Awkward things.

Onto Older Times


I want to pluck flowers

Straight out of my garden.

I want to eat peas that I grew.

I want to embroider

The words that I live by,

Words that remind me of you.

I want to bake cakes

That last for a week.

I’ll feed every person I know.

I want to wear dresses

And stockings and aprons,

Wrap my hands up in compost and dough.

I want a white fence

That gleams in the sunshine,

A tree filled with blossom and fruit.

I want to sit still

Long enough to know silence.

I want to sow seeds and take root.

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The Unthinkable Has Happened…



Everything has started getting a bit strange. I mean, strange is kind of my thing. I bathe in it. I eat it for breakfast. Ok, eating something that you bathe in sounds a bit gross, but trust me, it’s perfectly normal on my planet. I can usually be described as kooky, crazy, unhinged, psychologically unsound, or stark raving barmy, and that’s ok, because it takes all sorts to make a world and I do just fine at not being put in a strait jacket. But life is usually a lot less… odd. If you’re weird and life is weird, how do you know you’re weird and not just normal? How do you know not to start thinking about pensions and drinking tea with milk and two sugars? What are the rules?!

I guess what I’m trying to say is… Deep breath…

I think I’m growing up.

Yeah I’m as shocked as you. More shocked actually, because when I was seven, I dug my heels into the ground and decided to stay in fairyland. I have never packed a bag and caught a bus out of there. I never left. And yet, somehow, I have caught some grown up thoughts and bad adult habits that I can’t shake off, no matter how ludicrous I look when I try. I tut at teenagers, (who seem a lot smaller and dumber than I was) think tea is the answer to all things, try to avoid any social occasions in favour of sitting down, think things were much better in my day, (it was the nineties, so I’m technically correct) and wonder why the hell my back is hurting.

Basically I’m counting down the days until I can die, because nothing’s like it used to be. Dubstep for some reason makes me want to vote UKIP, I want to vomit over every pair of Crocs or Uggs that cross my path, the word YOLO enrages me to an insane degree, (although I have happily adopted totes amazeballs, which is, ironically, totes amazeballs) and I cannot fathom why anyone wants a phone that is smaller than their face.

On the jolly side of the street, fumbling into adulthood has some advantages. It’s too early to tell, but fingers crossed, I may be learning to exist in this world without a carer wandering two steps behind me, with their arms outstretched, lest I take a tumble and break a hip. Yep, the upside of growing up is not almost dying every time I leave the house, or even when I’m inside it! I’ve finally learned to give death the finger and it’s liberating. Definitely worth not feeling comfy in anything but pyjamas and adding hashtags to everything because I’m #confused. So what are the new and exciting ways in which I’m embracing adulthood, I hear you ask? Ok, you didn’t ask, but I’m a deaf old lady now, so I can hear what I damn well please.

To start off, I’m really into cooking, like REALLY into it. In the past I’ve been super into eating food, sniffing food, thinking about food and decorating myself with food, but I’ve never been big on actually cooking the stuff. Until now. Now I spend my life gathering recipes and browsing Pinterest for food porn. I have lost half my weight in drool in the past WEEK. It also happens to be my birthday coming up, (two weeks! Eek!) and usually I would be clamoring for a sloth or a unicorn, or a sloth riding a unicorn, but this year, I’m mentally sending birthday Santa much more mature vibes. This year I want… Kitchen appliances. You may scoff, but have you ever SEEN a spiralizer? If not, Google it right this second, then add it to your Amazon wish list, because COME ON.

My second grannified vice is… Gardening. I am not what you might call green fingered. If you were looking for a garden-themed word to use, you might want to go with arsonist, since all I’ve ever done in my garden is set it on fire. Oh wait, I lie. When I was little, I planted some sunflowers, (which died) and I have a nice selection of dead pets pushing up the weeds, which may explain why they’re so big. But times have changed. I am now an adult, (allegedly) and I want to grow ALL THE THINGS! I am planning a vast garden of fruits and vegetables and herbs. I’ve made tiny plant markers with pictures and exclamation marks on them. I’ve already eaten mentally everything I’ve grown before I’ve even planted a seed. That is how dedicated I am, and delusional, don’t forget delusional. Because every time I’ve attempted plant nurturing before, I’ve added another plant corpse to my guilty conscience, but this time, THIS TIME, I will prevail!

One hobby that I never thought I’d catch is tidying. I’ve been privy to plenty of conversations about minimalistic-ness and visual noise, and just assumed that everyone had joined a Feng shui-related cult and not invited me. But I get it now. Tidying is amazing! That feeling of satisfaction you get when everything is put away, all the things are in their right space and no-one knows to look under the mat or in the cupboard. All right, so I haven’t totally embraced the whole tidying malarkey in its purest form, but why bother? If it’s wrong to get a kick out of fooling other people with a teensy, weensy swish (if sneaky) illusion, I don’t want to be right. Also, someone should tell Criss Angel because, you know, he does it all the time.

Other miscellaneous benefits of being a mature young lady (roflcopter) are: Being able to pour things into bottles without throwing the pouring liquid over anyone within a ten mile range, being able to chop things without losing any important limbs, and patience, PATIENCE! Who saw that coming?! No-one, that’s who.

Yeah, it’s pretty nice on this smug side of the fence. Don’t worry though, it’s Ok. I haven’t gone too far over to the thermal undies side of life. I’m still a seven year old who’s high on sherbet and the realisation that it’s past her bedtime and NO-ONE’S NOTICED. If there’s a puddle, I will jump in it; if there are bubbles, I will attack them in a frenzy; if there’s a puppy, it must be petted; if there’s a boring conversation, I will revert to the magical Pinterest in my mind, because really, who wants to talk about the offside rule? Perhaps I’ll never grow up, perhaps I will, but in the meantime, I’m enjoying straddling the fence, crocheting hashtags onto my slippers.