I miss writing a blog and posting it all within the space of half an hour! I miss having a space on the internet to call my own and not have any meaningful weight on it!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Every decision I make at the moment feels like life or death. I haven’t wanted to do anything if I can’t see how it will enrich my life - will it make me money, will it further my career, will it give me more opportunities, will it make me a better person? Always back to making me a better person. BORED OF IT.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I haven’t blogged in months because I haven’t had an idea or opinion that will go viral and change my life *looks to camera* I am insufferable, I know.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’ve been desperate for a new project lately, something to get my teeth stuck in to. But I haven’t allowed myself to do anything because it all seems pointless. If I’m not gonna become the world’s greatest pianist after starting to learn to play the piano, then what’s the point? I love cross-stitching, but only if I’m creating something for someone else. And that’s what it boils down to: I only want to do something if it’s for someone else, or if it’ll get me some sweet, sweet validation from others. My own pride and happiness doesn’t count. Apparently.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I want to go rock climbing. I want to learn to play the piano AND guitar. I want to bake a cake for myself and eat the whole thing in one sitting. I want to cross-stitch and leave the finished products unframed on the side for at least four months. I want to hula-hoop and watch Schitt’s Creek at the same time. I want to go swimming! I want to go swimming and not train for Swim Serpentine. I want to make a photo album. No, I want to make a scrapbook! I want to blog. I want to chat shit. I want to fall in love with myself again.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">This isn’t new. I’ve written before about wanting to be happy with my lot and being bored of the pressure to have massive goals. But writing about it doesn’t mean I’ve got it nailed down. It’s fucking hard. Everything is hard. The world is a w f u l and people are c o m p l i c a t e d. We’re all making shit up and trying our best. Sometimes we’re not even trying our best. And that’s ok, I think.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Coming off the Pill because everyone on the internet said it’s corrupt won’t make you a better person. It won’t make you a better feminist. It might not make you feel better. You can’t do all the things. You can’t be perfect. Life cannot be perfect. You can’t tick some boxes and save the world. You've just gotta do you. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I want to chat shit again, for myself, with you, not for you, spontaneously, for no rhyme or reason.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">And I’m going to bake a cake.</span></span></div>
Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-16563777810757942852019-06-20T19:40:00.001+01:002019-06-20T19:40:22.888+01:00Basel, Switzerland (March 2019)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGSdodSne7Z8UlN0Oenrd3Col_knM-gq31cdXiNkA9wf81CSKxBHUy3BrHyQ-C5098HzpYtlGSlpBE6Ia52gP-tw7pZuECGbxyXPtkZYvIvaULITVKUI7Om616YWHoQW3pxhm6oWjYiXo/s1600/55564394_10155890240406022_2437909847656628224_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="960" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGSdodSne7Z8UlN0Oenrd3Col_knM-gq31cdXiNkA9wf81CSKxBHUy3BrHyQ-C5098HzpYtlGSlpBE6Ia52gP-tw7pZuECGbxyXPtkZYvIvaULITVKUI7Om616YWHoQW3pxhm6oWjYiXo/s640/55564394_10155890240406022_2437909847656628224_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">10 minutes ago Ryan said, ‘You’ve still got that Vego chocolate bar in the fridge,’ and I squealed, because I forgot all about it. I thought I ate it ages ago, as soon as Lent was over. My friend Grace gave it to me on the plane back from Basel in March, three months ago. I saved it. Vego is a vegan chocolate brand. Grace is vegan. I went to Basel in Switzerland with her.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Yes. I went to Switzerland, the land of cheese and chocolate, with a vegan*.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="https://www.almostamazinggrace.co.uk/" target="_blank">Grace</a> and I have been friends for about five years. I spotted her on Facebook and Twitter after Ryan’s brother commented on her public posts. I say ‘her’, but they were written by her mum who was updating their friends and family while Grace was having a brain tumour removed.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Very dramatic. And we all know I love the drama. We had to be friends.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Skip forward to last year and Grace was having surgery again. I told her that once she was recovering from it, we’d book a city break away. Anywhere. Her choice. And we did! She chose Basel as her parents had been, and I hadn’t been to Switzerland so that suited my map-scratching needs. Basel it was.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwQr7qtWkzMvH8T9cA60j7cJSuKo092mclz-pLKU8GidM8feXBd23JEH793cJUVajtHYCvnlsQjTpzoULXerL-CVeYfAG0rckNIRCPjlyfG1Ry60RLWBVqiVihoBjYMqAyDOYm9nkp8E4/s1600/55504336_10155890239151022_2235297922268790784_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwQr7qtWkzMvH8T9cA60j7cJSuKo092mclz-pLKU8GidM8feXBd23JEH793cJUVajtHYCvnlsQjTpzoULXerL-CVeYfAG0rckNIRCPjlyfG1Ry60RLWBVqiVihoBjYMqAyDOYm9nkp8E4/s640/55504336_10155890239151022_2235297922268790784_n.jpg" width="512" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Switzerland is expensive. Like, fuck me. EXPENSIVE. We decided to just go Friday to Sunday in March. It’s a small city so totally doable in that time. The flights were super reasonable with EasyJet, but we needed to sell a kidney each to stay in a hotel and, not being funny, Grace cannot afford to lose a kidney. Line drawn. So we found a cute Airbnb near Basel SBB train station.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">When you fly to Basel, you fly into France. It’s great. I love shit like that. Basel is on the very tip of Switzerland, just where it borders with France and Germany. More on that later.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQfdE3lsj5qK41d84_rIpCSjDGKLoVu1_iYExOhYGoNQ6QWhUPLzmYRbdvHK1DLNGKKpYwsfDDq3_RaIT2MjHjkKTN9icq4I-udlQe2fGXQf9X-7dRSIagpDV1oqoey1a3Ck-wqMOGoc/s1600/54424688_10155890238626022_6358032343889870848_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQfdE3lsj5qK41d84_rIpCSjDGKLoVu1_iYExOhYGoNQ6QWhUPLzmYRbdvHK1DLNGKKpYwsfDDq3_RaIT2MjHjkKTN9icq4I-udlQe2fGXQf9X-7dRSIagpDV1oqoey1a3Ck-wqMOGoc/s640/54424688_10155890238626022_6358032343889870848_n.jpg" width="512" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">EuroAirport Basel-Mulhouse-Freiburg is in France and when you leave, you have to make sure you choose the right exit: into France, Germany, or Switzerland. There are just little flags above each door. Like it’s the most chill and normal thing. Brilliant.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Getting to the city of Basel is easy. You get the 50 bus from outside (the right side of) the airport for CHF4.70 one way, and it takes 15 minutes.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Once we’d dumped our stuff and nosied around the flat, we went wandering to the river. We sat by the river eating too-expensive-chips and too-expensive-wine, before figuring we were super tired so bought some bread, fruit, crisps, dip, and… more bread from a shop to eat on the balcony back at the flat. We watched the Swiss sunset and gossiped for hours, living our best lives with our bread and more bread.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Eating in Basel was a pain in the arse for two reasons: finding suitable vegan places isn’t easy, and everywhere is SO EXPENSIVE, HAVE I MENTIONED. So for our first dinner, we went to Markthalle, a huge market hall full of street food vendors and bars. It was bloody perfect, though bloody busy. You could get any type of food you liked at a reasonable price. Bliss. It was like London’s Borough Market but with less rubbish and more benches.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We then splashed out ever so slightly at Soho, a bar in the mini theatre district of Basel. We had one drink then crashed back at the flat.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I had a plan for the Saturday for us to walk to Three Countries Corner, the very tip of Basel where the borders meet. You could skip from Switzerland to Germany to France within the same 30 seconds. But the walk was going to take about an hour and it was warm, so we scheduled in stops to be sensible.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">First up: Basel Minster. A lovely cathedral in the main square which charges CHF5 for you to walk up to the very top. Ah, views. Lovely, Instagram views. What we didn’t know was that the journey up to the top wouldn’t pass a health and safety check from the guy leading the safety test at Chernobyl. It was hell. Narrow staircases, no light, no rope, squeezing around corners with no barriers, bending around the cathedral bell. I’m not claustrophobic but no, never again.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Obviously, the views were worth it.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">After dicing with death, we began our long walk along the river, stopping off at Grace’s very own boat and then a cafe called myyDing. I wrote my nan’s postcard, Grace had a coffee, and I had her free biscuit because FREE. The best thing about Basel were all the water fountains dotted around the city. Also free.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We thought there might be some cool bars open along the river where we could stop at have lunch once we got to Three Countries Corner, but as were out there off season, everywhere was closed. E v e r y w h e r e. We ended up grumpy toddlers by the time we got there and had to share a cereal bar Grace had stashed at the bottom of her bag.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">That was also worth it though because, y’know, THREE COUNTRIES ALL AT ONCE.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We stopped off for more chips and wine on the long walk home, before I dashed off to Läderach to buy some Swiss chocolate for back home (honestly, being in a Swiss chocolate shop during Lent is actual torture) while Grace dashed off to the Airbnb because she needed a poo.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I had to buy a slab of Basler Läckerli - chocolate with bits of spiced biscuits made from honey, hazelnuts, almonds, candied peel, and Kirsch scattered in it. A Basel special. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s2"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Grace found a veggie/vegan buffet restaurant for that evening where you pay based on the weight of your plate. It was a great shout. Grace did end up slightly ill after accidentally eating dairy (they hadn’t labelled dishes correctly…) but the concept was great…</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">To soothe Grace, we brought her home. To an Irish pub, for some strong whisky. I mostly stared at her for a bit as she had a distressed ‘Am-I-going-to-shit-myself-or-no’ look plastered on her face, and I tried to hide from a super keen French woman who wanted to be my friend and I was being very British about it.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The next day, we started the day with some people watching outside the cafe at the Elisabethen church before walking to Wettsteinbrücke for some views. As we walked over the bridge, we started to hear a distant band. They got louder and louder, and suddenly appeared with hoards of people following them. We saw them again and again throughout the day, and didn’t find out until later that for the four Sundays after the Carnival of Basel, the bands come back out to play around the city. It was so great! We missed the carnival but still got a taste of it.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Early afternoon, we went on a free walking tour around the city. Our group of about 20 was made up of people from around the world, who were all in Basel for different reasons. Some were alone and had just moved to Basel from another country, some were visiting friends, some were on a football trip, and some were on a city break like us. Basel isn’t necessarily a place full of holiday-makers, which made finding out people’s reasons for being there more interesting.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Before going back to the airport, we went to Stripped Pizza for dinner and sat outside on the crossroads with our wine. It was pretty perfect for a last meal.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Then we were back on the plane, and I was holding the chocolate bar I wouldn’t eat until three months later.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Basel is a very cute, very pretty city. There isn’t heaps to do, unless you love museums (there are 40 packed into the little city), tiny death trap cathedral towers, or spending money. But it was perfect for some exploring over a long weekend, with a pal who’d been through a lot. Highly recommend.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">*This is a running joke, please don’t come at me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-15559881761688955462019-05-23T19:28:00.000+01:002019-05-23T19:43:41.313+01:00Don't answer that<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">‘“You feel like you’re going to fall because you’re broken into a hundred different floating pieces,” she told me. “You’re all over the place. You’ve got no rooting. You don’t know how to be with yourself.” The back wall of my eyeballs finally gave way and tears poured out from the deepest well in the pit of my stomach.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></i></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">“I feel like nothing is holding me together anymore,” I told her.</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">“Of course you do,” she said with a new softness. “You’ve got no sense of self.”’</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">- <b>Dolly Alderton</b>, Everything I Know About Love</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">When I was 19, I told two friends that when I get on a train, I think everyone hates me. I think I’m in their space, I’m a negative presence, and that they’re thinking bad things about me. Me, this girl they’ve never met, surrounded by all the others strangers they’ve never met. They hate me.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The two friends looked at me, understandably to the average person, like I was mad. They laughed, thinking it was a joke but I was deadly serious. Around strangers, my anxiety manifests in the default of: I am hated until proven otherwise. I have to prove myself to be liked, let alone loved. And nobody can tell me differently.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Being a teenager, this thought process wasn’t an issue. I was always around people I knew. I knew where I stood and didn’t need to make new friends. I was comfortable. It wasn’t until I started university that this damage crawled out the cracks like fucking flying ant day.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I wrote about it <a href="http://www.biscuitsandblisters.co.uk/2017/09/uni-mental-health-and-break-in-to-not.html" target="_blank">here</a> but in a nutshell, I'd lock myself in my university halls bedroom for days if I didn’t have lectures or seminars. I wouldn’t eat, I wouldn’t drink. I had an en-suite and boxes of cereal bars which I’d ration to see me though the hours, days, week. I didn’t need to leave. I could survive, but I couldn’t live.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> Deep, right.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">One night, I sat by my bedroom door with my ear pressed against it, listening for my flatmates to leave on a night out. When I knew it was safe, I ran into the kitchen and took all my stuff to hide in my room. I wanted to remove my existence from their flat, from their space. In the end, someone broke into my room one day because my flatmates hadn’t seen me, and shouted at me for locking myself away. Which was nice, and exactly what I needed, many thanks…</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">When I started my new job just over a year ago, <a href="http://www.biscuitsandblisters.co.uk/2018/07/spare-change.html" target="_blank">I had to go back on my antidepressants.</a> I was so excited about my new job. It was the best move I ever made, and I’m still blissfully happy there. But everyone hated me. Every feeling I had from university came flooding back. I was a burden, they didn’t want me there. This wasn’t just anxiety, this was a deep-rooted feeling of self-consciousness. I was almost too self-aware. I felt every part of my existence and it screamed. I kept myself so quiet but my existence was loud and everyone despised it. I wouldn’t look people in the eye, I’d skip lunch, I wouldn’t go to the toilet. The stiller I was, the less disruption I would be.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It. Sounds. Ridiculous. It’s not until I write this shit down that I realise how irrational these feelings were/are, but they’re there. Cemented into my wiring like tangled earphones.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> That don't even work. Just out of one ear, if I have it at an angle.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We can all make our own theories as to why this is something I'm lumped with. Let me offer you a lucky dip of emotional abuse, daddy issues and trauma. Ketchup’s on the side, here’s some cutlery, do tuck in. But we're not here to talk about that. I want to talk about how I think this self-hatred and desperate need for validation has affected how I see friendships. Buckle in. It gets miserable. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’ve never had a friendship group. In school, I flitted from group to group, quite happily. I was not bothered. In uni, I think we’ve established very well that I did not make many friends because I didn’t give myself the chance to. I made a couple of close friends through sheer luck or talking to them on Facebook first, but did I manage to squeeze my way into a WhatsApp group? No.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The closest friends I’ve made have mostly come from online, shocking to precisely no one. And the close friends I have are CLOSE. It’s a 1:1 friendship, no one else involved. No mutuals. We know everything about each other, and I’m an open book. Embarrassing period chat? Give it to me. Mental health chat? I’m here. Stuck in the work loo because your poo won’t go down? Louise is here, step aside please. I am that friend. The friend people go to when something’s gone wrong, when they need help, when they’re feeling shit. I am… a sponge.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">And I’m proud of that! I’m super happy that people feel they can come to me for support. Opening up is one of the most important things, after all. The few friends I’ve spoken to about this say, ‘That’s what’s so brilliant! You’re such an amazing friend and when we do come together, we’re a random group of people who get on so well thanks to knowing you!’<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Which is great. But… then they go. They go and hang out with their WhatsApp group. Their fun friends. They go for dinner, on hen dos, for drinks. They’re invited to shindigs and have in-jokes. And I’m staring at them like Ed Miliband through that window wanting all of that. I want to chat about TV and food and the weather and this stupid video I found on Twitter. I don't want to be a one stop trauma shop, but that's exactly how I've presented myself because I think that's how I prove to... who, them, me, does it matter... that I'm a good person. By fixing things.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Do I go to friends when I need to offload? Sometimes, but rarely. I have THE INTERNET, duh, my own swirling head, and the void of Twitter and Instagram for those light-hearted breakdowns that I never take seriously and delete when someone dares to ask if I'm ok. Ha ha ha. Please don’t mention it when you see me in real life. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Of course, I’m a hypocrite. When I do end up in a WhatsApp group I get overwhelmed, and when I do get invited to something, my first thought is, ‘I hope I’m busy.’ But it’s not because I don’t like the people, or don’t want to make the effort, or won’t have fun. I just don’t think I’m wanted, I think I’m included out of pity. Woe is me, let me whip out the tiny violin. And I know that I’ll spend the whole time at whatever thing thinking just that, and end up anxious. When people are together and fine and having fun, I have no purpose. I have nothing to fix. So I back out. Damage limitation. Isn’t that easier?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It’s lonely. I’m really, really lonely. I have friends, I have family, I have Ryan. But I am lonely.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I want someone to ask how I am, like <i>really</i> am. I want a group of friends to throw me a party, to surprise me, to be a safety blanket. To all notice if I’m miserable and do things together to help. I have people to go to, I know your ‘DMs are always open’, but God forbid I make the first move. What a burden, what a letdown.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’m the strong one, right? If I go down, everyone goes down. I have to be here for this friend and that friend, and that family member and those colleagues. I never have to be here… for me.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Being an emotional sponge is exhausting. I don’t think that’s news to anyone. But I’m slowly realising the obvious that I have no idea how to process my own emotions. I have no idea how to separate myself and my feelings from those of others. If everyone around me is stressed, I’m stressed. You’re sad? I’m sad. You’re lost, I have to fix things. Your problem becomes my problem, but Lord knows where my own problems are. Location disabled. And if I do feel something by myself, shut it down. SOS. Code red. Alert the elders.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I can’t look at my face when it’s not in passport mode. I have never once looked at myself crying. Is that weird? If I’m in the bathroom and talking to Ryan, I won’t look in the mirror. Like I can’t acknowledge my own existence as a living, breathing human being. I find the thought horrifying, especially of me looking at myself crying. But why?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Every feeling I have is intense. Erratic. Hysterical. I either don’t find something funny at all or I find it stomach-achingly hilarious. I’m totally cool with something or I’m an anxious wreck. I go from chill to stressed in a nanosecond. When I'm angry, I'm furious. And if I’m crying, something is really, really bad. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I don't know how to feel something by myself. I live my life absorbing others’ emotions instead and I just don’t know how to be a good friend without doing that. I have to. That’s being a good friend, isn’t it? Don’t answer that. My default is: bad friend. My default is: do everything I can to make things better. But for who? No really, don’t answer that.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I <i>need</i> to be the best friend anyone has had. I won’t be liked if I’m not being the best. I can’t just ‘be’ and be liked. Impossible. What worth do I have if I'm not being there for everyone else? Please, do not answer that.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Obviously I feel like a whiny, narcissistic, white privileged wet lettuce after writing all this, and I don’t have a cute bow to wrap this up with conclusions and quotes for your Instagram. But I’m feeling things, and I’m sad, and I’m chucking this into the ether instead of at a therapist.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-converted-space">Call it BPD, call it codependency, call it being an empath. Just call it. Call me. </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Anyway, how are <i>you</i>?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>‘She was telling me to stop making crap jokes. She was telling me that this was a room where I didn’t have to labour over every word and gesture and anecdote to accommodate her in the hope the she would like me. This woman with no sense of self, no self-regard, no self-esteem - a shapeshifting, people-pleasing presence; a tangled knot of anxiety - was being given permission to just </i><b><i>be.</i></b><i>’ - </i><b>Dolly Alderton</b>, Everything I Know About Love</span></span></div>
Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-69027787172842881982019-03-31T17:30:00.000+01:002019-03-31T18:15:48.094+01:0025 things I unapologetically do give a fuck about <div class="p1">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQix5wyosbtUBa_OlaD-MZmclihrHvD7OO7iB32-5H-RKiUE3vljHSRoZXrgl70927U2jI7Njy3yxA8UDZVmbJbarkonW0zg40BoC68h8faJLQbdYoY-yoIJJwDAwHL_dGpxgigA1d7Uc/s1600/toucan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="958" data-original-width="960" height="638" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQix5wyosbtUBa_OlaD-MZmclihrHvD7OO7iB32-5H-RKiUE3vljHSRoZXrgl70927U2jI7Njy3yxA8UDZVmbJbarkonW0zg40BoC68h8faJLQbdYoY-yoIJJwDAwHL_dGpxgigA1d7Uc/s640/toucan.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Last September, when I turned 25, I wrote a post called, <a href="http://www.biscuitsandblisters.co.uk/2018/09/25-things-i-unapologetically-dont-give.html#more" target="_blank">'25 things I unapologetically don't give a fuck about now I'm 25’</a>. And it felt good. It felt so good to write down all the relatively popular things I’ve felt pressured and shamed into liking but, in actuality, do not give even a tiny smidge of a fuck about.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">However.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Now I’m nearer to 26, and thought it time to flip the list on its head. There are lots of things I give a fuck about that lots of people don’t. There are things I spend a heck of a lot of time, money and thought in, that others would think utterly ridiculous and pointless.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">But you should be bold and confident with the things you love, no matter what others think. It’s great to love things, it’s great to be different. You do you. There’s nothing more joyous than seeing someone so keen about something they love, even if you don’t have a clue what they’re on about…</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I spread my fucks deeply and liberally for the following:</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">1 - <i><u>parkrun</u></i>. Is it a cult? Probably. <a href="http://www.parkrun.org.uk/" target="_blank">parkrun</a> is wholesome, accessible, warm, addictive, self-aware, and progressive. I love challenging myself with my 5k time, but I adore parkrun tourism. I love seeing how other parkruns run, I love visiting parts of London I otherwise wouldn’t have, and I love ticking boxes. Do I have colour-coded parkrun lists? Absolutely. Am I doing the alphabet challenge? Correct. Did I plan our big summer Canada trip around which parkruns we could do? Duh.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">2. <i><u>Eating mince pies at the right time.</u></i> December only. Fin.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">3 - <i><u>Meal planning and food shopping</u></i>. Obsessed. I love clearing a fridge, using leftovers, freezing meals, doing a weekly food shop at Aldi/Asda and seeing how cheap I can get it. Sure, intuitive eating and waiting to see what you fancy day-to-day is great, but I love not thinking about it and I want to buy a house, so. Girl gotta be savvy.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">4 - <i><u>Flash Dog advert</u></i>. Only the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BIR5dNN7o1w" target="_blank">first one</a>.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> I have no feelings towards the second and mourn the original.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">5 - <i><u>Buses</u></i>. I’d rather travel on London buses for two hours than tubes/trains for 20 minutes. If I’ve got the time, I’ll do it. Looking out of gross, smeared, dirty windows to the expensive, messy, problematic city of London is essential for my mental health.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">6 - <i><u>Teen Mum YouTubers</u></i>. And don’t get me started on baby name videos. If you want to keep me quiet, stick one video on and I’ll get lost deep in a YouTube black hole for hours. Nay, days. They keep me sated until a new series of Teen Mom UK on MTV starts.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">7 - <i><u>Flightradar24 app</u></i>. I’m a nerd. I love planes. My flight tracking tendencies used to be limited to watching my auntie’s plane go to and from Canada when she visited, but when <a href="http://flightradar24.com/" target="_blank">Flightradar24</a> brought out an app? Game changer. If I see a plane in the skies, I’m going to find out where it’s been and where it’s going. I spent more time tracking the RAF100 flypast last summer than actually watching the RAF100 flypast last summer.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">8 - <i><u>Happy Feet</u></i>. A glorious film.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">9 - <i><u>Coriander</u></i>. I’d have it on toast.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">10 - <i><u>Birthday cards</u></i>. I will spend more time and money on the perfect birthday card than a present. It pains me if I can’t get an appropriate one, and a simple ‘Happy Birthday!’ inside will never do. Pour your heart out, you selfish bastard. Personalise that card like it’s your dying declaration.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">11 - <i><u>Holiday magnets</u></i>. There were so many magnet options in Budapest that I became very overwhelmed and cried. I have to get two magnets from every holiday, one for my nan and one for me. And they have to be the right ones. I will drag you around a city until your blisters have blisters until I find the right magnets. They have to be properly 3D, handmade, made of clay, and be a bit shit. Sloppy painting, bright colours, cringe. Y’know the kind.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">12 - <i><u>Maps.</u></i> I’ve got a world scratch map, and every week I’ll study it like I’ve never seen the fucker before in my life. I’m obsessed. I will spend hundreds of pounds just to scratch a new country off - they’ve got me good. But it’s true with any map. When I was a kid and we went on long car journeys, I’d have my dad’s massive map book and track our journey. For no reason other than it felt therapeutic.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">13 - <u style="font-style: italic;">Oversharing.</u> I'm a chronic oversharer and a strong advocate for not being ashamed about talking about periods, sex, mental health, feelings, and poo. I have a groupchat purely for dramatic poo stories. Yes it's called 'Groupshat'. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">14 - <i><u>Paid online surveys</u></i>. I started doing these to earn more money when I was working part-time and freelancing, but I’ve carried some of them on. I just love clearing them from my Inbox and ticking boxes to earn £1.20. What ya gonna do.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">15 - <i><u>Buffets</u></i>. Specifically my nan’s, mum’s, and European hotels’. I’d rather a non-fancy buffet over a meal any day. Give me plastic cheese, unlabelled Indian snacks, cold pizza, and a fuckload of crusty bread. I don’t want anything to match and I want to feel very unwell afterwards.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">16 - <i><u>Cross-stitching</u></i>. I’m a woman with little patience, apart from when it comes to cross-stitching. Have you had a baby? You’re getting a cross-stitch that’s slightly wonky, very creased, and in a cheap frame. And you will like it.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">17 - <i><u>Lists</u></i>. Case in point.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">18 - <i><u>Premium Bonds</u></i>. I know full well I’ll never win big, but that misguided hope at the beginning of every month keeps me alive.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">19 - <i><u>Anthony Nolan</u></i>. If you’re 16-30 and I haven’t messaged you asking if you’re on the <a href="http://anthonynolan.org/join" target="_blank">Anthony Nolan stem cell register</a>... your time is coming.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">20 - <i><u>Disaster movies</u></i>. Ones that are a good blend of ridiculous and terrifying. Prime example: The Core. It had me cackling at the dead pigeons falling from the sky in the beginning, then shitting myself in the last 20 minutes as they were trying to escape the literal core of the Earth.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">21 - <i><u>Using wet wipes right.</u></i> Wet wipe first, tissue second. I’m in the minority with this one and I don’t get it. Why would you willingly have a damp bum? Are you ok?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">22 - <i><u>Chicken carcasses</u></i>. Best part of a roast. I’ll pick it dry.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">23 - <i><u>Dying on the IT’S BELATED HAPPY BIRTHDAY hill.</u></i> The birthday isn’t belated, your late ass birthday wishes are.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">24 - <i><u>Birdworld</u></i>. Fully obsessed. Ryan adopted a toucan at <a href="http://birdworld.co.uk/" target="_blank">Birdworld</a> for me for my birthday. The toucan is mine now.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">25 - <i><u>Blogging</u></i>. Nearly 10 years later, I’m not ready to give up my corner of the internet.</span></span></div>
Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-79113029495223414432019-02-18T18:16:00.001+00:002019-02-18T18:16:58.944+00:00Barcelona, Spain (September 2018)<div class="p1">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHR4ijjPhn4xEeWp4kIyIE8wCmB1H_zi6wCY3oqhaAOSx2uRvxvE683nuK6PMVjGkGRNjbexq7OS3VcHpuUSbMP8OZXdXXPapVRJpAMpHZF4ARNq69R_BDdsFz-HTBttQshIEPzzJYpZA/s1600/41801232_10155514770911022_5194581099891654656_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="553" data-original-width="750" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHR4ijjPhn4xEeWp4kIyIE8wCmB1H_zi6wCY3oqhaAOSx2uRvxvE683nuK6PMVjGkGRNjbexq7OS3VcHpuUSbMP8OZXdXXPapVRJpAMpHZF4ARNq69R_BDdsFz-HTBttQshIEPzzJYpZA/s640/41801232_10155514770911022_5194581099891654656_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I didn’t want to go to Barcelona. I wanted to go to Lisbon. Barcelona sounded big and loud and busy, but it was a lot cheaper than Lisbon for the dates we wanted to go. So we were going to Barcelona.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">To combat the mild fear I had of Barcelona being Too Much, I did next to no research. I know. Me. Not researching a new city to death. Unheard of. But it meant that I didn’t have a chance to be overwhelmed by the amount of stuff to do, places to see, and food to eat. By the time we stepped foot outside of Barcelona airport and into the Spanish September sun… we could do anything with no expectation.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Thankfully, transport from Barcelona airport to the city centre was beautifully slick and easy. We jumped on the Aerobús (€5.90 each) which departs every five minutes, and were at Plaça Catalunya within half an hour. Our hotel, Hotel Curious, was a 10 minute walk down La Rambla, the most famous street in Barcelona. It couldn’t have been easier.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s2"><a href="https://hotelcurious.com/en/?r=4649003&gclid=CjwKCAiAqaTjBRAdEiwAOdx9xnFuTW3X2qDz2eGupcynP9KXNKegumVevRZBokhmna5I5ExQL2q8uRoCLdUQAvD_BwE">Hotel Curious</a></span><span class="s1"> was gorgeous. Run by a family, they treated you as part of it. Their hotel was a tiny, colourful, tasty lil bolthole perfect as a base for Barca. Highly recommend.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We headed for the beach as soon as we dumped our stuff. I needed sand and sangria, stat. We stopped by the harbour for a jug of the stuff and people-watched. The diversity of Barcelona was blissful. There were people from all backgrounds, in all kinds of relationships, dressed in all styles and presenting as they pleased in groups or travelling solo. Barcelona was big but Barcelona was chill.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">After walking for what felt like days, we found La Sagrada Familia. Although we weren’t fussed about going inside, we wanted to tick it off quickly in case we couldn’t see it again. Thankfully, we did on our last day. But that time we could actually take our time and take it all in.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">That night, we went to Tabarlot for dinner. It wasn’t too far from our hotel and we got a free drink when mentioning Hotel Curious. If we’ve learnt anything from these travel blogs, it’s that if a restaurant has an offer with our hotel, I’m there. Give me my free welcome drink. Many thanks.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i><span class="s1"></span>Patas bravas #1</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The weather the next day was meant to be the sunniest of the week, so that was beach day. For an unholy amount of money (please don’t tell my dad), we hired two sunloungers and an umbrella, and spent the whole day on the beach. We read, we drank, we ate. I lost my bikini top in the sea. It was great.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It was also the National Day of Catalonia so we got a glimpse of the parades/protests. All peaceful, and full of families. It was great to see.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">A recommendation from a friend (the same friend who recommend Hergetova Cihelna, i.e. the most gorgeous restaurant in Prague, so I trust her deeply) saw us at Rebelot in La Barceloneta that evening. We sat outside in the square for tapas (duh) before wandering through the Gothic Quarter to try out the bars. We went to Sincopa and Avinya, but found a gem in La Burnessa. They had a whole board full of stellar cocktails, and we made friends with the barman who gave us free shots. We had a good time.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>Patatas bravas #2</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">On Wednesday, we went to Camp Nou. As in, the football stadium. We walked for 45 minutes for a tour of the football stadium, on my birthday trip. I am a good girlfriend. It was actually quite cool. Ryan got his money’s worth and read e v e r y t h i n g and took photos of E V E R Y T H I N G, which actually gave me a nice chance to sit down. We didn’t walk back to the city centre. We got the metro.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">On the way back to the hotel, we ducked into La Boqueria, the incredible market off La Rambla full of fruit, meats, cheeses, bars, chocolate, sweets... it was incredible. IncrEDIBLE, if you will.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I love a sky bar, so that evening we went to the top of Barceló Raval Hotel to their 360° bar. It wasn’t cheap but it was perfect for one drink watching the sunset… and by sunset, I mean watching the sun disappear and storm arrive…</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">As we wanted to watch the Magic Fountain of Montjuïc that night, we found a good looking tapas place in El Poble-Sec nearby for dinner. It was a good job we were nearby, because the heavens well and truly opened. It was hysterical, and the most ‘romcom set in a European city’ I’ve ever felt. We legged it, drenched, in our cute summer clothes through the city to the restaurant, ducking into shelters every 10 seconds to catch our breath from running and laughing. Sounds disgustingly cute, I know.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i><span class="s1"></span>Patatas bravas #3</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">After dinner in TAPS, the storm had passed and the air was so fresh. We made sure we got to the Magic Fountain of Montjuïc in good time to get a good seat. The show was good, but it was nothing compared to the Magic Fountain on Margaret Island in Budapest. But they tried.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Our final full day in Barcelona was our Gaudí day. On our way to the metro, we passed Casa Batlló. You can spot a Gaudí building a mile off. They’re so fantastical and just don’t look real. We got off the metro at Lesseps (I think) and followed everyone up to Park Güell. And when I say up, I mean UP. It is one hell of a climb to the park so wear sensible shoes and bring lots of water. It’s a trial. Also, book your bloody tickets for the main bit of the park. You can walk around a lot of Park Güell freely, but if you want to see the actual Gaudí stuff (you do), you need to book a time slot. We had to buy a ticket for three hours’ time, and there aren’t that many cafes around. We ended up in a rubbish little cafe a fair walk from the park and did a lot of hanging around.</span></span><br />
