Tag: gonzo

Booty is in the eye of the beholder

Brynseng Subway, Oslo, 2026

Yep – you read that right. Bear with me.

I somehow managed to throw my back out from laughing like a crazed hyena last night – at a bloody meme (or, let’s be honest, its absurdity). Needless to say, I’ve slept next to fuck all and my brain is acting very much like itself. It does what it wants.

So, it should come as no surprise, then, that the very thing that made me see the Kodak moment quality of the scenery in the post’s featured image was a song that’s been stuck in my head all day without me realising it was. I was trapped in a Buffyverse-like demonic musical with no end in sight, with every song derived from the holy grail; the song that continued to escape me, just as I had it on the tip of my tongue. Until the sun ripped through the clouds for approximately 32 seconds, creating the mirage of a slightly silvery shine to the pavement, I had no idea I’d been building up to a Victor Hugo classic.

Have you guessed it yet? Not to worry, you’ll find a link at the bottom of the post if not. Well, the link will be there regardless…

Anyway… went off on a bit of a tangent there. But, if that particular song isn’t a deluxe version of a booty call, I don’t know what is.

I’ve never been fond of metaphors. Never liked the mystery, shall we say – I preferred directness’ more bombastic quality. Yet, as I’ve grown older and more afraid of being caught in a special kind of fuck up loop from which there’s no escape (unless you fancy winding up in a parallel dimension fuck up loop bonanza), it seems I’ve started using them.

“Desperation

Zombie nation

Vacant, lifeless stares

Screens displaying my worst fears“

My own goddamned lyrics, but only I know the meaning of the words I didn’t dare say. This, of course, shall remain a mystery. Unless you read my book, of course.

But, yeah, back to the booty. The term booty, as we know it today – I’m not about to go into a whole thing about its origins – is synonymous to three things; a loot plundered from an enemy (as seen in numerous pirate movies), a somewhat sizeable arse or, you know, that thing. Now, the original expression is ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder’. I’ll argue that we can gather from any anthropology experiment, that people will have different views on what they will define as either of those three aforementioned definitions as well. In fact, I think beauty in and of itself has lost its meaning, with the constant need to push beauty standards so far up into the atmosphere that you need the help of artificial intelligence to do the airbrushing. So why not say it like it is; what might shiver your timbers may not shiver those of your neighbours.

Ooft, that was a bit of a mouthful.

What do I want from you, you may ask. Why am I ending this post before I’ve even reached a conclusion? Well, I want you to tell me what you want to read about, what you think the booty’s all about, why you think a 40yo woman can’t make herself write the word that’s fallen between the lines here…

Again, buy my book and you might get an idea. Haha. It is very late and I have a sequel to write, as I was ever so gently reminded of earlier today.

Now, I am going to go “live inside my head” for a bit. See you next Tuesday.

*This week, we mourn the loss of the late Anthony Head. May he rest in peace.

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What are you grateful for?

View over Portobello and Easter Road from Arthur's Seat

This is a question I’ve had to ask myself these past few days, as May seemed to whizz past like a brown-dyed whirlwind, with no sign of pausing at any point – if I’d had the money to pay someone to give me a lobotomy, I likely would.

But then, out of the blue, small moments of thankfulness make themselves known in the shape of an image, a smell, a voice message from a mind reader, that all remind me that I do have things to be grateful for. And that’s why, dear reader, I felt the need to write about the good things that make life worth living today. It’ll be a very short post, but don’t let that take anything away from the fact that acknowledging random glimpses of light makes one hell of an impact on the sometimes seemingly all-encompassing darkness.

If you’ve ever been so fortunate as to experience Edinburgh in springtime, you should be able to smell the photo at the top of this post – it’s a bizarre sort of coconutty smell emanating from the “common gorse”, its bright yellow flowers lighting the hillsides of Arthur’s Seat (and my heart) on fire. My first whiff of these bad boys, I was sure I’d overexerted myself during a run and was having a stroke!

