The monday musings of a crazy cat lady…



I was watching The Simpsons. He strolls into the room and plants a squidgy bundle of sellotape and wrapping paper on the bed. I look up, eyebrow cocked, and he nods towards the parcel.


After unfolding the glitter-caked paper I am reminded of that moment in Sex and the City (yes I am a teenager of the noughties who was embroiled in the wonders of American cable sitcoms, bootleg jeans and RnB), when Trey brings home a cardboard baby for his wife, Charlotte, because they can’t conceive and he deems this an appropriate novelty substitution.

Inside the paper I find a cat. Not a real cat, but one stuffed with polyester and furnished with glossy plastic eyes that follow you to every corner of the room.

I am not saying we are ‘trying for a cat’. Unless you can call yearning after the endless snapshots of a Google image search for ‘Exotic Shorthair Kittens’ trying. But my boyfriend did bring home this cuddly toy grumpy cat because I am cat-broody and unfortunately, at this moment in time, without the real thing. Polyester and plastic will just have to do…



Happy new year to my lovely readers, I hope your last few weeks have been filled with a little indulgence of all kinds. In racking my brains this morning for a New Year’s post I ventured down this nostalgic path…


Mechanical pencils are very often my weapon of choice, owing to many childhood years spent amidst shattered splinters of sharpenings and lead smears across my fingers and exercise book pages, but this morning, jutting from the hefty white ceramic fist that sits on my desk grasping my writing tools, a sliver of gold caught my eye.

Digging out a plastic sharpener in faded fuchsia from the bottom of my desk drawers, I gave this metallic sheathed scribbler its very first gasp of life. It shed its lustrous skin whilst the smell of wood shavings and lead scuffled up my New Year’s flu blocked nose and struck a chord in my brain that resonated with my eleven year old self, sharpening pencils in a blue diplodocus desk tidy that my Dad had purchased because I had a penchant for dinosaurs and it was obviously with much hilarity that one could sharpen their pencils in an extinct reptile’s bottom.

Once I’d grounded myself from my nostalgic wondering, I noticed the sharpenings had spiralled into a golden fringed crown… a regal start to the year.

Orange Peel.

I am a writer of many syllables, and so today’s monosyllabic writing task for the Daily Prompt proved a rather tricky prospect for my frantic pen…


She said that she should hide the tops of those legs, they were grim. She said she should hide the tops of those arms, they were grim too. Put all out of sight that is much the same as the peel of that fruit that the red-top sharp-wits like to spend their day’s words on. But what if your face is foul too?





My trainers were the whitest of white. Blobs of blood plummeted onto the milky leather, instantly at odds with their crisp colour.

My foot had slipped along the metal pole where the paint was cracked and flakes of rusty brown were starting to take ownership. On the way down my two front teeth met the metal bar, grinding between the dirty surface and my gums as the roots bent, the enamel crumbled and they tumbled to the floor.

I ran home, blood spurting from my mouth and down to my white trainers, a gap in my gums that rendered the remaining fangs vampire like in their protrusion against the void. For the first time, my childlike vision of immortality was shattered.


This post is in response to the Daily Post’s Daily Prompt “At what age did you realize you were not immortal? How did you react to that discovery?”

Monday Muse. I thought this only happened in Fireman Sam.


The burly fire fighters of London Town may be the knights of the city when it comes to burning buildings, but they’re also somewhat of a blessing with regards to the little things in life; that is, the little things that aren’t made for the introduction of little lives.

In the last year the London Fire Brigade has had to rescue over 1,500 toddlers, rug rats and teeny boppers from sticky situations, including (what I assumed was just an urban myth) several cases of Head vs. Railing. Other awkward objects included toy trains, toilet seats and traffic cones.

And all these heroic measures have crescendoed to the cool tune of a quarter of a million pounds… But perhaps Darwin would’ve just left them to it?

Monday Muse. I Seem to Have Misplaced My Clothes.


To the left of me a man peeled the last of his clothing from his tough tanned skin and stretched as though he’d been hankering for this freedom his entire life. To my right sat a group of women in their 60’s, ordering drinks and leaning over tables of tapas, skimming the food with unclad body parts that gravity had got the better of.

Gill told us the nudist beach existed just past the painted cliff face. The one that was brandished with a no swimwear sign. The one that we weren’t planning on passing. Apparently the nudists had spread their wings and decided their sandy quarters needed to stretch further afield.

Whilst sipping on my tinto de verano I noticed I wasn’t the only one in need of some refreshment, and that’s when I first noticed a perplexing point about nudists…

Being perhaps an ignoramus in thought, I had assumed that with the removal of one’s clothes in public came a certain adaptation in relation to one’s bodily movements. I was proved wrong when I noticed a beachgoer rummaging through his cooler box for quite some time, facing away from where I sat, bent from the waist up…

Nudism, you have not won me over.

New Balls Please.


Laura turns critic for the night at the Oxford Fringe’s new sketch show from Mullins & Gladwin…

There is something deliciously awkward about an expectant audience awaiting a comedy show. But there is something even more appetising about an expectant audience perched on the chairs of a Baptist church, the ones where the bible sits tucked behind the derrière of every spectator, just willing you to read it whilst you are waiting.