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<i><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Casa </span></span>Batlló</i></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">But the wait was worth it. Park Güell was beautiful. The photos do the talking.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We were exhausted after a day of walking and climbing and waiting, so we went for dinner in Miño, a restaurant next door to our hotel. This time, we didn’t have tapas. We had paella. I wasn’t a huge fan but it had to be done.</span></span><br />
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<i> Patatas bravas #4</i></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">For our final night, we had to go back to La Burnessa for more cocktails. We didn’t stay for too long as there was a British stag do in there who were obviously terrible people, so went to a pub near our hotel instead. By this point, I’d drunk a lot. I was tired drunk. It’s a wonder I wasn’t face first in my sangria. So as the night went on… I needed nuggets. And nuggets were had thanks to the McDonald’s down the road. God bless McDonald’s being literally everywhere.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i><span class="s1"></span>Arc de Trimof</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Our flight on the Friday wasn’t until the evening, so we had most of the day to wander. We found the Arc de Triomf, and went back to La Sagrada Familia to take it all in for a few hours. We took photos from every angle and sat in the park, watching everyone else get <i>their </i>photos from every angle.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">If you want to go inside, book it way in advance. It is BUSY.</span></i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIQvpXks1i-bPeoLsb98hyphenhyphenfImAtDUJTpFc8SfAdhLxFXUIzh80ypAXEaS7q2zwBdcUxsuzUjuDL4Ax4_x-Ju7HQLEdaeUJjtumMiGFhsWAS-uQFIeuKqTP1kr03wO6sEQEzOBTgNFNTBE/s1600/41804315_10155514771616022_128285635134881792_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIQvpXks1i-bPeoLsb98hyphenhyphenfImAtDUJTpFc8SfAdhLxFXUIzh80ypAXEaS7q2zwBdcUxsuzUjuDL4Ax4_x-Ju7HQLEdaeUJjtumMiGFhsWAS-uQFIeuKqTP1kr03wO6sEQEzOBTgNFNTBE/s640/41804315_10155514771616022_128285635134881792_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I never buy souvenirs or presents on holiday because I am my father’s daughter. My limit is a postcard for my nan and a magnet for the fridge. But I bought a cute lil Gaudí-style purse and Ryan bought a cute lil art print of Barcelona on La Rambla. The new dream is to have art prints of every shape and size from places we visit on a wall in the house we eventually buy. One day.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i><span class="s1"></span>Casa Mila</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">After having something to eat outside Casa Mila, we reluctantly went back to the hotel to pick up our bags and head back to the airport on the Aerobus.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I adored Barcelona with every fibre of my being. It taught me a lot about planning trips and calming the heck down. The food was incredible, the drinks were wonderful, the people were beautiful and the place is gorgeous. I’d go back again and again.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Gràcies, Barca. Fins que ens trobem de nou.</span></span></div>
Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-58257080848822998272018-12-31T12:16:00.000+00:002018-12-31T12:16:11.341+00:00The December Edition <div class="p1" style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’ve just had so much cheese that my heart is racing. All I want to do is nap, but I will write this final monthly blog post if it kills me, so I’ve locked myself in my childhood bedroom instead. Merry Christmas.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I did<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></b></span></h2>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I went back to blonde. I was bored of looking after my hair and keeping its natural colour, so smothered it in bleach again. I love it. I forgot how much I loved being blonde.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Ryan and I featured on the CONTRA Facebook page. <a href="https://contra-movement.com/" target="_blank">CONTRA</a> is Paul Sinton-Hewitt’s latest venture; a clothing brand that caters for all shapes and sizes, with all profits going back to <a href="http://www.parkrun.org.uk/" target="_blank">parkrun</a>. SO WHOLESOME.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">After a year and a half of living in our flat, we finally bought a light for the fridge. Life changing.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Yesterday we went to see Mum's cousin and his family who are over for Christmas from Australia. Georgia and I took a '10 years later' photo and hOW DO TINY PEOPLE GROW SO MUCH?!?!?!</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I thought</span></b></span></h2>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Christmas Carols are nice. <a href="https://www.anthonynolan.org/" target="_blank">Anthony Nolan</a> had their annual fundraising Christmas Carols event at St Pancras Church, and I volunteered as resident Instagram-story-taker. It was so fun, and so lovely, and I'm dragging my whole family next time.</span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It’s nice to spend time with Matt, my brother, who's an actual adult now with a job, that earns him money, so he can actually be independent. Wild. He came to Walthamstow with us for our Christmas dinner with Ash and Ben, and it was so great. HE’S NOT AN ANNOYING TWAT NOW. Blessed day.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">No one will ever love you more than dogs. I got really sad at one point over Christmas and this soft scruffo came and sat on my chest, either to comfort me or kill me. Either way, it put me out of my misery.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs-wEbkXlvpX_BofcrHyQ4qPInf0G7OLGb73UKdeJQIx8GSALsdRFP-OpL1Es6SWvCjmvTQ_X0bhG-gpf36pvw4Y7ZZYqLOFy-cPlGMXixcBW18PodlRKys9Bt5zxoID2n1-jC45Lcqf4/s1600/49206654_278963872977930_8515994810148978688_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs-wEbkXlvpX_BofcrHyQ4qPInf0G7OLGb73UKdeJQIx8GSALsdRFP-OpL1Es6SWvCjmvTQ_X0bhG-gpf36pvw4Y7ZZYqLOFy-cPlGMXixcBW18PodlRKys9Bt5zxoID2n1-jC45Lcqf4/s640/49206654_278963872977930_8515994810148978688_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Where I went</span></b></span></h2>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">parkrun-wise, we did Southend (poured with rain), Shorne Woods (met Natalie!), Brooklands (on a runway AND racing track - thrilling), Whiteley (nabbed my fastest time in ages), Netley Abbey (muddy Christmas Day) and Gunpowder (with Amy!). That’s a lot of tourism. I’ve now done 62 different courses, and 85 parkruns overall. The big 100 milestone is looming…</span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Slug & Lettuce with an ex work pal, while Ryan was at his work Christmas party. I thought it was cute that we both left at the same time so would end up getting home together… until he fell asleep on his train and ended up, 30 missed calls later, at the end of the line in fucking Kent. Bellend.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I went to my first Anthony Nolan Christmas party and it was REALLY FUN. So much food, so much drink, so much dancing, so many shots, so much watching Charlotte From Work vom into her hands while she was having a wee. It was like a wedding without the boring ceremony bit.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The day after, we went to <a href="https://www.heistbank.com/" target="_blank">Heist Bank</a> in Paddington for Rebel Scum Saves Christmas… also known as Ryan’s Nerdy Friends All Meet Up For Games, Pizza, and Secret Santa’. The nerds all played their games, while us less nerdy partners drank gin and ate most of the pizza.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I read <i>Doing It</i> by <a href="http://twitter.com/hannahwitton" target="_blank">Hannah Witton</a> which was great, but quite basic. It’s a non-fiction all about sex and relationships and is perfect for a young teenager, but none of it was new for me.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>The Heart Goes Last</i> by Margaret Atwood which is possibly the worst book I have ever read.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’m now reading <i>How To Be Human: The Manual</i> by <a href="http://twitter.com/rubywax" target="_blank">Ruby Wax</a>, where she’s in conversation with a scientist and a monk, and it’s great so far. Very funny and very relatable.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Finally watched <i>Haunting of Hill House</i> on Netflix. So good. Not sure what made me shat myself more, the fact it’s so jumpy or that the dad is played bY THE LITTLE BOY IN E.T., WHAT.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>Bandersnatch</i>. I didn't have the patience for it.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>Dumplin’</i>! Oh man, <i>Dumplin’</i>. I read the book at the start of the 2018 and was a bit dubious about it being made into a film, but it was heartwarmingly brilliant.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-converted-space">Pearl get stuck in the Christmas tree.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">SO MANY CHRISTMAS FILMS: <i>The Holiday</i> (I’d never seen it before), <i>The Princess Switch</i> (wonderfully shit), <i>The Christmas Wedding Planner</i> (just shit), <i>Love The Coopers</i> (great), <i>The Christmas Chronicles </i>(REALLY great), <i>The Holiday Calendar</i> (surprisingly good), and OBVIOUSLY <i>A Christmas Prince: The Royal Wedding</i> (THE BEST KINDA SHIT).</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We also went to see <i>Wreck It Ralph 2: Ralph Breaks The Internet</i>, but I was disappointed tbh. I loved the first film and this didn’t live up. And we're going to see <i>Mary Poppins Returns </i>later which I have high hopes for...</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I was thankful for</span></b></span></h2>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">My mum and Claire showing what a best friendship is like after 25 years, and their kids being so close that we could organise a surprise bucket list trip for them on the <a href="https://www.belmond.com/trains/europe/venice-simplon-orient-express/about" target="_blank">Orient Express</a>. Not sure, but I think they were quite happy…</span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Dogs.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">People being nice?! We had a Christmas Jumper Day at work to go towards our Brentwood Half fundraising, organised by the gals upstairs. I don’t know why it made me feel so emotional… my bar for people thinking of me is clearly quite low…</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Poo breaks at Christmas.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Ryan. I fancy him more every day. Gross.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">So, that's it. I did it. A monthly round-up blog, every month of 2018. I won't lie, I’m glad to see the back of these posts, but it’s so great to look back and see everything I did, and how far I’ve come in a year. I initially wanted to do these posts to make sure I still kept up with this blog after getting a full-time job at Anthony Nolan, but turns out I feel more free and settled having this job compared to part-time and freelancing. It’s funny what happens when you’re happy…</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">2018’s been one of the better years. New jobs, promotions, travelling, visiting friends, lots of parkrun tourism, and a big bunch of working on ourselves and our happiness. And amidst all the adventure, I think we’ve set ourselves up well for a big 2019…<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Louise out. x</span></span></div>
Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-3603140063054387722018-12-19T20:23:00.001+00:002018-12-19T20:23:35.300+00:0020 running goals for 2019 that are nothing to do with, like, actual running<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>Hey look what a lovely obviously unposed photo this is of me blissfully looking into 2019</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It can be easy to reduce your ‘next year goals’ as a runner to: be better. Be faster, be fitter, be slimmer, run more, run further, run <i>b e t t e r.</i><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Yeah, I’d love a sub 27min 5k. I’d love a sub 55min 10k and a sub 2hr half marathon. I’d love a sub 5hr marathon. I’d love to do an Ultra… wait, what, who said that? Idk, I didn’t say anything…</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Here are 20 goals that aren’t to do with being a better runner. Here are 20 goals that are to do with better <i>experiences</i>.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">If you haven’t been to parkrun, do parkrun</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Seriously, do it. Just once. Sign up and print off your barcode (all free), get up early on a Saturday morning, and do your nearest 5k. Experience the community, the diversity, and the kindness.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Volunteer (more) at parkrun</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">If you’re a serial parkrunner but haven’t done much (if at all) volunteering, have a go. Marshal, hand out finish tokens, tail walk, timekeep (my personal fave). parkrun wouldn’t exist without volunteers, so it’s good to give back if you can.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Do some parkrun tourism</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">By the end of 2018, I’ll have (hopefully) done 62 different parkrun courses. I love parkrun tourism, and I’d be lying if I said we hadn’t partly planned our big Canada trip next year around which parkrun courses we could do over the three weeks…<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It’s so fun to experience different routes, how other core teams work, running with just another 20 people and then with thousands. And testing out the different post-run cafes, naturally.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">If you already do parkrun tourism, make sure you go back to your home run</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’m guilty of this. We call Southwark our home parkrun, despite the fact it’s very much not, because that’s the first parkrun we ever did and the one we’ve been to the most. We know the core team quite well and feel at home there. But we should go back more and support them, instead of gallivanting around the country. So if you’re a tourist, don’t forget where it all started for you…</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"><b></b></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Buy those Tikiboo leggings</span></b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Ok, I’m done with parkrun goals now, I promise. BUY THE DAMN LEGGINGS. Treat yourself. Running doesn’t have to be about buying the cheapest, most bland gear. Go colourful. Get weird patterns. Look like Elmer the Elephant. I need more Tikiboo leggings in my life as a matter of urgency.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"><b></b></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Do an international race (or parkrun)</span></b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">This one is very obviously dependant on time and money and effort, but give an international run a go, even if it’s parkrun. It felt bizarre doing parkrun in Poland this year, but we loved it! You’ll meet people from all over the world, tour different cities in a different way, and maybe even get some free local delicacies out of it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"><b></b></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Run with a friend </span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Never forget that running should be enjoyable. Instead of going out at a specific pace for a specific time or distance, go out with a friend for a slow run and a catch up. Go exploring, have a natter, and forget you’re running at all. All chill like.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"><b></b></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Run without your watch</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Go on, I dare you. Run for running’s sake. Leave the watch or phone at home and just… run.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"><b></b></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Drink some more bloody water</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Please.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"><b></b></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Make a new playlist, or try out podcasts</span></b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’ve listened to my running playlist so much now that it’s just white noise. It’s background music that doesn’t actually distract or motivate me. So update your playlist, or try out podcasts, or listen to the radio. Change things up a bit.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"><b></b></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Pace a pal<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Instead of burying yourself in your own little PB bubble, get involved in someone else’s. If a friend is trying to get a personal best and you think you can pace them to it, have a go. Encourage them and be their keenest supporter, and then take your own advice when you’re struggling with your own personal bests…</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"><b></b></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Fundraise without an actual charity place</span></b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Run for charity because you want to, not because you need a place for a race. They’re obviously great too, but choosing to run for a charity when you already have a race place is like gold dust for charities. I know, because I work for one. With no hard fundraising goal so no pressure, you can have fun with your fundraising, and raise money for a charity that truly means something to you.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"><b></b></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Learn how to do those french plaits for a race</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">And then teach me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"><b></b></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Get fitted properly for running shoes</span></b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Get yourself to a place like Runners Need (other running shops are available) and get your gait analysed... just ask someone who works there that that’s what you want, they’ll know what you mean. Look like a knob on the treadmill as they scrutinise how you run, then try out some recommend trainers. It’s lifechanging (and free to actually get analysed).