Now that I’ve reached a ripe old age where that’s a distinct possibility, I’d kill for that to be the last thing I ever smelled. Not just because I think it’s a very nice smell, but because just looking at old photos of this peculiar plant brings me back to the things I am most grateful for – friendships forged in unbreakable materials, gargantuan gigs, the break of the first post-Fringe morning, my neighbour Iain, Easter bloody Road, running alongside Porty beach, kirkyard parties, CROY, trips down south on the Caledonian Sleeper, visits from the auld country, getting to see others experience this incredible city for the first (or thousandth) time … All I need to jump into Narnia for a brief moment, is one look at a photo.

So, I suppose I’m grateful for … Thomas Wedgwood and his failures?

Either way, there’s light in the darkness and I’m off to capture some of it. To my dear pal, whose birthday I am still celebrating two days later, I hope you know that I am endlessly grateful your light stretches across oceans.

To the rest of you, I shall see you next Tuesday. Until then, you should check out The Gratitudes.

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When compromise turns into complete self-sacrifice – where do you draw the line?

Bunk bed electrical socket on a nightliner bus

The featured image is the only photographic evidence (online) of my ever having set foot in Colorado, despite the fact that what brought me there was, by far, the coolest thing to ever happen to me at that point. Maybe even to this day. So, why didn’t I share a few of the million shots I took on that trip? Of the amazing bunch of people I spent the best part of a week with? The shows? The fucking Colorado River? Why did I decide that a wall socket with a bizarre caption was more than enough? Truth? I was terrified that my palpable uncoolness would make them look bad, should someone stumble upon my Instagram account and discover my ineptitude in not realising I was punching so far above my weight that it caused the Earth’s axis to shift at least 10 inches.

Yet, at the same time, I felt I was making a sacrifice. I was denying myself a potentially positive experience, and who knows – it could have even helped boost ticket sales or something. Whatever, I was there for the ride and it was fantastic. I can’t do much about it now, but it’s part of a pattern in me that I’d very much like to break.

The first time I decided to extract myself from a situation where I’d suffer if I did, but also if I did not, was in school. I must’ve been about 10 and I was picked to sing the lead in the school musical – a big fucking deal, of course – but my best friend made it very clear that she would no longer be mine if I didn’t somehow convince the music teacher he should offer her the gig instead. Now, this was a particularly big sell, as she had a blooming hole in her oesophagus from drinking caustic soda as a toddler, resulting in a not so lovely singing voice… but when it comes to self-deprecation, there’s none better than me at making others see things from my point of view. Needless to say, she got the part and I managed to convince myself that it had all been a ruse to make me realise I was actually less talented than a dog turd that can’t even make it all the way out of the dog’s arse and just clings to the sphincter by a threadbare sliver of sausage encased in grass and slime. Thus, I stopped playing the guitar and singing for just long enough for this prophecy to fulfil itself.

Two very different experiences, and none of them really that formative, but you should be able to get the general idea. I’ve been unable to compromise and instead gone all in on the self-sacrifice. You can read more about self-sacrifice in an article by Andrea Mathews om Psychology Today, by clicking anywhere on this sentence.

Regardless, I’ve been thinking about the sacrifices we make and what purpose they really serve, when the ones you are making the sacrifice for don’t know – or realise – that you are making one. Instead, they see how the consequences of having sacrificed your own happiness for them manifest as frowns on your face and start berating you for bringing negativity to their space – wherever that may be. And all you want to do is tell them about the sacrifice you made, why you thought it necessary and how it’s taking all of the fun out of everything now, when your efforts are not being appreciated nor acknowledged. It’s like that saying about the bear defecating in the woods; if no one sees your sacrifice, is it even there?

I don’t have the answer, other than I don’t think the people you think you’re making a sacrifice for can smell that that’s what you’re doing, unless you tell them. And that’s a terrible idea in and of itself. Behaving in a way that makes me feel as if I am making a personal sacrifice, which in turn will be detrimental to my own well-being, and pretending that it’s anything other than self-sabotage, is not very fucking sustainable if you want to live a life that’s not filled with guilt, bitterness and remorse.

Time for the self-deprecation talk to take a hike. I shall see you next Tuesday.