So it was amidst my education on the likes of Deuteronomy and Exodus that I was given my first taste of tonight’s comedic pair. It came courtesy of the kind of retro tune that wouldn’t have stood out of place on an 80s Saturday night sports show. The music teetered for a few moments longer than was natural, those extended seconds that comedians have revelled in since the likes of The Office and Family Guy discovered that audiences do like to be pushed past the extreme point of unease. I could only laugh… first serve to Mullins and Gladwin.

Behind their simple staging, the duo was kitted with a dress up box that even Mr Benn would have crossed mountains to claim, and thus we were treated to a compilation of colourful characters. There was the shop owner that had an insalubrious affection for the word ‘balls’, and the golf coach whose career goals were entrenched more in the West End than on the putting green. There were carefully tailored parodies of characters that even those who never even entertain the idea of sports-watching could recognise, such as the gum gnawing, talks-out-the-side-of-his-mouth, unresponsive football manager. Some sketches played with our sense of the familiar and the unexpected; a pair of boxers gearing up for a tumultuous game of tiddlywinks, and the snooker player who really is listening to THAT commentary.

It was with a shrewd wit that the duo took on the England squad’s notorious affection for the National Anthem, treating us to a dance that wouldn’t have been out of place in the Sadler’s Wells… here we had two performances for the price of one.

Mullins certainly tickled some funny bones with his love affair with a cardboard cut out of Jessica Ennis – if only he knew she was having another man’s baby – whilst Gladwin delighted with his uncanny impersonation of Chris Tarrant; it was all in the twitching eyes…

Laughter is without doubt the best medicine, and there is certainly no scientific formula as to its creation, but you might just be able to self medicate if you catch these two in action.

Catch Mullins and Gladwin in Oxford at the end of July for the Oxford Archway

Monday Muse. The Following Takes Place Between 6:00 P.M and 7.00 P.M


When I was younger I used to be told I had a heart of stone. I would sit in front of a weepy film seemingly unaffected whilst the rest of my family whimpered into their Kleenex.

Perhaps this is why I am excessively empathetic as an adult.

Take the American drama, 24 for example. I would put a spoiler alert here but I don’t believe that there is anyone as archaic as me when it comes to catching up with Jack Bauer’s latest exploits. I am still just ploughing my way through series six.

Mid way through series five I was presented with a heart wrenching moment whereby the loveable chubby office geek -one who provoked the sympathetic head tilt every time he opened his mouth and uttered a mumbled sentence- met his premature end. He realised his demise just moments before it happened, his podgy little face uttering his best friend’s name as he collapsed on the floor amid a pile of brown polyester. My heart bled for this moment, I could not get over it. The image of his face would disrupt my thoughts for the next 24 hours and I would be relentlessly reminded as to how horrible this unreality actually was.

I seem to be plagued with taking fictional moments into my heart and letting them pluck at my strings until they snap. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t have it restrung.

Monday Muse. Metal Hunks.


Is it a pre requisite when having the bar of a trolley in your grasp that your mind resort to thoughts of propelling it into the river?

I wonder if this pile of discarded metal carts are the remorseful remains of some guilty jaunt or low budget joy ride.

Be that as it may, these trolley pushers are limiting their worlds to the powerful potential that ownership of a trolley could bring.

What’s in a kiss?


I lived my teens 160 characters at a time, during the age where text messages had to be short and sweet, and all grammar went for a mini break via the window. Nowadays I am a serial text essayist, I am free and easy with my word count and I am positively salacious with my fondness, that is, my text kisses.

So what happens when someone like me comes across someone who isn’t so carefree when it comes to text affection? Trapped in a simmer of too many thoughts at a time, when I read a text minus the kiss, by brain gets swamped with a cacophony of questions. Have I done something wrong? Am I being punished? Did I forget their birthday? Because when I hang on to my kisses I am outwardly expressing a mood of annoyance.

I then start to wonder about the person… Do they save their kisses for special recipients? Do they think a kiss is too precious to bestow on every member of their phonebook? How do I become ‘x’ worthy in their eyes

Then I face the predicament of whether or not I ignore their current lack of affection and continue to douse them with mine, or descend to their level and reply sans kiss. If I have messaged them first will they notice my sudden lack of a kiss? Will that make things uncomfortable, like I’m trying to make a point… that I have become well aware of their lack of affable text behaviour and have decided that I too can be just as callous.

From time to time I will send a text as a one off connection, but it leads to a hurried chat, sending and receiving responses every ten seconds, to which I then start to feel imbecilic signing off with kiss every time. I have visions of red lipstick plastered all over their face as they’re overloaded with statements of my love. But do I stop? If I stop will they notice? I just feel so ridiculous carrying on… if it were a real conversation I certainly wouldn’t be kissing my friend on the cheek at every sentence.

Perhaps it was this mess that caused some people to go ‘x’ free when it comes to texting, maybe they’re not so coldhearted after all…

Whatever your opinion, whatever side of the kissing gate you sit, we live in a veritable minefield of x’s.