</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"><b></b></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Don’t run for a month</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Plot twist. Sit down. Don’t move. Put your trainers away. Give your body a rest and feel what happens when you don’t run. It’s very interesting and super helpful with getting to know what your body and mind need. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, right?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"><b></b></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Do something stupid when you see a photographer</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Honestly, forget trying to get a ‘good’ running photo. We all look like dicks. If you see a camera, pull a face. Jump in the air. Wave. Flash your tits, I don’t know. Anything.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"><b></b></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">High five everyone</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Everyone. Even if they don’t have their hands out for a high five. You make the first move. High five the kids. High five the volunteers. Take their sweets (if they’re offering, please do not take candy from an unwilling baby). Laugh at their signs. Wave. Wave some more. Smile. Interact with those on the sidelines, it’ll make you run faster if you don’t concentrate on the running for a bit, trust me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"><b></b></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Run without a route</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I mean, please don’t run in the middle of the woods in the pitch black, be sensible, but not all good runs need a plan. Just go out and run. Have an explore. See where you end up and just run to run.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"><b></b></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Look after your body even when you’re not injured<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It’s worth it. Have more baths, stretch, use a foam roller, do some yoga, STRETCH. Did I mention stretching? Looking after your body will prevent injury instead of nursing it. You’ll feel stronger for it, so make the time.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"><b></b></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Organise a social where you don’t talk about running</span></b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">And lastly, drink. And eat. And show people what you look like with your hair down or not in trainers. It’s great having running friends but don’t define your friendship on just that. Just like your job shouldn’t be your life, running shouldn’t be either. So make the time to hang out with running pals and talk about other stuff. Unless they’re terrible people and you like containing them in the running circle. That’s fine too. But it is possible to talk to your running friends about, like, TV and… whatever else it is that non-running people do…</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">You don’t have to take on all of these goals. Hell, you don’t have to take on any. You do you. But that’s just it: you do you. Reflect on your own running ‘journey’ (sorry) in 2018 without including anyone else’s, and be excited for what you could do in 2019…</span></span></div>
Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-79555552979707101012018-11-30T17:43:00.001+00:002018-11-30T17:43:29.458+00:00The November Edition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5uh6GfB88SREGF52KLhJ_aSnlrxwpnrX8ydxE6JtqMwCnuX_Arr7lzOdUYWJrrYSYmBfHb5TOVasAfyd8PpYckR2b5mX3GtMI3NwcAZczfyTsO3ohoG6vv32i2dKdDsMGeWln4EPrgYU/s1600/47131779_1430664963730765_5315290112068681728_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5uh6GfB88SREGF52KLhJ_aSnlrxwpnrX8ydxE6JtqMwCnuX_Arr7lzOdUYWJrrYSYmBfHb5TOVasAfyd8PpYckR2b5mX3GtMI3NwcAZczfyTsO3ohoG6vv32i2dKdDsMGeWln4EPrgYU/s640/47131779_1430664963730765_5315290112068681728_n.jpg" width="512" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I have a cold. I’m so snotty that I can feel it in my eyes. Happy Winter.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I did<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></b></span></h2>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Bought a hoover in the Black Friday sale. <a href="https://sharkclean.eu/uk/product/shark-duoclean-powered-lift-away-upright-vacuum-cleaner-true-pet-nv801ukt/" target="_blank">Shirley the Shark</a> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">is an absolute beauty and I am in love.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBZXNY_tjXYM87yI8GZ4DX7VNkEGERJSoYT6lP5caG509IzRUJ3SAXdbDezWk13lD4q7dyyYyp79qf9-3EfHff7gmIItic9rOoJEyIxrtQe29x5r-l84G2K62IVGuOliubKqn2rtqbx_o/s1600/47093750_309810119860143_8257782132227702784_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="932" data-original-width="736" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBZXNY_tjXYM87yI8GZ4DX7VNkEGERJSoYT6lP5caG509IzRUJ3SAXdbDezWk13lD4q7dyyYyp79qf9-3EfHff7gmIItic9rOoJEyIxrtQe29x5r-l84G2K62IVGuOliubKqn2rtqbx_o/s640/47093750_309810119860143_8257782132227702784_n.jpg" width="504" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Went to the In-House Awards where my team at work won an award!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Cuddled Pearl, the tiny furry baby of Ash and Ben.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Bcmr9jaotQf9jXlPORQRruyQSCfOeVaSoAt8IHb1tJaCmwKSvcWE3SVIsnOQ6iu3rfTazSKJXIEBk6cvFBTNGx2GD8ZJJAhKnGl1slHK5XJpx3fWFbDH_n2Y9doz247t3WIM8I9Flr0/s1600/47150339_268758313788702_5587253754853326848_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="809" data-original-width="1080" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Bcmr9jaotQf9jXlPORQRruyQSCfOeVaSoAt8IHb1tJaCmwKSvcWE3SVIsnOQ6iu3rfTazSKJXIEBk6cvFBTNGx2GD8ZJJAhKnGl1slHK5XJpx3fWFbDH_n2Y9doz247t3WIM8I9Flr0/s640/47150339_268758313788702_5587253754853326848_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBt5ah2tm8MC72kZQMHHjzzwUMw-C93Nph87HJhGjHGs1q_52etWcO7iFbIbwqvfzYLCcj7q_59QktG-BbqZW5foKpohoWjssDOnH-0_HNWJwj6Sf6iv7lMCB5bUA1k4Q1821wFwnldXo/s1600/47267813_528939860913808_5048997694425530368_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="816" data-original-width="1080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBt5ah2tm8MC72kZQMHHjzzwUMw-C93Nph87HJhGjHGs1q_52etWcO7iFbIbwqvfzYLCcj7q_59QktG-BbqZW5foKpohoWjssDOnH-0_HNWJwj6Sf6iv7lMCB5bUA1k4Q1821wFwnldXo/s640/47267813_528939860913808_5048997694425530368_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Organised an <i>I’m a Celeb</i> sweepstake at work as part of our <a href="https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/rylo" target="_blank">Brentwood Half fundraising</a> for <a href="http://anthonynolan.org/"><span class="s2">Anthony Nolan</span></a>. This is the first time I’ve gone all out with fundraising, and I’m LOVING it. I’m so bloody inspired by our fundraising team, and the work we do every day to save the lives of people with blood cancer, that I’m desperate to raise as much money as possible. It costs £40 to add each new potential donor to the stem cell register, and we’re very close to raising £400 - 10 new lifesavers!</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3rvOmLdXNiZXeMKeVH5sRW2NB-uGxYMPzuk0gTS26qG1Y3b80sOdYZDufo0whY40KPnZQ_ELE0Pk2uHdtBYKLu96MZ6bC2-xv14uUXX_5cUxusnhlSb5BVJxCAx9-3fMPIlhEPHDKIfk/s1600/47092001_759450457733683_4977266771305168896_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="808" data-original-width="808" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3rvOmLdXNiZXeMKeVH5sRW2NB-uGxYMPzuk0gTS26qG1Y3b80sOdYZDufo0whY40KPnZQ_ELE0Pk2uHdtBYKLu96MZ6bC2-xv14uUXX_5cUxusnhlSb5BVJxCAx9-3fMPIlhEPHDKIfk/s640/47092001_759450457733683_4977266771305168896_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Had four sambuca shots at Ryan's leaving drinks and took this selfie, apparently.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpgCN-W20owMU-8SpqCVPQva0BQBI0jhSJxNN8X3eO3d-MmSPbpLzwieI_EtPQtEaMx56NQYgzqq4xsOAaDm3ljMsV06eaM8HtnuyNj6N1Z-9IaNSAK9wbchBw8aYTWTVahKXZccG2V8c/s1600/47153089_2098157430444055_2360917971850756096_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpgCN-W20owMU-8SpqCVPQva0BQBI0jhSJxNN8X3eO3d-MmSPbpLzwieI_EtPQtEaMx56NQYgzqq4xsOAaDm3ljMsV06eaM8HtnuyNj6N1Z-9IaNSAK9wbchBw8aYTWTVahKXZccG2V8c/s640/47153089_2098157430444055_2360917971850756096_n.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Did, like, no running. A few parkruns and a PWR run, that’s it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I've volunteered a couple of times at events with Anthony Nolan. When I started back in February, my line manager (hi Anya) suggested a few volunteering roles I should try out, and I was a big NOPE at the thought. Talking to people? Responsibility? Strangers? The public? Confidence? Absolutely not. Long story short, reader, I’m the biggest feckin’ keeno going at the moment. I love going to donor recruitment events in schools, I’ve signed myself up to volunteer at our Christmas Carols, and I stood freezing for six hours in Paddington station bucket shaking last weekend. WHO AM I.</span></span></div>
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<h3>
<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I thought</span></b></span></h3>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I lost my Oyster card this month. I’ve had it since I was 18 and it might seem very inconsequential, but that guy I wrote about <a href="http://www.biscuitsandblisters.co.uk/2018/02/legal-damages.html" target="_blank">here</a> bought me that Oyster card. It always felt dirty. Seven years later, a few days after I went back to where that guy lived, (I hadn't been back since, and our friends have just moved there), I lost the card. I’m not one for losing things. But it disappeared, and I had to get a new one. And forgive me for being a spiritual wanker, but I’m taking that as a ‘coming full circle’ sign. It was closure, kind of. I felt sick at the thought of returning to that place, but I did it, and then the one thing tying me to that guy was lost. It’s weird. Anyway, my new Oyster card is strong and shiny. Just like me.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I can’t do my job as well as I can without volunteering. Meeting people affected by blood cancer, and talking to young people about the stem cell register, is just the most motivational and inspiring thing. It’s not just good for my confidence and helpful to volunteer, it’s those few hours outside of the office that really make you realise why you do what you do. I’ve no idea if that makes sense.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Usually when I ask for advice online, I hate it and it makes me aggy. My biggest pet hate is unsolicited advice, but I don’t even do well with solicited. Anyway, I asked Instagram if anyone had any wise words because I was struggling with not beating myself up for not running, and people were NICE?! They said stuff like:</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I put them all as a highlight on my <a href="http://instagram.com/louisejonesetc" target="_blank">Instagram</a>, if you ever feel like you need to be reminded that it's ok to chill out!</span></span></div>
<h3>
<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Where I went</span></b></span></h3>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We went to Portsmouth to see the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Highbury-Players-1697610780498203/"><span class="s2">Highbury Players</span></a> play, and did Portsmouth Lakeside parkrun for Dave’s 250th. We met Dave and his partner Michelle at Catford parkrun, and then Foots Cray Meadows parkrun, and they’re from Portsmouth. Dave’s 250th happened to be when we were down, and we can’t say no to free cake.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We did Richmond parkrun with Mum, Jake and Luke, and tested out our Anthony Nolan vests.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Ash and Ben moved to Walthamstow so we did Walthamstow parkrun then visited them for the day, and their flatwarming. Walthamstow is nice. We did the classic <a href="http://www.godsownjunkyard.co.uk/"><span class="s2">God’s Own Junkyard</span></a> and <a href="http://www.mothersruin.net/"><span class="s2">Mother’s Ruin Gin Palace</span></a>, and commented on all the young white couples with newborns.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It was Petts Wood Runners’ Winter Party, but I’d been bucket shaking all day so lasted about two hours… took a selfie to prove we went though.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I read</span></b></span></h3>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I finished <i>To Kill A Mockingbird </i>by Harper Lee. It was good.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I read <i>A Girl’s Guide to Summer </i>by <a href="https://twitter.com/sarahmlynowski?lang=en"><span class="s2">Sarah Mlynowski,</span></a> about two teen girls going travelling around Europe. My heckin’ JAM. Loved it.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Following my classics streak, I read <i>The Time Traveler’s Wife b</i>y Audrey Niffenegger. Bloody good.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I watched</span></b></span></h3>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>Heathers</i> again. That was the last time, I promise.</span></span></div>
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<i>Gals at work do Heathers</i></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I watched Mum clean the flat when she stayed for the weekend. She couldn’t stop, she was a woman obsessed.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We took a last minute cinema trip to see <i>Bohemian Rhapsody</i> and it was BRILLIANT. I didn’t expect to like it so much.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Sunday nights were full of <i>Dynasties</i> and <i>Louis Theroux’s Altered States</i>, now we’ve finally finished <i>Making a Murderer</i> and second season of <i>The Sinner </i>(much better than the first).</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We saw Sigrid be the foetal goddess she is at the O2 Academy Brixton.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I was thankful for</span></b></span></h3>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">My brother for continuing to have an epiphany and getting his FIRST EVER JOB. It’s been emotional.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Sigrid. She’s just great, and full of youthful wisdom and confidence.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Time off. There was actually a week this month where we did NOTHING after work ALL WEEK. It felt very uncomfortable but I was into it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i><span class="s1"></span>*enter some meaningful shit about seeing a perfect rainbow here*</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">This weird confidence I have to sign up to volunteering stuff and just DO IT and actually BE confident.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’m on a roll with great customer service. I have a subscription with <a href="https://myfreda.com/"><span class="s2">Freda</span></a>, a natural, organic, plastic-free-as-much-as-they-can-be, period poverty pummelling period product service. They’re only small and their technology is, understandably, not great, and I’ve had a lot of trouble with my subscription. But they’re so great and now Laura, the faceless woman I email, has my period dates in her calendar until December 2019.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Right, where's my advent calendar?</span></span></div>
Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-67060562562546655152018-11-19T19:05:00.000+00:002018-11-19T19:05:49.195+00:00Kraków, Poland (June 2018)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOUUUeHTjz2RtwyTZHRCd2kRsh4UNfDA6yZ7HAoVtE9avOt9GrmGr3k7CE5h7aDI9vN8zuXRSA_0B2bB7lNvDxcmc8hvDr0SrX8hDO3nIDUihiRVQZei8uO7QCNdx-LnER_fLcVzLm0aI/s1600/34598781_10155315914041022_6955143573830369280_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOUUUeHTjz2RtwyTZHRCd2kRsh4UNfDA6yZ7HAoVtE9avOt9GrmGr3k7CE5h7aDI9vN8zuXRSA_0B2bB7lNvDxcmc8hvDr0SrX8hDO3nIDUihiRVQZei8uO7QCNdx-LnER_fLcVzLm0aI/s640/34598781_10155315914041022_6955143573830369280_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The look Ryan gave me when I said I’d already been to Auschwitz so wasn’t that keen on going again was akin to him watching me kick a puppy. A tiny one. A tiny, fluffy one with a lazy eye and a limp.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We were going to <a href="http://auschwitz.org/en/" target="_blank">Auschwitz</a> for Ryan’s birthday.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">There's more to Kraków than day trips to Auschwitz (weird phrase). It’s a very popular place for stag dos (Kraków, not Auschwitz [I’m gonna stop saying ‘Auschwitz’ now]) because it’s so damn bloody cheap. Seriously. So cheap. Disgustingly cheap. Bafflingly cheap. And the alcohol is so dangerously strong AND STILL CHEAP.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We flew to Poland with Ryanair from Stansted on Friday morning, and got the train from the airport to Kraków Główny for 9 zloty (£1.86). It was only a short walk to our hotel, <a href="http://alexander-ii-hotel.krakowhotels.net/en/" target="_blank">Hotel Alexander II</a> which was behind the train line. It wasn’t that loud at night. But then we live on a main road in London, so. We sleep through anything. Hotel Alexander II is nice, but pretty basic. And the pillows are awful. But the breakfast was decent and we all know that’s all I care about in a European city break hotel.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Kraków is a small enough city to wander around without using trams. After testing out the hotel room toilet, we walked to Rynek Główny, the main square and home to all the stag dos. It’s full of bars and restaurants and tourist traps, but STILL CHEAP. We took a table outside and I ordered a 'Dragon' cocktail. A dragon. Cocktail. Adragoncocktail. When Ryan’s beer showed up but I still didn’t have my cocktail after 20 minutes, we asked where it was. “It takes a while to make this cocktail…” was the answer. What were they putting in it, petrol and cyanide? They might as well have because when I took the first sip, my whole stomach lining eroded. The Polish go hard.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">To soothe my stomach, we investigated one of the many kiosks that litter the city which sell what we affectionally called ‘twisty bagels’ for about 30p. We ended up eating so many during our whole trip to fill hunger holes.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We took a recommendation from our hotel for dinner and went to <a href="http://restauracja-galicyjska.pl/en/" target="_blank">Restauracja Galicyjska</a> on Friday night. It was incredible. We’d absolutely peaked by our first night. Three courses, free cider when we walked in, the house white, and free shots of cinnamon and apple vodka before we left. All for the price of a Prezzo meal with a voucher.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Poland loves parkrun. Bloody loves it, they’re everywhere. So obviously, OBVIOUSLY, we had to do Kraków parkrun for our first international parkrun. It felt a bit bizarre but it was just like doing parkrun in the UK. Free, cake, 5k, volunteers, encouragement, 9am. It properly cemented the fact that the parkrun community is worldwide and accessible, no matter who you are.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Wawel Castle is by the Wisła River, and we legged it there after showering to walk around the free bits before the storm hit. And hit it did, it was incredible. The sky was black against the bright orange of the castle, and it just all seemed so apt, especially as there are dragon legends of Wawel Castle.</span></span></div>