Oh, and since it’s my best pal’s birthday week, do something nice for yourself in her honour. Me, I’m listening to the Elton John song below:

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Every cloud…

Except, no, there’s no reason to believe the silver lining applies to genital-shaped cumulus. Cumuli? Anything I learned from my one semester of meteorology seems to have escaped my mind, not unlike the dish that ran away with the spoon. Forgive me.

The second I noticed the skies were descending upon me in the shape of a million bawbags (and just one single cock and balls) – so much so that I stopped, mid-run, to take a photo – I should have recognised it for what it was; a bad fucking omen.

They call it a relapse. I might call it a re-lapse. In judgement (as if one had the sense to make judgments at all). Either way, I say relapse is a four-letter word. Particularly as there hasn’t been any significant and/or prolonged ‘lapse’, and I believe the former requires the latter in order to simply come to be.

Now, before you get ahead of yourself there, I need you to hold your horses just a bit. We’re not talking alcohol here – although it certainly doesn’t help on the occasion it’s poured into the mix – and I’m too high strung to get much effect from any drug. No, I’m afraid we’re dealing with a much more sinister beast here…

It’s her. She’s sensed that my shoulders have come down an inch or two and she’s stepped in to make sure I burn all bridges before anything can happen.

In her defence, she’s only trying to protect me. The teenager trapped inside, too far gone to let go and far too sceptical from experience to let anyone come too close. So, when she rears her ugly head (honestly, one ugly mug is more than enough, we don’t need two), the curtains come down and our consciousness goes on holiday.

She does not give a fuck about any inconvenience caused by her micromanagement. And we suffer. Oh, we suffer.

And this is how I come to wake up on a Sunday morning, having lost approximately 43 minutes of my time between 2am and 3 the night before. Oh, and something else seemed to have gone missing; my bra. How the fuck one goes about losing one’s racerback fucking bra whilst managing to keep every other piece of clothing on is beyond me. My immediate and obvious reasoning was that I must have taken everything off in the pub in an attempt to shag some poor cunt’s husband. It’s not something that’s happened before, but one might assume one gets tired of making the same mistakes at some point, leaving no choice but to reinvent the wheel and make way for some new ones.

A full 24 hours passed, without the resurfacing of said piece of clothing. Having to monitor my blood pressure on a weekly basis, the very beepy machine told me it was about 180/95, but my fever, nausea and blurred vision had already told me that much. Related to the missing bra? Quite possibly. At least somewhat. Add in some work stuff and a few days of poor nutrition and I think we have a winner.

Regardless, I managed to find the fucker after having washed all of my washables – including my sheets and towels. What I have yet to find, though, is my dignity. Or, indeed, the courage to check to see what damage was done over the course of the weekend. Perhaps we’ll never know.

Lest we die of shame – or have another blackout – we shall see you next Tuesday. Until then, enjoy the spectacular featured image and one of the finest and bizarre tunes ever written, by the one and only Kenny Rogers, in the video below. Peace!

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What is best in life?

When a young barbarian was asked this very question, his reply was simply this;

“To crush your enemies, see them driven before you and to hear the lamentation of their women” (Conan the Barbarian, 1982)

To each their own, I suppose. Not my personal preference, but it was certainly what fuelled Conan’s fire in his quest for happiness. (Spoiler alert: I can also recall him chucking a witch into the fire, but with less success. I digress).

What brought me here today, to this particular quote, is a rather simple observation; we need to focus on the things that make life living if we want to get through the political shitstorm we’re all in at the moment, because tearing each other down isn’t solving anything (although, it might lead to the lamentation of a woman or two).

I’ll be very brief today, and perhaps uncharacteristically rantless, but I think – with a little help from our friend Conan, portrayed by the illustrious Arnold Schwarzenegger – that the shorter length might help spread the word.

A wise person once said that you cannot change another person. This is of course a truth with some modifications, because you can absolutely change someone by treating them badly, but the change achieved will likely not be what you were after. So, in order to achieve sustainable change in a controlled environment, you will need a subject who is entirely under you’re control; yourself.

