"We Want Something Real, Not Just #'s & Twitter"

15 Aug 2014

As I work in social media, I can't help but smile every time this song comes on - I feel I share a lot of views with this (beautiful, bearded) man, and yet I still sit here day after day "with hashtag's and Twitter, slowly dying in front of a f**king computer."

Have a listen, it's worth your time.

In other news: There is trouble in paradise in the CW household, with two out of four of us stuck in a never-ending argument. Due to the fallout, my Saturday night was basically this: "Vodka, anyone? Just drink the damn vodka guys, let's be friends. No? More for me then. Jager? Cool. Oh hey random stranger, my housemates are screaming at each other, can I have a hug?"
On a drink related note, I poured my first pint in around four years last week, and it was perfect. I then poured my second, and it was awful. I handed it to the bartender and ran away. You win some, you lose some.
An old man last night told me that "red wine is good for you, it keeps the rain out of your brain..."
... And I've watched so many episodes of Gossip Girl that I'm beginning to fear the unleashing of my inner Blair Waldorf. To anyone that has caused me to feel all woman scorned recently, watch yourself. It might be time for a little revenge...

XOXO, Gossip Girl

How To Survive, Pt.Two

7 Aug 2014

A quote relevant to the following post:

"Being brokenhearted is like having broken ribs. On the outside it looks like nothing's wrong, but every breath hurts." – Greg Behrendt

I recently wrote about having my heart broken. What I didn’t write about was having it shattered further, by the same person, a week later. About the sheer amount of KitKat’s I consumed whilst in recovery from a) an extremely loving/confusing day together and b) being told – in front of several mutual friends – that he had only ever spent time with me because “sometimes when you’ve been hurt, you need to hurt someone else just to know that you can.” Or about how I got over it.

Since that last post, it has come to my attention that a lot of us have just been dumped (what the hell is going on this year?). It has also come to my attention that every single one of us, without exception, has found a way to blame ourselves for it. To convince ourselves that we’ve done something wrong or, worse, that there is something fundamentally wrong with us as people. We’ve even managed to convince ourselves that the world is ending. That we can’t live without whatever dickhead it is that has done this to us. Because he is a dickhead. Nice boys don’t make you cry.

And so I am here, as someone who just spent the past two months spiraling out of control thanks to the poor behaviour of a man, to tell you that you will get over it. And to tell you how…

So you’ve just spent a good few weeks crying into your Doritos whilst listening to Adele on repeat – what now? Now, you’re ready not to grieve anymore. And once you’re ready not to grieve anymore, this is what you need to do:
- Delete his number. Unfriend him on Facebook. Permanently clear all call logs, text messages and Facebook conversations. Yes, even the ones that give you hope that it isn’t over. Especially the ones that give you hope that it isn’t over.
- Spend as much time as is humanly possible with your friends. This is a time when you will find out who your real ones are, and it’s important to pay attention to that. When you say to a real friend “but he told me he likes me more than the sun! MORE THAN THE SUN!!” she will say something along the lines of “eugh, what a tw*t.” A fair weather friend will have no sympathy. Recognise the true friends, and spend all of your days with them - dance, do shots, have fun.
- Make an effort to feel good about yourself. Brush your hair, paint your nails, and under no circumstances leave the house with panda eyes and donut icing in your hair.
- Find someone new to flirt with. The hotter the better. Bonus points if he lets you put glitter on his face, and sends you topless photos of himself holding a beer barrel…

“But it still hurts, why does it still hurt?” I’m not going to lie to you, some days I wake up and feel like I’ve been punched in the chest. On those days I find it is important to adopt the points noted above, and also to remember that it is not OK to:
- Scream "get a room!" at happy couples whilst walking around in a bathrobe and carrying a bottle of whiskey. This is not (500) Days of Summer, and you are not Joseph Gordon Levitt.
- Blame yourself. Is it your fault he has the emotional range of a teaspoon? No. It is not.
- Wear that t-shirt you haven’t gotten around to returning to him yet. Comfort is what cats are for. There are plenty on the streets if you don’t have one of your own.
- Drink yourself into an oblivion. Clearly, I'm OK with alcohol consumption, but there has to be a limit.

“I don’t think I can do this.” Er, yeah you can. And if you don’t believe me, you need to give these books a try:
- He’s Just Not That Into You
- The Rules

“So topless photos, huh?”
- Yep. Being single ain’t all bad.

“And what if I still can’t stop thinking about him?” 
- Try ending every positive thought with a negative. For example, follow “he was so sweet to me that time he made me a cup of tea in bed” with “but god it was annoying when he wallowed in self pity about things that didn’t matter” and “he was such a good kisser” with “but his habit of rolling over and almost crushing me in my sleep was a bit of a hazard, wasn’t it?”
- Seriously, topless men.

The point I’m making here, in a slightly tongue in cheek way, is that you will survive. You will get over this. And you will meet someone ten times hotter than the last one, that treats you better than he ever did. And in the meantime? You have your friends, you have your glitter, and you have the neighbor's cat (who you should probably return, because as a fellow cat owner I know for a fact that they’re starting to worry.)

...See you at the pub?

My London

29 Jul 2014

london blog - lifestyle blogPostman's Park, London Lifestyle Bloglondon lifestyle blog london photography and travel blog london lifestyle blog London Fashion Weekend AW 14 When I told my work colleague that I was moving to London, he said the following: "You think you'll spend every day exploring and doing something different, because you're in London, and that's what people always think when they move to London, but what will actually happen is you'll carve out your own little part of it, and never leave."