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<i> <span style="font-family: inherit;">This looks like a 'this is what your new community will look like' artist impression photo... </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>but it's not</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU209wAnfV7WgDWowHMQ1jjLi37X5lhF66ZubsiK_MmkdF7bwoy9DiTkzqXTbUyoZvHlGJdJjt5hCE8aPRwN4WM-3Lo8tSBrhFX77CHSr-fm-sjZZKxrjVPlW9CWpD5RqTz94wlBCsYgw/s1600/34508514_10155315903656022_2958040806792888320_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU209wAnfV7WgDWowHMQ1jjLi37X5lhF66ZubsiK_MmkdF7bwoy9DiTkzqXTbUyoZvHlGJdJjt5hCE8aPRwN4WM-3Lo8tSBrhFX77CHSr-fm-sjZZKxrjVPlW9CWpD5RqTz94wlBCsYgw/s640/34508514_10155315903656022_2958040806792888320_n.jpg" width="512" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>A MOOD</i></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The Jewish Quarter is, understandably, a huge and important part of Kraków. We had a proper wander around before popping into Klubokawiarnia Pozytywka, where the waitress asked what kind of cocktail I like and she whipped something up on the spot. And it was perfect. I then found her on Instagram for a stalk.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRpw-RwT804qmIFQ0L4sVK_Wq9rG4t6BNpE2vMo7IrIP4aUs_w0o1d8uLp0lwLlVUMDB3vbqZyUCIePQ_SlSn_c9HhLUCCVXRajOJQm4aZ3xjeins-7YmKjnZFdPrqkvZBGFlN2-s2hdo/s1600/34483602_10155315903931022_186107289487278080_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRpw-RwT804qmIFQ0L4sVK_Wq9rG4t6BNpE2vMo7IrIP4aUs_w0o1d8uLp0lwLlVUMDB3vbqZyUCIePQ_SlSn_c9HhLUCCVXRajOJQm4aZ3xjeins-7YmKjnZFdPrqkvZBGFlN2-s2hdo/s640/34483602_10155315903931022_186107289487278080_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Another three course meal and vodka-based cocktails (Polish Kiss) was on the cards for Saturday night, this time at <a href="http://kawaleria.com/" target="_blank">Kawaleria</a>. £19.10 each it cost. NINETEEN POUNDS TEN PENCE.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUAXoIg2LM1_jGPvZTZUPlTrT7x6TqdLAukqCrWzm-QzU3RS3-peCMQkMz3j9i55olASkoSeQDp5EWMWzySVaGZ-RPEg9AkXEs_jTRG0ZxO9AYxKRn-K1B_vYDfRl5B3eo6HjisqUFJHE/s1600/34500182_10155315904091022_2476392136153497600_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUAXoIg2LM1_jGPvZTZUPlTrT7x6TqdLAukqCrWzm-QzU3RS3-peCMQkMz3j9i55olASkoSeQDp5EWMWzySVaGZ-RPEg9AkXEs_jTRG0ZxO9AYxKRn-K1B_vYDfRl5B3eo6HjisqUFJHE/s640/34500182_10155315904091022_2476392136153497600_n.jpg" width="512" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">After much research into the best way to visit <a href="http://auschwitz.org/en/" target="_blank">Auschwitz</a>, we figured it was easiest to go through a tour company on the Sunday. Auschwitz isn’t the simplest place to get to on public transport, and you need to book way in advance for a timed slot. With <a href="https://www.escape2poland.co.uk/" target="_blank">escape2poland</a>, we got picked up on a coach, watched a film about Auschwitz on the journey there, took the tour of both Auschwitz and Birkenau with our coach group, before being dropped back off in Krakow afterwards. It was definitely worth spending the extra money.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdY-XQoxApFFwIvIcAnoLEax_F4Nf4hhdNc6nTggGlk-eOEgNMSmgnJCA8dwRpcfU8G5-VQKwVgrhc-OKVi9ZlLC1IKnWJfWXNAVRyq0ECNncL8IwserxcnBdD0MdVVGUij12DTgjfV5M/s1600/34556336_10155315904361022_6313035715286401024_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdY-XQoxApFFwIvIcAnoLEax_F4Nf4hhdNc6nTggGlk-eOEgNMSmgnJCA8dwRpcfU8G5-VQKwVgrhc-OKVi9ZlLC1IKnWJfWXNAVRyq0ECNncL8IwserxcnBdD0MdVVGUij12DTgjfV5M/s640/34556336_10155315904361022_6313035715286401024_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I went to Auschwitz for the day when I was 17. And by ‘for the day’ I mean we flew out there with the <a href="https://www.het.org.uk/" target="_blank">Holocaust Educational Trust</a> in the morning, went straight to Auschwitz for the day, then flew back to London in the evening. Ya. FOR THE DAY. <a href="https://www.biscuitsandblisters.co.uk/2011/02/my-head-lay-perfectly-in-crook-between.html" target="_blank">I wrote about it at the time</a> - eight years ago now. As it was so long ago, it still felt like a new experience going at 24. I remembered bits of it, and experienced others as if for the first time.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmkD49BcqhRXq3uZhVUkoznnKKi2o1tNEdp11MBy7CmXScfGEdTHP_U5C2kzAXoX27dx50gn6bqHud2iEJG5XgQMZ1pxhpwFh9XX5Jz_xTVH83yNMpMltLDDiD-sS5vz1t6un1hMLKtRw/s1600/34631405_10155315904526022_8161897403956330496_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmkD49BcqhRXq3uZhVUkoznnKKi2o1tNEdp11MBy7CmXScfGEdTHP_U5C2kzAXoX27dx50gn6bqHud2iEJG5XgQMZ1pxhpwFh9XX5Jz_xTVH83yNMpMltLDDiD-sS5vz1t6un1hMLKtRw/s640/34631405_10155315904526022_8161897403956330496_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">There's no real way to describe Auschwitz. How can you? It’s Auschwitz. No wanky white poignancy will ever be good enough.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlIAzHT7YokJ1jlOyViq4xM6fpx_N1awtYDTprXHAMYp03TVrU_RUa2-vZItQEr1uOtWD7qvnzSHEP6Pp0_kGdp2b-A6b5ZYO_nKUNPDPmNA_qe-mQZ6lWuE1idbBPIim-tVSSDjNXDlg/s1600/34396169_10155315904571022_433370583942561792_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlIAzHT7YokJ1jlOyViq4xM6fpx_N1awtYDTprXHAMYp03TVrU_RUa2-vZItQEr1uOtWD7qvnzSHEP6Pp0_kGdp2b-A6b5ZYO_nKUNPDPmNA_qe-mQZ6lWuE1idbBPIim-tVSSDjNXDlg/s640/34396169_10155315904571022_433370583942561792_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It seemed only right to go for dinner in the Jewish Quarter after visiting Auschwitz, so we went to <a href="https://www.tripadvisor.co.uk/Restaurant_Review-g274772-d1098839-Reviews-Once_Upon_a_Time_in_Kazimierz-Krakow_Lesser_Poland_Province_Southern_Poland.html" target="_blank">Once Upon a Time in Kazimierz</a> and sat outside listening to live music. Then we went back to the main square to meet up with Charlotte, Georgia, and Pam! Charlotte and Georgia are my oldest friends, and they flew out to join us for a few days with their uni friend, Pam, who’s Polish. We’d always said since we were kids that we wanted to go on holiday together, and never imagined Kraków would be the place.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbESTLufOCu01dDxpSi-fIsz431oxB0GUY3NtnCw4M9kDxvQyJV-T008VH2b8PcfzQTcsW107i0PP4xlGEnpdTsgLahoKhJMWqnJyEVq5G0cfE1JjXx-bDX16JnR0Jt5XXTnjve_APmT4/s1600/34493173_10155315904766022_3752974644089454592_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbESTLufOCu01dDxpSi-fIsz431oxB0GUY3NtnCw4M9kDxvQyJV-T008VH2b8PcfzQTcsW107i0PP4xlGEnpdTsgLahoKhJMWqnJyEVq5G0cfE1JjXx-bDX16JnR0Jt5XXTnjve_APmT4/s640/34493173_10155315904766022_3752974644089454592_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Monday was Ryan’s 29th birthday and the five of us went to the <a href="https://www.wieliczka-saltmine.com/" target="_blank">Wieliczka Salt Mines</a>, about half hour from Krak</span></span><span style="font-size: small;">ów. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We’d planned to get the train but apparently not only the UK has engineering work, so we had to get the bus, which was fine.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz5-MtTEmt0QkxJJ_lWmnm7rSzc3H-hrNLIgAIvuatrfouyW4ck1B5Suzw5jFQLIjD1-Xks8UVEm01Uhhi6rynMyis-JV6P2u2DfxM8g5VU2YheZR_yaYCMcqkmaUKhZYac7QTYSdvWFA/s1600/34537619_10155315911471022_5056809260684410880_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz5-MtTEmt0QkxJJ_lWmnm7rSzc3H-hrNLIgAIvuatrfouyW4ck1B5Suzw5jFQLIjD1-Xks8UVEm01Uhhi6rynMyis-JV6P2u2DfxM8g5VU2YheZR_yaYCMcqkmaUKhZYac7QTYSdvWFA/s640/34537619_10155315911471022_5056809260684410880_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDbWVHEpAtBnB4sx700cCQKuAMWJlUxO4fejRietEV1XkgRiuyTvJkmztkgY3eJ4ptTKF_pVG8I5PxPzdz_mnxTMCUJa6-QxYGt8qfoixbiOWnGs_ClZo1w_aC8-5JsskgZzhGefANtAE/s1600/34595783_10155315911541022_7556720487426949120_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDbWVHEpAtBnB4sx700cCQKuAMWJlUxO4fejRietEV1XkgRiuyTvJkmztkgY3eJ4ptTKF_pVG8I5PxPzdz_mnxTMCUJa6-QxYGt8qfoixbiOWnGs_ClZo1w_aC8-5JsskgZzhGefANtAE/s640/34595783_10155315911541022_7556720487426949120_n.jpg" width="512" /></a></div>
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<i>Salt! </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB4dwzFaTJPpRZ1F0y5_yvzBHekpaRr16zwWmz7K1EuV5OGLuxnjBVGQ5AZXf01wB9NEeeLKcOhbTtYpnGiUrPV2PqEM7WPcEN-2o4wyeDK6q3e9y0qtrXURQIakM0EcYqYNfLkOdIBbk/s1600/34581158_10155315912016022_3858715330167701504_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB4dwzFaTJPpRZ1F0y5_yvzBHekpaRr16zwWmz7K1EuV5OGLuxnjBVGQ5AZXf01wB9NEeeLKcOhbTtYpnGiUrPV2PqEM7WPcEN-2o4wyeDK6q3e9y0qtrXURQIakM0EcYqYNfLkOdIBbk/s640/34581158_10155315912016022_3858715330167701504_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<i> Everything is salt!</i></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The actual salt mines were really, really cool. And by cool I mostly mean cold because it is cold down there. You tour the mines as a group, and they have a bloody shop and restaurant and cinema and wedding reception rooms down there at the end of the tour. It’s, like, really far down. Really far. So far down and full of salt that it slows down the ageing process. It’s one of the most healthy places to be. WEIRD.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNkiwsjx2cLyqw5cLZKRO4Tz5bYAcjk7S4dk-cho0uTkVXLytwTCMdm9Bz2ZrgmNXUN3e4Vt9DCvaSJZXoW5zjyFyxNK0DI-QnaXXDFyuqY7xnJld5vgn_rig3zT25TSyoh5GLqcK6RAI/s1600/34474997_10155315911806022_8952460875806015488_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNkiwsjx2cLyqw5cLZKRO4Tz5bYAcjk7S4dk-cho0uTkVXLytwTCMdm9Bz2ZrgmNXUN3e4Vt9DCvaSJZXoW5zjyFyxNK0DI-QnaXXDFyuqY7xnJld5vgn_rig3zT25TSyoh5GLqcK6RAI/s640/34474997_10155315911806022_8952460875806015488_n.jpg" width="512" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>Bit weird but necessary </i></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">For Ryan’s birthday meal, I’d planned for the two of us to go to a posh rooftop restaurant with views over the river. I’d booked it… or so I thought. Turns out my booking didn’t go through and we had to sit inside and I had a massive strop about it. Obviously. But it was still a nice meal, and we met up with our pals on a boat bar afterwards to soften the first-world problem blow.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNlwgNYN5LCmq7JhVyc7iHslo8-fye9R8OWKmRL04mm_YCKkj4Zbufv8kw-SW9QPIA2xoSzVJ86csbHtGeLjHTr310a8LJ1h_ToL8l2MmoY8uWiDyLsuhUpNbvzhrgSFWklm-w_3E1Sjs/s1600/34583139_10155315911961022_8011547551159287808_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNlwgNYN5LCmq7JhVyc7iHslo8-fye9R8OWKmRL04mm_YCKkj4Zbufv8kw-SW9QPIA2xoSzVJ86csbHtGeLjHTr310a8LJ1h_ToL8l2MmoY8uWiDyLsuhUpNbvzhrgSFWklm-w_3E1Sjs/s640/34583139_10155315911961022_8011547551159287808_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1xYhXG01LL5ja4ONwg31aMKcaCaYVGfa0c6eS3TQ7Cd9fSke5cQ0UtJnD3uVJD8bF0ng-wotyDAKmP5muTDUyNe6OUS3A4tBpAU-LiuE7vrNcSC1MeR5At6R6d0d6y8o9lZK_R3-a3ek/s1600/34699788_10155315912181022_2232492995091890176_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1xYhXG01LL5ja4ONwg31aMKcaCaYVGfa0c6eS3TQ7Cd9fSke5cQ0UtJnD3uVJD8bF0ng-wotyDAKmP5muTDUyNe6OUS3A4tBpAU-LiuE7vrNcSC1MeR5At6R6d0d6y8o9lZK_R3-a3ek/s640/34699788_10155315912181022_2232492995091890176_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">On Tuesday morning, our last day, we legged it to <a href="https://oskarschindlerfactory.com/" target="_blank">Oskar Schindler’s Enamel Factory</a> after breakfast to join the queue. They sell all their tickets on the day, you can’t prebook, and they usually sell out by 10am. We JUST about got in, so very glad we researched that before going. It was very much worth it.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We went on a long and winding walk along the river back to Wawel Castle to fight the school trips to see the fire-breathing dragon, then filled time by diving into the tourist traps to eat ice cream and pizza, and drain the last of the vodka, before getting the train back to the airport for our super late flight home.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Kraków was great. If I’m being painfully honest, I wasn’t in the best headspace during this trip so I didn’t feel super relaxed and happy and… myself. Which is a shame. I’d love to go back and do it again. I’d actually like to travel Poland, as there are so many great cities and it’d be relatively cheap to do by train. One day…</span></span></div>
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</style>Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-59797072916246689142018-10-31T18:53:00.000+00:002018-11-02T21:17:05.881+00:00The October Edition<div class="p1">
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<span class="s1"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">September 30th: I’m thankful for my recent ability to realise when I’m on my way to burning out and pulling back a bit… still working on the ‘pulling back a bit’.</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Hahahaha. Haha. Ha.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I fitted about four months into one in October. Why am I like this.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I did<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></b></span></h2>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">WHAT DIDN’T I DO.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Spent a lot of time stressed. My (wonderful, supportive, brilliant [hi Anya]) line manager was on holiday for two and a half weeks this month so I was in charge of copywriting. Nothing went wrong, nothing/no one was terrible, I managed it all, but my GOD it was tough. Responsibility is exhausting.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Also I had two panic attacks and got sent home but that’s besides the point.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I ran a half marathon in 2:06. No big deal. The Cardiff Half Marathon was my race. I absolutely loved it and put all my training to the test. And it worked. I stormed it. Everything went well. I was so happy. Have I mentioned I was happy? Because I was BEAMING.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I had my first ever sports massage on my butt a few days before Cardiff, and it worked a treat and I had the classic bruises to prove it.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I helped organise our work’s Wellbeing Week. It included going to Kentish Town City Farm so it was obviously one of the best weeks ever.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I ran my first workshop at work, all about social media and tone of voice. I was terrified but it went really well and I really enjoyed it, and I really want to work on my confidence and skills running workshops and doing presentations now. Personal and professional development is pretty cool, who knew.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I surprised one of my best pals, Amy, with another one of my best pals and my mum. Long story short, we drunkenly planned a holiday to Santorini together.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I met the cult leader of parkrun and got very emotional. Separate fangirl post incoming.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I thought</span></b></span></h2>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I think I struggle with sensory overload. I know I get overwhelmed easily, but when I started crying because people were having a lovely time laughing in the office at the same time as the phones ringing and two emails arriving in my Inbox and my phone telling me it was HQ time, I think the penny dropped that sensory overload is very much in my life.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Fucking annoyed I couldn't hold out until November to wear my coat.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Sometimes I feel incredibly stressed and overwhelmed but when I write everything down, everything is actually quite small.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Tzatziki is the best dip.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Where I went</span></b></span></h2>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We visited our pals’, Jacob and Angus’, flat for dinner and played Mario Kart. I hadn’t played any kind of video game in years and the nostalgia hit me so beautifully.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> </span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I went to leaving drinks for two of the best women I met at The Mix, my last job. It’s so wonderful watching strong women in my life going on to bigger and better things.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We did Hampstead Heath parkrun with a lil group of people from work. <a href="https://www.anthonynolan.org/" target="_blank">Anthony Nolan</a> HQ is right by Hampstead Heath, and there are so many runners at work, so it was a cute Saturday morning. We went to <a href="http://www.gingerandwhite.com/" target="_blank">Ginger & White</a> afterwards for a wanky hipster breakfast, and I had the best bacon sandwich of my life.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I finally did a parkrun sandwich (run to parkrun, do parkrun, run back from parkrun) courtesy of Catford parkrun down the road from us.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Ash and I went to <a href="http://www.emiliaspasta.com/" target="_blank">Emilia’s Crafted Pasta</a> for free pasta on World Pasta Day… FREE PASTA. YES I SAID FREE PASTA. ALL THEIR PASTA WAS FREE. It was a very emotional experience.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I went to my first social event with <a href="https://www.pettswoodrunners.org/" target="_blank">Petts Wood Runners</a>! On my own, without Ryan who was at his play rehearsal. Seems like a small thing, but I’m not good at doing things on my own. So I messaged a couple of people from the group (shoutout to Nicky and Spencer) and they vowed to look after me. Which they did. I was sandwiched between them at the Italian where we had pizza and wine, and it was a lovely night. Well done me, well done them.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I read</span></b></span></h2>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>Reasons to Stay Alive</i> by Matt Haig. I didn’t like it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>This is Going to Hurt</i> by <a href="https://twitter.com/amateuradam?ref_src=twsrc%5Egoogle%7Ctwcamp%5Eserp%7Ctwgr%5Eauthor" target="_blank">Adam Kay</a>. I bloody LOVED it.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’m still reading <i>To Kill a Mockingbird</i>. I’d never read it before so I’m seeing what all the fuss is about.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I watched</span></b></span></h2>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I went to a comedy gig with Ryan, Ash and Ben called <i>Bloody Funny</i>, put on by Bloody Good Period. It was bloody good and bloody funny with lots of jokes about bloody periods.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Tore through <i>Big Mouth</i> season two. I LOVE BIG MOUTH. It’s abhorrent, gross, embarrassing, and SO FULL OF TRUTH.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Like the nation, we watched <i>The Cry</i> and loved it. Jenna Coleman is a gem.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I went to see <i>Heathers</i> again. And if you think I’ve booked tickets to see it for a third time then you’d be absolutely correct, yes.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We watched <i>Wonder </i>on Netflix. What a beautiful film.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">My mum, brother, and friends went to see Ryan be bloody brilliant in his play, <i>Oh! What a Lovely War.</i> He even got scouted by a historical society in Greenwich to sing at an event they’re putting on. He won’t stop banging on about it.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Just about managed to squeeze in a cinema trip to see <i>A Star Is Born</i>, and we walked out emotionally exhausted.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It would have been Ryan’s mum’s birthday on the 29th, so we marked the day by going to see a world class piece of theatre: <i>The Jungle</i>. Fuck me, what an emotionally draining experience. It ends this weekend so I can’t tell you to go and see it (unless you can get last minute tickets), but it’s the most beautiful, raw, powerful piece of immersive theatre I’ve ever seen.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I also saw <i>The Staves</i> & <i>First Aid Kit</i> at O2 Brixton with my dad but that happened on the 31st… which is the day I’m gonna post this blog… so let’s just assume it’s a brilliant night.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>EDIT: CHANGED MY MIND, CONFIRMING IT WAS A BRILLIANT NIGHT.</i> The Staves replied to me on Twitter AND Insta afterwards so let's just say I am above the standard level of whelmed.