In changing your own less desirable qualities, you might like yourself more. Hell, you might even inspire and motivate others to do the same. Treat others the way you’d want them to treat you; with compassion and respect. If they fail to return the favour, there’s an easy fix; cut them loose. You don’t need to waste your time and energy on the undeserving few.

I know what you’re thinking… “But, we’ve been friends for so long, I can’t give up on them“, or, “but they’re my mum, how can I let them down?” Guess what? If you’re the only one making an effort – and it’s making you feel miserable, to boot – they’re not holding onto you for your sake. You’ve got something they need. More than likely, they’ve already taken so much from you, that there’s very little left, apart from shame and codependency.

Cut them loose. Let go of any bitterness – it’s not going to make you any stronger. If anything, it’ll make you resentful and/or unable to give what you want to someone you do want to stick around.

We can’t change how others view the world, but we can try to understand why their views might differ from our own. You might even learn that they’re more enlightened than you first assumed, and that their beliefs are the only logical option for their situation – that doesn’t mean that you’re wrong. Our views, our beliefs, our truths are shaped by our experiences. Subjective truths may not always be factual, but I’d argue there is no objective truth in shared experience. You’re entitled to your opinion here, of course. This one’s mine.

My point is this:

Treat yourself and others with compassion. Sometimes showing compassion means leaving before it’s too late. Sometimes it means accepting an opinion we do not share. If we’re too focussed on who’s to blame or their shitty qualities, we’ll venture so far away from resolving the initial issue that the shitemongers will win.

Also, don’t take it upon yourself to take people down a peg as you see fit – I appreciate that most people have been raised in loving, supporting homes and communities that have convinced them that this is true for everyone, but you don’t know what sort of shit you’re stirring up within those that have experienced the opposite. They’re already down further than you can fathom and haven’t a peg to spare.

That’s it. I’ll see you next Tuesday. Until then, feast your eyes upon the glorious display of wholesomeness below.

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More is more…

A for anarchy in red on black background

Once upon a time, when the hacker was still just as elusive and enigmatic as Sméagol himself, a pointless character in a nonsensical movie franchise uttered the claim “ignorance is bliss”, a phrase that has since been quoted ad nauseam. Whilst uttering these meaningless words, said character was chomping away at a slab of beef – all the while pointing to the fact that he was aware that the steak and the whole situation in that particular reality itself was entirely artificial and bogus. Regardless of the fact, the character portrayed himself as blissful because he chose to be unaware that the scenario was being fed to him via The Matrix. Which, in and of itself, defeats the whole purpose of him being ignorant, as he was clearly aware of his existential circumstances. If you are aware, you cannot claim to be ignorant. Thus, if ignorance is bliss and you are aware, you cannot be blissful.

What’s more, ignorance is not ‘bliss’, it’s defined as a lack of awareness and foresight. To simplify – much in the vein of rock legend Yngwie Malmsteen – bliss is bliss and ignorance is ignorance. One does not follow the other in any logical way.

Yes, I know it’s just a movie, but this particular scene planted a seed… a seed that somehow grew into a gargantuan parasite that set out to infect an entire generation with thinking those words justify their unwillingness to learn. It’s given them an excuse to be selective about knowledge (something we all know is the only point in getting old and senile; you finally get to edit out the shite you don’t want to hear).

Eejits.

Hold on tight, I can smell a rant coming.

I currently find myself living in a country that seems to have some sort of vexillology fetish. If, for any reason whatsoever, there’s cause for getting a flag out, out it shall come. Hoist that fucking rag (brilliant Tom Waits song, by the way), regardless of said rag’s connotations, be they political or similarly sinister in nature.

Here, they love marching for no apparent reason. They’ll gather at the town hall and walk around in circles, waving their flags and shouting messages whose origin no one really took the time out to figure out. They just like the feeling of doing something good. They like the word solidarity, but haven’t a clue what it means.

It’s as meaningful as claiming to support ‘the troops’, without knowing what troops they are supporting, what they are fighting for, or from whence the fuck they’ve originated, for that matter. They boast about their support of one nation’s leader and proudly post about their hostility towards another on social media, not even realising they are two sides of the same coin; evils, where neither is the ‘lesser’.