He was right.

If you were to live your life in my part of the capital, here is what you would do:
Go for breakfast pancakes at Tota. Get fed up with the poor service. Forgive all sins when the food comes out. Go through it all again for lunchtime steak sandwiches.
Go to the common, make promises you don't intend to keep about swimming in the Lido.
Head out for a 'quick drink' at The Clarence, have several more quick drinks than originally intended. Try your hardest to persuade the hot bartender to remove his t-shirt, find yourself having to apologise for acting like a sex pest next time you see him.
Have an internal debate over whether to go to Chicken Shop or Honest Burger, settle for something from Sainsburys. Regret your decision. Alternatively, settle for spring rolls. That's a decision you'll never regret.
Moan profusely about the northern line.
Talk to your housemates about your shared desire to make more time for central London (which I actually did for some of these photos - unheard of.)
Go to Infernos, do an enthusiastic rendition of The Inbetweeners dance.
Go to Adventure Bar, get your friend a screaming orgasm.
Spend a good amount of money on Uber and Deliverance, because London makes you lazy.
Pass out to the sound of foxes humping.
Repeat ad infinitum.

When not doing the above (or working, because I also have a job) recently I've been: Listening to - '500 miles' and 'AEIOU.' Reading - 'Lord of the Flies' and 'Girl, Interrupted.' Watching - 'Bling Ring' and 'Like Crazy.' Learning - the hard way

Cuckoo Clocks & Late Night Kisses

23 Jul 2014

charlotte's web london uk lifestyle bloglondon lifestyle blog cuckoo clockOn Sunday, at around 7pm, I arrived home from a night out with Sam, clutching a cuckoo clock my friend John had ripped out of the wall of our local pub. It was possibly the weirdest walk of shame ever known to man, whilst also being just about late enough in the day to get away with pretending I’d simply been shopping. Shopping with terrible hair. And no make up.

Unfortunately, this was not a walk of shame of the traditional kind. Instead, it was the 'I thought it would be a good idea to go home with my friend after a lock in this morning, and then we both thought it would be a good idea to watch Walk The Line, sing along with June and Johnny, and eat Skittles until 8am' kind. The kind that results in sleeping in your clothes and having mumbled, impossibly sweet, sleep addled conversations until you come to at 6:30pm, and realise you’ve just lost a day. The kind that leaves you bewildered by exactly how late it is when you stumble into Caffe Nero and they tell you that they’re closing. The kind that results in your housemates laughing in your face and accusing you of being both "hilarious" and "impossible" when they discover you gazing at the kettle as though it is your saviour. The kind that is worth every single moment, no matter how confused it leaves you feeling once it’s over.

But before I go off on a tangent regarding the merits of kissing and the drawbacks of sleeping in your contact lenses (it’s like ripping your own eyeballs out come morning light) let's get back to the cuckoo clock.

The first time I went to the pub in question, I was with Luke. We were having a drink to prove we could still be friends (which we are) and one of the first things I noticed upon walking in (aside from John standing at the bar, which was unexpected) was the abundance of cuckoo clocks. They made me nostalgic for a quirky cocktail bar I worked at during university, whilst also reminding me of my grandad's house, and I knew I had to have one. Two months, a short lived almost-romance with one of the bartenders, and hundreds of pounds spent on vodka, sambuca and wine later, the new manager, Adam, offered me one. Sam, too, as "the bar is due an update, and everything will be gone within the next few days."

Now, this offering was first made two weeks ago and, despite being extended more than once, neither of us had our new timepieces. Not yet comfortable with removing parts of our local and taking them home with us without express permission, we let it be. Until Saturday, that is. Saturday, with its random conversations (“when we do a naked calendar I’m just going to hold a pint in front of it, and have two really long straws” “I know your name isn’t Taylor Swift but that’s all I’m ever going to call you” “they have no running water at G.A.Y”) ridiculous outbursts of song (Sunglasses At Night) and an ongoing flow of double vodkas, felt like the right time. So it was with alcohol fuelled bravado that, as we were preparing to leave the lock in, I pointed to the clocks and demanded we be allowed to take them home immediately, despite a date for the refurb not yet being set. The reaction was a good one - John looked at Adam, Adam looked at John and then, with a shrug, the two of them stood on the sofas, unceremoniously pulled the clocks out of the wall, and handed them to us like trophies. We thanked them and left grinning like idiots, with what has to be the strangest souvenir we've ever gained from an unplanned evening in Balham.

It was a good night out.

I've been singing It Ain't Me Babe since.

Other memorable moments from the day include: Getting up early to queue for a free Honest Burger in Tooting, seeing the line, and heading to Brixton to pay for one instead. Buying a broken music box (pictured) at a vintage market, adding to the junk shop vibe my room already gives off thanks to that old desk (which is my favourite thing in the world.) Begging a bartender named Hoops to take his top off after seeing a photo of him shirtless - hot as hell, but he refused to succumb to our charms, so goes down to second place in the list of sexy shirtless bartenders we have been carefully curating. And a conversation - that took place during a scene of Walk The Line in which Johnny begs June to be with him - that made me smile:
Me: I hope someone feels like that about me one day
John: They will.
Me: How do you know?
John: Because you’re fantastic.

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