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I was thankful for</span></b></span></h2>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’m still thankful for everyone at work for being supportive and kind and funny and a family.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’m thankful for paydays because have I mentioned that I’m seeing <i>Heathers</i> AGAIN?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">O2 for sending me an incredible surprise just because I sent them a nice tweet. BE NICE TO PEOPLE. It'll do you good.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Many thanks to the Halloween edition fondant fancies. Bless your souls.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Free pasta.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-36228505036670032982018-10-21T15:31:00.000+01:002018-10-21T16:23:08.305+01:00A tale of two halves<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1">After I </span><span class="s2" style="text-decoration-line: line-through;">finished</span><span class="s1"> </span><span class="s2" style="text-decoration-line: line-through;">bossed</span><span class="s1"> </span><span class="s2" style="text-decoration-line: line-through;">smashed</span><span class="s1"> annihilated the Cardiff Half at the beginning of October, I banged on quite a bit about how I’d knocked 17 minutes off my half marathon PB, and how I’d bludgeoned with a metaphorical hammer a whole 42 minutes off my first ever half marathon time, almost two years ago to the day. 2:48 to 2:06.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I could continue to bang on about how far I’ve come in those two years, but I won’t. TL;DR: I’ve come far and done fucking well. Fin.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">This tale isn’t about those two halves. This is about the Cardiff Half, and the half marathon I was <i>meant</i> to do in March this year: the Brentwood Half. <i>Spoiler: I didn't do it.</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">My main running plan for 2018 involved two races, those two half marathons. The first, in March, was my ‘home race’. I’m from Brentwood. The second was my big race, my ‘A’ race as they say. The Cardiff Half is a popular, flat, fast, atmospheric, capital city, celebrity-filled, elite-packed, BBC One Wales-broadcasted half marathon that I wanted to boss. It was going to feel like the London Marathon all over again. I was going to train hard and smash Cardiff in under 2:15, after PBing at Brentwood in under 2:30. Brentwood was my practise and Cardiff was my name-in-neon-lights.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The best laid plans, etc.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Up until the beginning of March, any moments of ‘not running’ were down to me. I didn’t want to, I was busy, it wasn’t in the plan. My choice, my control. I’d built up a solid block of confidence within me that grew and grew over three years and I was good at sticking to a plan. I was rarely sick and never injured. An overachiever through and through…</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">…<a href="http://www.biscuitsandblisters.co.uk/2018/03/controlling-fall.html" target="_blank">until I fell during a club run</a> two weeks before the Brentwood Half and split my knee open, rendering me sofa-bound post-A&E and not able to walk, let alone run, with a brewing infection that would eventually turn my knee pussy and painful and pretty poorly.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The first thing I did? Catastrophise and beat myself up. It was my fault, what an idiot. I should have been more careful. I probably won’t be able to run again, and I deserve that. If only I’d been looking down, if only I’d picked my feet up. I’ve fucked up Brentwood and Cardiff too, probably. I can’t recover from this. I’ll have a smashed up knee forever. You get the picture.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I hate not being able to do something. I’d never wanted to run more than when I couldn’t run. I cried a lot and had too many conversations with the hole in my knee than I wish to admit. It turned out that the Brentwood Half was cancelled anyway because of that snow that hung around like your neighbour who only came around three hours ago to drop off a parcel, but that didn’t matter. I wouldn't have been able to do it anyway. And now I was going into Cardiff blind, it’d be my only race of the year, and a fucking big one.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It didn’t help that Ryan was training for the Brighton Marathon at the time so spent every waking moment either running or eating pasta or in the shower scrubbing layers of salty sweat off, so when we came back from a 20 mile race that made up his last long training run, I put my own trainers on. I dragged Ryan out for a ‘cool down run' *look to camera* and ran a mile around the park. I had no idea if I could do it, I had no idea how my knee would act, but it felt incredible. My lungs burned and my legs were heavy, but my whole body buzzed with contentment after those 10 minutes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">And so began building my fitness back up, but little did I realise just how much that injury would affect my confidence. I was terrified. I ran slowly and with my eyes fixed on my feet. I wouldn’t run in the rain or the wind. I wouldn’t run around roads where cars could distract or startle me, and make me trip. I couldn’t take any risks. I was terrified of losing control of my body and mind again. I realised how much running changed my life, and saved it too, and any risk of that being taken away from me again made me feel sick. Did I rely too much on running? Maybe. But I didn’t have time to think about that, I had to concentrate on keeping one foot in front of the other, in every sense.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">By the end of the summer, my fitness was back and I felt ok running. Not where I wanted to be, but more confident nonetheless. I started my training plan for Cardiff at the beginning of September and stuck to it. I just needed to get to two weeks before Cardiff unscathed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> I needed to get further in training than I did for Brentwood.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I decided not to tell anyone my new goals for Cardiff. I didn’t want to tempt fate, and I needed this to be my race. It was the first time I wasn't running for charity and I worried I’d feel bad about that, but I didn’t. I do work for a charity, after all. But even so… I was doing something for me. “Look after #1,” my best pal taught me. You’re allowed to do things for yourself. This was my race, and even as I hit the start line, I drank everything in, not wanting to take photos, videos, or text anyone. This was my time, just for me.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The first inkling I had that Cardiff was going to go well was when I did the Regent’s Park 10k a month before. I had a race plan (go easy for the first half, ramp it up for the second) and I felt completely in control. My legs behaved, I focused completely on my breathing, and I didn’t get distracted by anyone around me. I felt amazing when I finished. I got a great time, but that didn’t matter. I just wanted to feel good by the end.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">By the time it came to two weeks before Cardiff, I was scared. This was the moment where it all went wrong for Brentwood. Off I headed for a 10 mile long run and… it was horrendous. It was a complete run/walk. I couldn’t breathe. Everything was heavy. I started to beat myself up again and ended up back home nearly in tears. I’d fucked it… granted, I’d just got back from a week in Barcelona for my birthday where sangria had replaced my blood and running did not exist, but I didn’t care. I had no excuses. I’d fucked it.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">But what I’d learnt since March, in the efforts of building my fitness and confidence back up again, was that it can happen. I can do it. And that all it can take is some concentration. Mindfulness, if you will. I needed to feel in control above everything else. So the following week I drank lots of water, stretched, and became best friends with my breathing. I focused on it, I paid attention to it. And when it came to running 11.5 miles the next weekend, I absolutely nailed it. My pacing was on point more than ever before, I was settled, I controlled my breathing before anything else, I paid attention to how my body was moving and gave that respect, and I behaved. I chilled the fuck out, basically, and listened to ABBA too. I’ve listened to ABBA during every run since.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">When it came to being on that start line in Cardiff, I knew I had it in me. Not just a good time, but confidence, respect, and control. I had it in me to just <i>do me</i>, with no pressure. It was going to happen because I told myself it would. I’d worked for this. Yes, I was nervous as fuck. I had a panic before Ryan left me for his pen that I hadn’t drunk enough water that morning. But that’s normal and I told myself that. I didn’t let the anxiety run away with me (lol).<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I loved running that race. I took in every moment. I appreciated where I was, what I was doing, and how I was doing it. I smiled, I took things in stages, and I focused. I breathed. I flexed my feet. And I smashed that race, beating my ideal time of 2:15 by nine minutes. It just so happens that 9 is my lucky number.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I thought I had confidence and control before I had that accident back in March. I thought I had that nailed, I had it in the bag. But I didn’t. I had determination and goals and fire in me then, but running controlled me rather than me controlling running. I learnt how to truly be in control by respecting myself in those seven months. I respected my recovery, my holey knee, and the keloid scar that’s blossomed from it. I respected my legs and how they move, and how they need to be looked after. I respected my lungs and what they needed for a good run. I respected time. I respected space. And I respected my brain. I was kind to it, even when it bitched about me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I thought I’d obviously fucked up Cardiff when I fell, but no one decides that but me. I decide.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Sometimes you can’t control things. But you can control how you deal with them. And I bossed that before bossing any time and distance with Cardiff. Here’s to remembering that in 2019.</span></span></div>
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Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-57098270899499414372018-09-30T18:08:00.001+01:002018-09-30T18:16:39.059+01:00The September Edition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’ve been wearing jeans for a week and I’ve already split a pair. Happy Autumn.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I did<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></b></span></h3>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Turned 25.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Spent a lot of money, apparently *looks at bank statement from a distance*. This month was the month that all the bands released gig dates, and all the West End shows announced pre-sale tickets, and the comedians I actually like organised their tours, and I celebrated my pal Grace’s final surgery (for a long while at least) by booking a long weekend in Basel, Switzerland, and Ryan got a hard-worked-for promotion at work so I had to be a good girlfriend and buy us Dominos, and my GOD why do all the September birthdays always surprise me. Help.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I bloody S M A S H E D my Cardiff Half training. Not only did I get further in this Half training than I did for Brentwood (too soon), but I felt amazingly strong during and after the Regent’s Park 10k, and bloody bossed an 11.6mi run as my final long run. I’m so excited for Cardiff but I REALLY hope I don’t get too cocky and positive…</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I dragged my mum up on the dance floor to do the Macarena at a family friend's engagement party.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Ryan was finally introduced to Bird in Camden, the home of the blessed katsu curry chicken burger.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I thought</span></b></span></h2>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Ok no I absolutely still care about people flaking out of my birthday. I was chill for the first couple of people dropping out, but then suddenly only, like, four of my friends turned up and I threw a strop like a proper freshly-born 25 year old.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>There were more of Ryan’s friends there than mine. Yes I’m bitter and petty about it, but I still had a bloody good night and had nearly 200 photos in my WhatsApp the morning after, with me laughing in 99% of them.</span></span></div>
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<i>Just LOOK at my birthday cake(s) made by Ash, my GOD</i></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’m so proud of my little brother. He’ll kill me for saying it, but he suddenly seems so much more confident, and talkative, and ambitious, and kind, and it’s just LOVELY. He comes to parkrun now. He’s downloaded Strava! He COMES DOWNSTAIRS ON A REGULAR BASIS TO HANG OUT.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’m too busy and burning out and need to start saying ‘no’ again. I’ve had a week-long headache.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I got a card and presents (yes they're periods pants and a boob phone case) and cake and gin for my birthday at work from my team and pals, and it was just really nice to be thought and cared about. I’ve never been used to that.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Where I went</span></b></span></h2>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">BARCELONA. More of that in another post but spoiler: bloody loved it.</span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Our last parkrun saw us at Foots Cray Meadows, and we ended up bumping into two people from Portsmouth who we met at Catford. We then found out that one of them lives opposite a family friend of Ryan. SMALL WORLD.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I finally actually had lunch at Borough Market. I am a Londoner now.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i><span class="s1"></span>Ash about to live her best bread life at Borough Market</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We were in Essex a lot. Again. But this time we saw baby Leo, who came over (with his mum, etc, obv) to meet the extended family… read: the old people who would never have met him otherwise. It was adorable. He is adorable. I love him. Have I mentioned?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I read</span></b></span></h2>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I CAN’T STOP READING. I read <i>The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry</i> by Rachel Joyce, which I ADORED. Close tie between that and <i>Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine</i> as my fave book of the year.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I caught up with the world and read <i>One Day</i> by David Nicholls. Brilliant. Yes I watched the film afterwards. Sorry.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I read <i>Billy and Me</i> by <a href="https://twitter.com/MrsGiFletcher" target="_blank">Giovanna Fletcher</a>. It was lovely and cute and easy to read, but a bit too twee and cheesy and predictable for me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I watched</span></b></span></h2>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>Alex Strangelove</i> (amazing) and <i>Sierra Burgess is a Loser</i> (not amazing) on Netflix. They love their teen movies at the moment, don’t they…</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>Bodyguard</i> (amazing for first three episodes…) and <i>Killing Eve</i> (amazing for ALL EPISODES) on the BBC.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>Final Space</i>, an animated comedy on Netflix set in space, created by a YouTuber. I’m still thinking about it. It’s so good. I know it sounds… questionable. But seriously. I’m slightly obsessed.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We just about squeezed in a trip to the cinema on the last day of September to see <i>The Miseducation of Cameron Post</i>. It was good. It was very… indie? Sundance Festival-y? I don’t know. It was really good, and quite harrowing, but also funny, but then it suddenly ended when I wanted a lot more.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I took Charlotte From Work (CFW) to see <i><a href="http://www.everybodystalkingaboutjamie.co.uk/" target="_blank">Everybody’s Talking About Jamie</a></i>. I loved it. We were sat in the second row of the Stalls, which aren’t really the best seats, but it has a fit cast so that was nice close up.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I was thankful for</span></b></span></h2>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">My brother for being confident and strong and coming out of his shell.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Work, again, for being kind and supportive in various ways.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Life for being settled, still. I’m very happy.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Ryan, being a little nerdy nerd and getting his promotion. What a legend.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">My recent ability to realise when I’m on my way to burning out and pulling back a bit… still working on the ‘pulling back a bit’.</span></span></div>
Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-54078637469654490022018-09-20T19:32:00.000+01:002018-09-20T19:50:15.334+01:0025 things I unapologetically don't give a fuck about now I’m 25<div class="p1">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7f90v6bwU_qDVQZi6LvqpKRkSZ_idqUaMDEKTKE26782Sc3gaJ0SpU_fwfYmOcuWMWBXwuN9RqQBvkvCHgZZzJXrmVE8PiYX5nNOVleTG_vFCnYd9SKWh6-cq8Y3HSdp_sI1nF5gx5RQ/s1600/41968115_711681452500826_1983836134072909824_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="733" data-original-width="750" height="624" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7f90v6bwU_qDVQZi6LvqpKRkSZ_idqUaMDEKTKE26782Sc3gaJ0SpU_fwfYmOcuWMWBXwuN9RqQBvkvCHgZZzJXrmVE8PiYX5nNOVleTG_vFCnYd9SKWh6-cq8Y3HSdp_sI1nF5gx5RQ/s640/41968115_711681452500826_1983836134072909824_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>Me, not giving a fuck about the Camp Nou tour in Barcelona, but accepting the fact that Ryan did give a monumental fuck</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Hello. I am 25 years old now. And to celebrate turning 25, here is a list of 25 things I am boldly, unashamedly, confidently willing to share that I unapologetically don’t give a fuck about. Because I am 25 and don’t have the time, effort, or care to pretend. It’s ok to not give a fuck about stuff.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">DISCLAIMER: You can give a fuck about these things, you do you. I don’t care if you give a fuck about these things. A lot of people DO give a fuck about them and that’s cool, good for you. That’s why they’re on my list. They’re things that most people give a fuck about. I just don’t. Like, I don’t hate them or have anything against them, I don’t have a moral stance against them, I just… don’t care. I do not give a fuck. I do not give a fuck about these things. And that is ok. Ok? Ok.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">1 - <i><u>Festivals.</u></i> Not bothered. Don’t want to be on my feet all day, don’t want to be around people all the time, don’t want to sleep in a tent, can’t be arsed with the festival admin, I’d get too tired/stressed/anxious. It’d bring me no thrill. Stop telling me to go to a festival.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">2 - <i><u>Drinking games.</u> </i>I am not a Fresher and hate forced fun, just let me drink my drink.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">3 - <i style="text-decoration-line: underline;"><u>Eggs</u>.</i> In any form. No.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">4 - <i><u>TMI.</u></i> Bodies are bodies. I text friends when I’m having a good poo, I have really hairy toes (good blood flow in my feet from running, science fans), I show Ryan when I get a massive period clot, I love squeezing spots, I save up my nipple hairs for a good plucking sesh, and I constantly pick at the bogies that get caught on the inside of my nose stud. I HAVE A BODY, IT DOES BODY THINGS and I’ll bloody tell you about it if it’s a good story.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">5 - <i><u>Make up.</u></i> I’ve tried. I get bored, I don’t care enough about what my face looks like, I don’t have the time, can’t be arsed to spend the money, and especially can’t be arsed to take it all off again at the end of the day, fucking hell.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">6 - <i><u>Love Island SLASH any show that requires a nightly commitment.</u></i> I cannot commit and will not commit, I’ve got shit to do.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">7 - <i><u>Heels.</u></i> I don’t like being tall, I don’t like walking weirdly, they hurt.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">8 - <i><u>Podcasts.</u></i> I just do not have the concentration for them. Again, I’ve tried. I last about 10 seconds before I’m thinking about dinner. I need visuals.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">9 - <i><u>Halloween.</u></i> Apart from the discounted sweets the day after.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">10 - RELATED: <i><u>fancy dress.</u></i> It brings me no joy.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">11 - <i><u>Brunch in any form, including bottomless.</u></i> I can give or take prosecco, don’t like ‘brunch’ foods, and hate the word ‘brunch’, it’s weird.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">12 - <i><u>Standing at gigs.</u></i> Long gone are the days where I’d queue for hours outside venues to make sure I was at the front. Give me a damn seat to rest my weary bones. Don’t touch me. Don’t spill your drink on me. Don’t dance around me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">13 - <i><u>Staying up later than 10pm</u></i> (unless I’m at a gig). I’m a morning owl. Morning… worm. Night owl, morning… what’s morning? Fuck it. I hate staying up late, I panic that I won’t get a good sleep. As soon as it hits 10pm: BED. Unconscious. You go and have your late night fun.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">14 - <i><u>Network marketing.</u></i> Stop trying to sell me your shit. I’m perfectly fine with vegetables.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">15 - <i><u>Dancing.</u></i> Unless I’m drunk or it’s, like, Cotton Eye Joe.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">16 - <i><u>Tea and coffee.</u></i> Yes I’ve tried fruit teas. No I don’t like coffee cake. Yes I've tried hot chocolate, no I don’t like that either. Gin is fine on a cold day.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">17 - <i><u>Driving.</u></i> I don’t drive because I don’t want to drive, stop asking me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">18 - <i><u>Masterchef.</u></i> It’s on more than the fucking DFS sale.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">19 - <i><u>Nando’s.</u></i> Don’t get it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">20 - <i><u>Period dramas.</u></i> The TV kind, not the vaginal kind, I LOVE those.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">21 - <i><u>Monzo.</u></i> Stop telling me to get a Monzo card, I’m perfectly fine with my bank of choice.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">22 - <i><u>Sushi.</u></i> Honestly why.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">23 - <i><u>Dubai.</u></i> It’s weird.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">24 - <i><u>Going out out.</u></i> Just come round and we’ll order pizza and drink gin and talk about the things we don’t give a fuck about.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">25 - <i><u>People giving a fuck about me not giving a fuck about the things I don’t give a fuck about.</u></i></span></span></div>
Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-24479145785014056502018-08-31T21:49:00.000+01:002018-09-02T15:22:52.879+01:00The August Edition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyp7z0KLoS2lsBMmI9o8yF8bbxo8qRLN-gJrIM1Sw5stXCPm1ZN55BQG-tynCI3MPyGEXb0kIiW5DA5_sEB6csbQepT-krClcFEZ-yYbWPQlDCeLsP6cDb3OD3Wu23-5l_I9YmvgMY3S8/s1600/40593370_323781855108659_1884068124005761024_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="479" data-original-width="640" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyp7z0KLoS2lsBMmI9o8yF8bbxo8qRLN-gJrIM1Sw5stXCPm1ZN55BQG-tynCI3MPyGEXb0kIiW5DA5_sEB6csbQepT-krClcFEZ-yYbWPQlDCeLsP6cDb3OD3Wu23-5l_I9YmvgMY3S8/s640/40593370_323781855108659_1884068124005761024_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Frank's Cafe, Peckham</i></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Guys, it’s under 20C, we are blessed.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I did<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></b></span></h3>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I had a SICK DAY at the beginning of the month, and not once did I feel guilty about it. I hate taking sick days. I’m bad at looking after myself. If I have a day off, I think I’m letting people down, that I’m faking it, that I’m not that bad, that it’ll give me bad karma. It’s silly. But I woke up one morning feeling super coldy and it was the first day of my period, so I announced to Ryan that I was staying in bed. I don’t think he’s ever been so proud of me in our five years together.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I made up for being out of the office by staying at the office until 8pm drinking gin. We nearly got locked in the office when the security guy came around and didn’t notice us giggling like teenagers.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>This was organised drinking, for full disclosure. Don’t try and get me sacked just as I…</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">…PASSED MY PROBATION. I’m a fully-fledged <a href="https://www.anthonynolan.org/" target="_blank">Anthony Nolan</a>-er now, bitches.</span></span></div>
<h2>
<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I thought</span></b></span></h2>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I feel so settled. I’m the happiest and most chill I’ve been in years. I’m settled, I feel strong, I know who I am, I’m perfectly happy with who I am, things are going swell. It’s a great feeling and I didn’t know I was capable of it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It’s weird going back for ex-colleagues’ leaving drinks, but also the best thing. They tell you how much you’ve changed for the better, how happier you seem, and you get to celebrate their success and new ‘chapter’ for want of a less gross cliché.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">EVERYONE IS ENGAGED. 10 friends got engaged within about two weeks this month. I say ‘friends’. Some actual friends and some used-to-be-proper-friends-but-now-we-just-like-each-others’-shit-every-now-and-then-but-still-care-about-their-wellbeing-etc.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It’s my birthday next week and for the first time in 25 years, I don’t care if people don’t come to my birthday Thing. I’m very known for throwing massive strops if people drop out or can’t come, even for incredibly legit reasons, but I’ve been so chill this year. I’VE GROWN. I actually don’t want people to come. I want all the pizza to myself. I want to make minimal effort and I want there to be minimal noise… but I also want masses of attention, please.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">WHY HAVE MY PARENTS GOT A NEW FRONT DOOR WITHOUT TELLING ME.</span></span></div>
<h2>
<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Where I went</span></b></span></h2>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">WALES. We had the BEST long weekend in Eglwysbach with our friends, Amy and Emma. It was blissfully quiet in that little Welsh village and they planned the best days for us. We faffed about in stream and waterfalls at Betwys-y-Coed, ate a picnic in the rain at <a href="https://bodelwyddan-castle.co.uk/" target="_blank">Bodelwyddan Castle</a>, did Conwy parkrun, went to the <a href="https://www.eglwysbachshow.co.uk/en/" target="_blank">Eglwysbach Show</a>, and drank a lot of gin. It was just perfect.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfdWSYmJD_xnp8PkfnaYyhyphenhyphenwktiV7b0XgUXmq7OS9QgPTITiDDPVNAqU-1q_gRj_7gb4rnQQDpM7c-iz-VY7X1ZWxjSOOhitueHRYIPqfz9bIQ4nhDpEtPWVOrm6isxJ47ZV1Vat0JSQ8/s1600/wales3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="553" data-original-width="750" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfdWSYmJD_xnp8PkfnaYyhyphenhyphenwktiV7b0XgUXmq7OS9QgPTITiDDPVNAqU-1q_gRj_7gb4rnQQDpM7c-iz-VY7X1ZWxjSOOhitueHRYIPqfz9bIQ4nhDpEtPWVOrm6isxJ47ZV1Vat0JSQ8/s640/wales3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigJN63ROLVLjEVA6JLeTF5oqUX-7O6DgOsLwZci4DxxpZhsLqNRfa7oxVNxVZU5kGtW5vXwYCei_cHiTE1mBMoDQd30ER6lMz7ph594W431kxr4Us6annmUwU460skidyKLuRdfkfYOSU/s1600/wales2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="724" data-original-width="960" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigJN63ROLVLjEVA6JLeTF5oqUX-7O6DgOsLwZci4DxxpZhsLqNRfa7oxVNxVZU5kGtW5vXwYCei_cHiTE1mBMoDQd30ER6lMz7ph594W431kxr4Us6annmUwU460skidyKLuRdfkfYOSU/s640/wales2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_UMfy6z-DZrDIODwAoVOKtJLEKcL01f0NKZnZFzerLjqKsUkF05GsapKmyeSo2m0JwTDJNkreSVMBrt96u4nKl96g9Mv5OcjiPcNVHCRGryEx2jPjnPSQjd4gwDPpaIDUKuHpAtmV44g/s1600/wales4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="724" data-original-width="960" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_UMfy6z-DZrDIODwAoVOKtJLEKcL01f0NKZnZFzerLjqKsUkF05GsapKmyeSo2m0JwTDJNkreSVMBrt96u4nKl96g9Mv5OcjiPcNVHCRGryEx2jPjnPSQjd4gwDPpaIDUKuHpAtmV44g/s640/wales4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i> Bodelwyddan Castle</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ0ClDPvNlcXTO9pnL3MjU5hPFW7qUuTuSAgcHmV23Ol-M7LdayZNaJ36Xu0itetkA0WOtNqqezXG-2-G9lO0ybO575yKrfSOCmPXpQzXe6uKld45vr_s39rwJehie3sgEja2qTHuarlg/s1600/wales5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="723" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ0ClDPvNlcXTO9pnL3MjU5hPFW7qUuTuSAgcHmV23Ol-M7LdayZNaJ36Xu0itetkA0WOtNqqezXG-2-G9lO0ybO575yKrfSOCmPXpQzXe6uKld45vr_s39rwJehie3sgEja2qTHuarlg/s640/wales5.jpg" width="482" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> Betwys-y-Coed</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwA_4sL54gKCvW53U2V9_Wa_7ZVdB6QcT2NUpL4ReFxrzzIgFgIUsz9Lg0HQnaeS8qvJzVodqJVH7ebkn37jZf50ddWfYkThfQvff2R2uj7YvFby8JczUifMCFeV2qycm5N3t4UV3iCU8/s1600/wales6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="771" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwA_4sL54gKCvW53U2V9_Wa_7ZVdB6QcT2NUpL4ReFxrzzIgFgIUsz9Lg0HQnaeS8qvJzVodqJVH7ebkn37jZf50ddWfYkThfQvff2R2uj7YvFby8JczUifMCFeV2qycm5N3t4UV3iCU8/s640/wales6.jpg" width="514" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> Betwys-y-Coed</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPzeu_zTqCxBwg9Uyh0FrIIcoD9CjaMO5x5tuYW1Nzb9h_z5TpOdGwXEVcY2CHGo5eMVSMAYlqtAdhlgPYw7eczHbrnrwfAieH0GOtYDUNdXribXJFLiMZCPvRcvp34UHcSrC0gj73BKw/s1600/wales.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="960" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPzeu_zTqCxBwg9Uyh0FrIIcoD9CjaMO5x5tuYW1Nzb9h_z5TpOdGwXEVcY2CHGo5eMVSMAYlqtAdhlgPYw7eczHbrnrwfAieH0GOtYDUNdXribXJFLiMZCPvRcvp34UHcSrC0gj73BKw/s640/wales.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We did four new parkruns. I marshalled at Catford and we ran Conwy, Bushy, and South Woodham Ferrers. Bushy, the pilgrimage, was our 50th different parkrun course. NERDS.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<i> Conwy parkrun</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i><span class="s1"></span>Ryan and my dad, South Woodham Ferrers parkrun </i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We went back to my family’s in Essex a lot. My whole family’s birthdays are, quite very literally, all within two months of each other, so we get that shit out the way. Exhaustedly, admittedly. We sat in the garden on my nan’s 81st birthday and got drenched in Walton-on-the-Naze for my brother’s 20th. Ryan’s dad also stayed with us one weekend and we took him to meet my grandparents, which was cute.</span></span></div>
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<i> I bought my brother tickets to his first ever gig</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i><span class="s1"></span>Walton-on-the-Naze</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Our best pals, Ash and Ben, were introduced to <a href="http://boldtendencies.com/franks-cafe/" target="_blank">Frank’s</a> in Peckham. Glorious food, glorious drinks, glorious rooftop sunset.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We went to <a href="https://www.bmof.org/" target="_blank">SCOOP</a>, the pop-up ice cream museum in King’s Cross. It was cool! We made ice cream, ate ice cream, looked at glow in the dark ice cream, and saw what our brains look like when we eat ice cream. It was incredibly Instagrammable.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I read</span></b></span></h2>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I read three books this month, all borrowed from colleagues:</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>It’s Okay to Laugh: (Crying Is Cool Too)</i> by <a href="https://twitter.com/noraborealis?ref_src=twsrc%5Egoogle%7Ctwcamp%5Eserp%7Ctwgr%5Eauthor" target="_blank">Nora McInerny Purmort</a>. Utterly beautiful book about losing her husband and father within weeks of each other, and having a miscarriage at the same time. Funny, heartwarming, and devastating. Read it.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>Life After Life</i> and <i>God In Ruins</i>, both by Kate Atkinson. These two were admittedly books that I’d never usually pick up, but someone at work insisted I read them as they’re her favourite. And I enjoyed them! They were very clever and very well written.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I watched</span></b></span></h2>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>This Is Us</i>, season 2. FINALLY. I adore This Is Us. I think it’s the best written TV show I’ve ever seen.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>Orange Is The New Black</i>, season 6. It was good. Better than I thought it’d be. It was a fun season.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>Kath & Kim</i>. Oh man. My Year 9 English teacher was Australian and used to let us watch <i>Kath & Kim</i> in class. She somehow made it relevant. And re-watching it on Netflix 10 years later is making those memories come flooding back. I LOVE IT.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>You Me Her</i>. I want a threesome. Specifically with those three. A foursome, I want a foursome.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We went to see the final night of the <i><a href="http://www.improvisedshakespeare.com/" target="_blank">Improvised Shakespeare Company</a></i> at The Soho Theatre with Ryan’s dad. Both him and Ryan are in amateur dramatics groups and love the theatre, so this was perfect. The six guys in the ISC come out on stage at the start of the night and ask the audience to shout out a made up name for a play. They pick one, then they perform it. Made up. On the spot. In the style of Shakespeare. It was absolutely fucking hilarious and bloody brilliant. If they’re ever back in the UK, I implore you to see them.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Like everyone else on Twitter, I watched <i>To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before</i>. It was very cute.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">For my monthly cinema trip, I saw <i>Christopher Robin</i> with my mum. It was lovely, but it was no <i>Paddington</i>.</span></span></div>
<h2>
<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I was thankful for</span></b></span></h2>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Time. I’m impatient and I catastrophise, but I’ve truly learnt that time will help you settle. Never a few months ago did I think I’d feel how I do now. Trust time.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’m sure I’ve said it before, but I’m so thankful to still be so close to my old colleagues. I love them. They’re passionate and smart and funny and caring, and I’m so glad they were a part of my first ever Big Girl job.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Cherry Bakewells. I got really emotional about them. Might have been PMT.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Ryan. He’s just got more and more fit this last month and I really fancy him. Idk.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Getting to the toilet in time. I got the shits during a speed session (running, not drugs) and made the smart decision to actually abort the sesh and leg it home, instead of force my overachieving self to finish. It was a mess, but it would have been more of a mess in the middle of the park, so. I really am growing.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">See you when I’m a whole year older, pals.</span></span></div>
Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-70233659358259544012018-08-23T18:09:00.000+01:002018-08-23T21:28:32.585+01:00Revere the smear<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiHvN-n2R6ilSZ6ojrXRG6c6w-1zVm31TuqsV9EKnETrIb6UM14wosRuJyhEkvWMoYFmCU3OuqbCwKZbfdQ9eQIIwMCUsR5rblSeTXCjLLolrvL4BMgQN2VXPQoaGRQ-RQObvz2l4oYn4/s1600/alpaca.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="724" data-original-width="960" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiHvN-n2R6ilSZ6ojrXRG6c6w-1zVm31TuqsV9EKnETrIb6UM14wosRuJyhEkvWMoYFmCU3OuqbCwKZbfdQ9eQIIwMCUsR5rblSeTXCjLLolrvL4BMgQN2VXPQoaGRQ-RQObvz2l4oYn4/s640/alpaca.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>This has nothing to do with smears, I just like alpacas.</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’m going to tell you the story of my first ever smear test.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Spoiler: it was fine.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">SCIENCE TIME: A smear test is when a nurse opens your vagina with a metal thing, then puts a big cotton bud up there and wipes it on your cervix to collect cells, then sends those cells off to be tested for cervical cancer (or anything that could <i>turn into</i> cervical cancer).</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’m sure that’s how science describes a smear test.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">In the UK, (cis)women get a letter from the NHS six months before they turn 25 asking them to go for their smear test.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>You don’t have to wait until you’re 25, you can make an appointment as soon as you get the letter. I don’t turn 25 until 9th September (that’s soon, write it down) but had my smear test on 23rd July.</i><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’m pretty open. And by ‘pretty’ I mean ‘very’. I have no filter. Within weeks of being my new job, I was texting colleagues about good poos I’d had, embarrassing sex stories, and dramatic period leakages. I care very little, my body is a body like everyone else’s. Fuck it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Therefore, I wasn’t bothered about my smear test. I couldn’t wait, in fact. I was excited to experience what all the fuss was about…</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">…I also knew I could write about it and we all know I love the attention, so. Hello and welcome to 1000 words on my cervix.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">When I was 20, I had two fibroadenomas (benign tumours) removed from my left tit. I have a cracking scar and no you can’t see it, unless you’re my boyfriend, nan, or Charlotte from work. I was used to flopping my boobs out a lot.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Last year, I had a skin tag on my bumhole. I had to go to the doctors (half an hour walk away, in the summer, up a hill, so my arse was sweaty) and ask my adorable, tiny, new, cardigan-wearing GP to stick her finger up my bum to check I didn’t have piles. I survived. She left soon after. True story.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I was on for a hat-trick. The triple whammy. Tits, arse, and fanny. Tick tick tick. Triple threat. Good things comes in threes. Third time lucky… you get the gist.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I was nervous, though. I can’t lie. I mean… what if:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">- I weed a bit on the nurse’s hand?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">- tensed up and trapped her finger up my fanny?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">- tensed up and the speculum collapsed ON the nurse’s finger and subsequently broke it?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">- I fanny farted?</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">- the nurse got lost up my massive vagina and turned into a Borrower who used my cervix for a pillow and I have to start putting broccoli and chicken up there to keep her fed?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">WHAT IF?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">To ease my completely legitimate fears, I did what any normal person would do: I started Instagram storying the whole experience despite the fact I’d never ‘vlog-style’ Instastoried before.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I spoke about what I was doing and what I’d done to prepare (showered and drunk water and made sure my comfy big knickers were washed and got all the farts out my system) and how I was feeling. Because only 1 in 3 (cis)women aged 25-29 in the UK actually go for the smear test.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">…</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">1 in 3. 33%. That’s awful, isn’t it? <a href="https://www.jostrust.org.uk/" target="_blank">Jo’s Cervical Cancer Trust</a> did a survey last year and these were the main (horrifying) findings:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">- 61% of women aged 25-35 didn’t know that they’re the highest-risk group for cervical cancer</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">- 37% didn’t think that smear tests actually reduced your risk of getting cervical cancer</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">- 24% thought they weren’t at risk because they’re healthy fuckers</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">- 17% knew smears were important but didn’t really know why<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">- 11% didn’t think you needed smears if you’d had the HPV vaccine</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">These stats suggest that lack of education is the reason people with wonderful, talented vaginas don’t go for their smear tests, but here are some other reason that came out of the survey and what I say in response to them:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">- 35% are too embarrassed about their body shape <i>(nurses don’t care and you’re fit as fuck)</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">- 34% don’t know if their vulva looks weird <i>(it’s a fucking vulva of course it looks weird but it’s normal)</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">- 38% are worried that their vagina smells <i>(you’d know if it smells and just have a shower [DO NOT put shower gel or deodorant or anything on it for the love of healthy vaginas])</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">- 31% won’t go if they haven’t shaved their pubes <i>(nurses couldn’t give a fuck, your pubes are natural, you’ll only get a shaving rash, STOP MESSING WITH YOUR VAGINA TO PLEASE OTHER PEOPLE, YOU ARE NOT TRYING TO SEDUCE THE NURSE)</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">- 35% won’t take time off work for their smear test <i>(you’ll be taking a lot more time off if you’re dead [ok that’s harsh, taking time off work can be hard, but see if you can work from home or ask your GP to help you find a location out-of-hours… or just pull a sickie)</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">- 16% won’t miss the gym to go <i>(excuse me)</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">- 26% said it’s too hard to make an appointment <i>(waiting lists are shit but the waiting list for death will fast track you whenever it likes)</i></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">- 20% would rather not know if something was wrong <i>(…this I can kinda understand but these smears will detect abnormal cells before they’re even cancerous so you can nip it in the bud)</i></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">- 30% didn’t know where to get one <i>(your GP, google the number, I'm not doing it for you)</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Now, back to it being all about me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I got to the doctor’s early (obv) and my nurse was late, so I sat for half an hour, sweating away in 30C heat and needing a nervous poo.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">When I was finally called in, the nurse asked some standard questions of whether I was on contraception, was I sexually active, blah blah blah, and mentioned it was my first cervical smear test, to which I replied, “mhmMMMHHMMMhmmhm,” and she said, “You’ll be fine,” and I nodded furiously.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">She asked me to whip my shorts and knickers off, lie down on the bed, and put the big sheet of paper over my lower half. She pulled the curtain screen around while I did this. God forbid she knew how I undress. She should see me take my knickers off under my swimming costume. Skilled.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I lied down on the bed and thought of England (*winces, bites fist* too soon, Jordan Pickford, too soon). The nurse sat at the end of the bed and asked me to put my knees up and apart. I went for the ‘feet together and legs apart like a frog’ method - someone on Twitter told me that was best and<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>who am I to not take advice from Twitter.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I relaxed as much as I could without letting any wee out and breathed deeply. I felt some metal go into the entrance of my fanny, and heard the nurse wind up what I assumed was the speculum (I never saw any ‘tools’ that she used, so who knows what she was shoving up there tbh), like winding up a toy car for a toddler. It didn’t hurt at all. I heard it more than I felt it. Vaginas are stretchy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The nurse asked if I wanted her to test me for STIs while she was down there - like a free MOT - but I said no because I’ve been in a long-term relationship for five years and we were both tested when we joined our doctor’s last year and she said ok fine and this is just some unnecessary detail for full disclosure, ok.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Then, she put the long swab thing in and I felt her touch my cervix. That was a bit weird. She brushed it for a couple of seconds then pulled it back out. The speculum was wound down and my vagina was mine again.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It took minutes, if that.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The best way I can describe the feeling of the actual smearing of my cervix, is that it felt like when you put your finger in your belly button (if you have an innie), push down a bit, then scratch it. So it feels like someone is scratching you from the inside. It feels odd but not unpleasant.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The nurse left me to get dressed (behind the screen, obviously), told me to expect a text/letter in two weeks’ time, and sent me on my way.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I went to work and felt fine. I went to the toilet a few hours later and there was a little bit of blood - like the beginning/end of a period - which is normal, but nothing hurt. It was like nothing had happened. It was honestly the most easy, quick, and painless process.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I got my letter through and my sample was clear (hooray, but don’t panic if yours isn’t - it’s common to find abnormal cells and they’ll do further testing to ditch the fuckers) and I’ll go back in the three years’ time.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Boom.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I know I’ve joked around a bit/been a little harsh with my answers to the reasons why people don’t go for their smears, but I do understand (some) reasons. Especially extra reasons, like experiencing past trauma. Believe me, I get that one. The last thing you might want is for a stranger to faff about with your fanny, even if only for a few minutes. All I can say to that, obviously very generally, is 1) take someone trusted with you, and 2) it can be one of the empowering and self-controlling things you can do for your body and mind. I felt amazing when I walked out, in all honesty. It felt ace and I felt privileged to be able to have a cervical smear test under the NHS. We are a lucky country.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Ok, I’m done talking about my vagina. For now. Please now go and book your smear test if you’re due one, whether you’re 25 or 55. Ask any questions you have to your nurse (or <a href="https://www.jostrust.org.uk/" target="_blank">Jo’s Cervical Cancer Trust</a>!) [or me!!!]) whether you think it’s stupid or not, take a pal with you if needed, and just get that shit done. It’s worth it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">See you in three years.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">(1,718 words, impressive)</span></span></div>
Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5682614115630015882.post-40047311593053168862018-07-31T16:18:00.000+01:002018-07-31T16:18:27.133+01:00The July Edition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS_vYLfpuoYMU9oNrahKuv6Vno-J5fpsiJ-mnoWr9vJVCW4vaU2aDWxdsJ6YoqltPYa63hZRy6N22GAeywuL_46MhTFl6vLO1KfhQqyy5XEDMRIYqbDAd2ghtnWXG4CemGGQUKTZxyPy4/s1600/37997762_10155425128676022_2734801755505164288_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS_vYLfpuoYMU9oNrahKuv6Vno-J5fpsiJ-mnoWr9vJVCW4vaU2aDWxdsJ6YoqltPYa63hZRy6N22GAeywuL_46MhTFl6vLO1KfhQqyy5XEDMRIYqbDAd2ghtnWXG4CemGGQUKTZxyPy4/s640/37997762_10155425128676022_2734801755505164288_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Botany Bay</i></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I need to write this quickly before the laptop melts my already thick-with-sweat thighs in this relentless heatwave.</span></span></div>
<h3>
<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a name='more'></a>What I did</span></b></span></h3>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I surprised Mum and Dad at their first ever 10k race! It was so hot (can you spot the theme of this month) but they both smashed it. </span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I cried at the football. It may not have come home, but it made me cry at that final penalty and that’s all I needed to tip me over the edge.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I had a week off! Ryan and I usually take the week of our anniversary off and go away somewhere in the UK, but this year we decided to stay at home and have day trips instead. It was blissful to come back to our own bed each night.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I took part in my first ‘mob match’ with Petts Wood Runners, against Orpington Road Runners. It was hot and fun and we won.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx3Sx7NslUVI1-bNgE6_h6MeA2smWUID5VRpg2WbFRTaAONLSEXINuGIdw952K78pcxXH5JJ0EvL-VseWavryQ-G8IlwNC8R5X3tEjWZI6hHHFXdEJlrmMj8u-qehQSa1x3LdgVyLFa18/s1600/38027298_10155425128171022_6471830066492866560_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1349" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx3Sx7NslUVI1-bNgE6_h6MeA2smWUID5VRpg2WbFRTaAONLSEXINuGIdw952K78pcxXH5JJ0EvL-VseWavryQ-G8IlwNC8R5X3tEjWZI6hHHFXdEJlrmMj8u-qehQSa1x3LdgVyLFa18/s640/38027298_10155425128171022_6471830066492866560_n.jpg" width="512" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><em>PWR vs ORR</em></span></span><br />
<em></em> </div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I had my first ever cervical smear test. I might write a whole post on it but, TL;DR, it was fine! It was the most fine thing! It felt like someone was scratching my belly button (i.e. it was uncomfortable) but it didn’t hurt and it was over in seconds. Boom. Done.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://twitter.com/a_louisem" target="_blank">Amy</a> came to her first PWR night and bossed it!</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">BOOKED FLIGHTS TO CANADA. We booked three weeks off work and booked our initial flights to Toronto for next June and July. We planned to just travel the east side, but now my auntie has surprised us with a few days in Calgary and LAKE LOUISE, too!! Anyone who knows me knows that going to Lake Louise, to do the pilgrimage, has been my dream since I was a little girl, so I CANNOT WAIT.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I showed my baby brother how to do his swabs to post back to Anthony Nolan to <a href="http://anthonynolan.org/join" target="_blank">join the stem cell register</a>!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"></span> </div>
<h3>
<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I thought</span></b></span></h3>
<div class="p2">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">*mumbles* It’s coming home, it’s coming home, it’s coming, football’s coming home…</span></div>
<h3>
<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Where I went</span></b></span></h3>
<div class="p2">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I went to Pride in London for the first time! <a href="https://www.anthonynolan.org/" target="_blank">Anthony Nolan</a> had a spot on the parade and we shouted about how your sexuality makes no difference to joining the stem cell register. It was sunny and happy and loud and fun and bloody brilliant.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">parkrun saw us at Barking, Clapham Common, and Billericay.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">During our week off, we went to Margate, Botany Bay (BEAUTIFUL), <a href="https://www.kew.org/" target="_blank">Kew Gardens</a>, <a href="https://birdworld.co.uk/" target="_blank">Birdworld</a> (SO GOOD, I BOUGHT A TOUCAN REUSABLE COFFEE CUP EVEN THOUGH I DON’T DRINK COFFEE… OR TEA), to the theatre, to <a href="http://www.bravasrestaurant.com/" target="_blank">Bravas Tapas</a> at St Katharine Docks, and to see little Leo. It was a perfect week off.</span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>Margate</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em></em> </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>Botany Bay</em></div>
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<em></em> </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>Kew Gardens</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em></em> </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>Birdworld (other animals are available)</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em></em> </div>
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<div class="p2" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><em>Leo</em></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I had dinner with <a href="https://twitter.com/elliesteadman?lang=en" target="_blank">Ellie</a> before she went back to Orlando to work on the Disney Cruise Line, having just come back from working at Disney World.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
<h3>
<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I read</span></b></span></h3>
<div class="p2">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I finished <i>The Life-Changing Magic of Not Giving a Fuck</i> by Sarah Knight (three stars, it was quite repetitive) and started reading <i>Life After Life</i> by Kate Atkinson, which a colleague has lent me and I’m loving it!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I’ve read a LOT of brilliant articles this month and here are a few:</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s2"><a href="https://www.theguardian.com/society/2018/jun/30/nothing-like-broken-leg-mental-health-conversation">This piece</a></span><span class="s1"> in The Guardian by <a href="https://twitter.com/ladyhaja?ref_src=twsrc%5Egoogle%7Ctwcamp%5Eserp%7Ctwgr%5Eauthor" target="_blank">Hannah Jane Parkinson</a> on mental health is raw and painful and true and fantastic.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">This by <a href="https://twitter.com/SusieBoyt" target="_blank">Susie Boyt</a> on <a href="https://www.the-pool.com/life/life-honestly/2018/28/Susie-Boyt-on-staying-in-the-comfort-zone"><span class="s2">the blissfulness of the comfort zone and why some of us crave it</span></a> resonated intensely with me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="https://twitter.com/eminesaner" target="_blank">Emine Saner</a> wrote this fantastic article on <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/football/2018/jul/10/psychology-england-football-team-change-your-life-pippa-grange?CMP=share_btn_tw"><span class="s2">how mental health played a huge part in the England team’s success and popularity</span></a> this World Cup.</span></span></div>
<h3>
<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I watched</span></b></span></h3>
<div class="p2">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>Geostorm</i>. Fucking love an awful disaster movie.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We went to see <i>The Comedy About a Bank Robbery </i>on the night of our anniversary, after seeing <i>The Play That Goes Wrong</i> for our anniversary last year. It was brilliant and I highly recommend!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We went to see <em>Incredibles 2</em>… it was ok but I wasn’t overly fussed. The Disney short was better.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I took Mum to see <em>Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again</em> on her birthday, and surprised her with friends when we got there. It was bloody great.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsYhmiZhPu6IjuoHV411Zce5-u14lWaFl9m-0DjpCiFNe5jtwgIEiaGUer6QozO27LztrMxrOVgF85K8ocQTSL-2Z36xNJTNwFEXJ0vOOeDLu-QuTp-LWkIkGDbSJgy3iubhwwOfJQqS0/s1600/38010046_10155425131396022_6411489357986791424_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsYhmiZhPu6IjuoHV411Zce5-u14lWaFl9m-0DjpCiFNe5jtwgIEiaGUer6QozO27LztrMxrOVgF85K8ocQTSL-2Z36xNJTNwFEXJ0vOOeDLu-QuTp-LWkIkGDbSJgy3iubhwwOfJQqS0/s640/38010046_10155425131396022_6411489357986791424_n.jpg" width="512" /><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></span></span></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What I was thankful for</span></b></span></h3>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Fans and trains with air con.</span>
<span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Realising that you don’t have to DO anything with your annual leave. You can just take it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">My auntie for TAKING ME TO LAKE LOUISE, HAVE I MENTIONED??!?!?!?!?!?</span></span>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Toucans.</span></span>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Baby goats.</span></span>
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span> </div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Ryan for putting up with my new obsession with toucans and baby goats.</span></span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"></span> </div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">That we can get free regular smear tests.</span></span></div>
Louise Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07942543130083841567noreply@blogger.com0