They hang flags in their windows in support of a nation they know nothing about. Without thinking, they do what the Internet tells them to. Do they even know what the flag stands for?

Will they admit that they didn’t even care about any conflict. That, truth be told, it wasn’t even on their radar until it started affecting their cost of living? The energy prices have skyrocketed, so you must blame someone. Anyone. Did they think the flag they bought off Temu, that wasn’t the exact colour but close enough, was going to bring down the price of petrol?

My meaning here is not to point fingers at anyone picking sides… I think any desire to solve conflicts with warfare – cold or not – is abhorrent. No, what I mean to say is this; educate yourselves enough to know how these things can be avoided, or at least subdued. Or, worst case scenario, you’ll know enough to morally decide which side to fight on if push comes to shove. Fighting for what’s fair shouldn’t have to end in bloodshed or everlasting war.

Ignorance is not bliss. Ignorance is the beginning of the end.

If I’ve not scared you off for good, I’ll see you next Tuesday.

Listen to Bad Religion!

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No such thing: The urgency of agency

No matter where I go or what I do – or don’t – these days, there’s no escaping the constant bombardment of someone’s voice, whether that’s an actual voice, an advert or a poorly written – and often grossly and/or grammatically incorrect – public announcement. Whenever I apply for a job, being able to adapt your writing to their tone of voice is at the top of their wish list (where it should be, to be fair).

Please forgive my need to insert the slightly superfluous ‘constant’ in front of ‘bombardment’ – a word that per definition already alludes to a sustained activity – perhaps I was having a mini-stroke, and that it for a millisecond fed/refuelled/resuscitated my aversion to anything less intense than extra extra.

Anyway…

Whenever I turn on the telly, there’s always some beige blob waffling on about some non-topic, seemingly fearful of its own demise lest its non-message gets out everywhere, all at once, despite its obvious lack of talent, knowledge and/or personality, its trivial theatrics drowning out any relevant or important messages that might have accidentally and concurrently gotten onto the airwaves somehow. The Voice! A whole enterprise void of fucking significance, other than being a platform for the beige to celebrate the beige…

Voices, voices everywhere, yet not a speck of inspired insight within the vessels from which they’ve escaped…

Which makes everything seem so trivial, so insignificant, so unfathomably meaningless.

I do fucking love a perfectly placed superlative.

Although, not to a lecherous degree. Enough with the digressions. Despite what you might be thinking, what I wanted to write about today was not voices. No, sir. Today, I write about the message. That’s not to say that the voice or its owner is not important – far from it – but they remain empty. Nothing but conveyors of the all-important message.

We’ve all heard the saying, ‘don’t shoot the messenger’. But, although I wholeheartedly agree that we shouldn’t be going around shooting (most) people, I certainly think that the messenger should be held accountable for any misinterpretations/misrepresentations, and/or the delivery of any messages written with nefarious intent, where there is reason to believe that the delivery of said message will be catastrophic for the recipient.

Speaking of messengers, the pigeon in the post’s header was already far beyond saving when I discovered it on my way to the subway. I played no role in its seemingly grotesque beheading, which I can only imagine to have been some sort of ritual sacrifice to please the rush hour gods. I’ve named him Alfred, my he rest in peace, this eternal half-pigeon of subway lore – perhaps the last of Mike Tyson’s messenger pigeons. Who knows? Maybe, just maybe, he had failed to deliver his message and this was his punishment?

There are quite a few examples where things have gone tits up, merely due to a person’s lack of grasp on punctuation and its function, or they’ve simply failed to adhere to the concept of time and arrived too late (or too early), managing to almost cock up the future of an entire empire.

Research tells me there’s no evidence of punctuation errors having (as of yet) been punishable by death (contrary to popular belief), but I remain hopeful that one of the more reasonable of our world leaders will at least organise some sort of consequential punishment of the monetary variety, to prevent any future violations.

Nevertheless, understanding history is important, in some cases even crucial, but understanding who wrote it and why some things were thoroughly documented whilst others merely mentioned, is equally as (if not more) important, for hear me when I say;

there is no such thing as a neutral messenger.

The messenger may not have an agenda per se, but more often than not when that is the case, they will have been hired by someone who most certainly does. We see this in politics, religion, fahrking reality shows… who can even tell the difference between those three these days?

The media, i.e. us journalists, had one job; to report the news of the world, document both sides of a story to present the general public with the unbiased and honest truth, so that they would be able to form their own opinion based on actual events.

However, it’s been a long time since the media gave a fuck and a half about integrity. It’s all ’bout the money, it’s all about the dumb, dumb, dumb-bah-dumb, dumb. Or whatever Meja sang, way back when. I’d argue that the art of reporting died the second the first Netflix “documentary” aired, presenting one side of a non-story to make it seem as if there was one. This, again, led to a global lapse in judgement across the aforementioned general public, and they somehow started believing everything the internet fed them to be the absolute truth.

Idiocracy had somehow become our reality. Every headline serving up piping hot truths – or, at least, the A/B tested version of someone’s not-so-fresh take on their version of it – made the same article mean different things to different people, based on what type of headline their sordid little selves clicked on. If you’ve spent even a day past fresher’s week in uni, you know just how useful quantitative research is without its qualitative equivalent…

The sociopathic fiend that decided this was something that should be used by the media should perhaps meet a fate similar to that of our avian acquaintance Alfred. Because they have made a villain out of the messenger. The once trusted reported has become a joke, a parody, a liar and a prostitute. They’ve made the world into a place bereft of trust or hope. No wonder folks are fleeing to outer space on a pocket rocket.

If the men in the white coats fail in their attempts to locate my lair, I shall see you next Tuesday. Until then, enjoy this fabulous tune (quite possibly one of the weirdest gems to find in my dad’s cassette collection, squeezed in between E.L.O. and Gary Moore):

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“Courage grows strong at the wound”

Or does it? Sources1 say, it depends on the context. It, of course referring to the term courage, the ability to grow strong, the wound (and the nature of the wound), and/or all of the above.

Confused? Well, prepare to have your confusion intensified.

Go, go, confusion aggravator!

Somewhat loosely (or not so loosely, depending on the translator’s localisation abilities) translated from the Latin virescit, vulnere, virtus, this served as a clan’s motto back in [insert googleable factual numerical here]th century Scotland. Since then, it’s become a well-known phrase among non-native, occasional British Isles-dwelling, Anglophiles.

One would assume. I’m no historian.

The phrase, however interpreted, and its ambiguous meaning has always been rather intriguing to me. What I’m about to delve into, my dear reader, is the phrase’s meaning in relation to a couple of different types of wounds. Let’s get on with it, shall we?

Let’s get physical

Likely the most common type of wound; the flesh wound. The kind that more often than not leaves you with a gnarly scar, and in some cases with sepsis and death. Commonly found on miniature humanoids, clumsy fully grown humanoids and shark attack survivors, physical wounds are as common a sight to us as a depiction of the baby Jaysus.

Assuming the origin of the phrase had anything to do with the interpretation, you might be right in thinking that this is where the ‘courage’ bit came from. But surely, being stabbed doesn’t make you courageous? Unless a sword to one of the major arteries leaves you completely bereft of life, it makes you lucky to have survived – not courageous. Although, once you’ve survived such a thing, you’re left with the knowledge that it is possible to escape death in such a scenario, so you might venture into the same situation again, if prompted. Does it make you courageous, though? Or just reckless?

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, lest it smelled of almonds, as famously unspoken by a young Capulet in a Shakespeare play.

Physical wounds, whether character building or not, are often inflicted upon the wounded by another physical entity, or oneself. Although the latter might take us directly into the next category.

This one was getting out of hand anyway.

Scarred for life

Figuratively speaking, of course, we’re talking about emotional wounds. The ones you can blame your parents for.

Do they make you courageous, though? Defiant? Bitter? Or just useless? Well, unless you’re planning on looking into how your emotional trauma scarred you in order to better understand how and why you self-sabotage your interpersonal relationships and/or life as a whole and indulge in some habit reversal training, holding onto those scars won’t do much in the way of getting the abusive monkey off your back. And, if you don’t mind me saying; tackling your inner demons takes courage.

So, what’s the conclusion here? Can courage grow strong at a wound? If anything, I reckon any trauma, corporeal or psychological, plants a seed. Whether or not that seed grows into something useful depends on the way you cultivate its growth. I also believe that courage is impulsive. It cannot be taught. It comes to you in your time of need, when there’s no time to mull things over. Your ability to analyse posttraumatic events for healing purposes will leave your subconscious better equipped to handle future traumatic events. These are my beliefs, not facts. My take on it. It’s only words, and words are all I have, to take your heart … hang on, not heart… Nevertheless, listen to the Bee Gees tune embedded below if you want to hear what comes next in the lyrics. I do not plan on shouting Kali Ma from the rooftops any time soon.

Don’t let anyone stab you, physically or mentally. Or, if you do, remember this quote from the Stewarts – the origins of the Clan Stewart and their place in Scotland’s history (LangSyne publishing, 2005):

‘To the dungeons strong

Haul the wretches along,

As in Christ’s my hope,

They deserve the rope.’

Enjoy the music, and I shall see you next Tuesday.

  1. It’s me. I’m the source ↩︎
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Lady Cerebellum takes a holiday

I’ve no idea where my Monday went. Evidence suggests that shit got done during my mental check-out, but I couldn’t tell you how. Perhaps I’ve been visited by the adulting fairy? Although, that sounds rather pervy and I’d like to get at least an hour of sleep tonight, so let’s not entertain that particular thought.

Remember that band Lady Antebellum? For some reason, whenever I heard that one song they had, that seemed to get a lot of airplay about a decade or so ago, I could never get their name right and kept referring to them as Lady Cerebellum. Incidentally, that’s what I’ve started calling myself when that part of my brain seems to shut me out and hide its activity from me. Sometimes, it shuts itself off completely, leading to hilarious and/or near-fatal situations in which I lose my balance and/or the ability to speak properly. I could be standing completely still in the shop one second, trying to decide which type of granola to get, and then see the floor coming towards my face at warp speed the next.

Maybe this is a sign that I should try dating again – or better yet, ask my GP to assign me a carer. Who knows? I’ve managed to stay upright for most of today, though, so I’m not about to download any apps any time soon.

Without a shadow of a doubt, being in the middle of moving house for the umpteenth time in five years was what caused my Monday blackout. I’m living in a box, I’m living in a cardboard box (in my case, there’s ten of them, but who’s counting). I’ve had that song stuck in my head all day – likely all of yesterday as well – so I don’t feel bad for passing along this little earworm.

Also, if you’re not familiar with this song, you’re too young to be reading this.

When I was getting ready for bed on Sunday, after having returned from a work trip, unpacked and re-packed what I had just unpacked in one of my ten boxes, I was thinking about how impossibly long this week was going to be, as I had almost four whole days before getting the keys to my new flat – so my brain saves the day by stealing one.

It’s not the end of the world (at least not in this particular scenario – but I’d stay away from the news). In fact, I’d go as far as to say that this particular post would end up on the cutting room floor had I been the editor-in-chief. Oh, wait, I technically am her… so, today I say fuck it. We all have days like these, don’t we?

Perhaps we could use this post as a reminder to take a step back. Today, a colleague I hold in very high regard told me that she’s trying to use her phone less, so she’s taking up all sorts of cool hobbies. I think that, once I get settled in my new flat, I’ll take a page from her book. Not that I spend a lot of time on my phone – I think I’ve actually developed an allergy against it – but I need a hobby. At the very least, it would keep me switched-on for long enough that my brain won’t have the chance to organise a mutiny behind my back.

See you next Tuesday, from a rung or two up from the bottom of the food chain…

In the meantime, please read one of my other, better posts. Or buy my book. I need the money more than ever, now I’ve become a home owner. Ha.

Also, go check out my pal, PT and exquisitely inspirational life-turn-arounder (ooft) Danny Appolinari, if you want to see some top-notch wellbeing content and exercise and nutrition hacks. Congrats on completing the Rome marathon!

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