Like party guests, storms are only fun when they don’t wreck your house and leave a giant mess for you to spend the day cleaning up.

So, the Great Storm Of 2013 is officially over and all anyone can talk about is the wind (which completely bypassed my area). What they’ve failed to acknowledge is the rain.

When I woke up this morning, I was treated to the delightful sight of the ground floor of my house underwater, because a neighbour of mine thought it would be a good idea to put a cap in the ditch that drains excess water away from our house.

Because I live in an old house, the ground floor comprises mostly of flagstones suspended over earth. This means that if water is to spill out of the ditch next to the house, it flows straight underneath. And if the water levels get too high, that results in water seeping up through the floor.

In other news, I discovered that my left welly has a hole in it.


I have nothing against being asked out. Just saying, in case any more guys want to try it.

Ask any of my friends that I have talked to over the past six months and they will tell you that a major theme in my life is whining about how I don’t have a boyfriend.

I got asked out yesterday.

However, to put my own spin on the old adage: ‘You wait ages for a bus and then a Hammerhead Eagle i-Thrust comes along.’

Now, it may seem a tad hypocritical for me to turn down the only boy who’s shown the slightest hint of proactive behaviour when it comes to winning my fair hand, but I really, really, really don’t want to go out with my barely-literate and slightly scary next door neighbour. I think this is a fair response. Also, I don’t like how he treats his animals, and treatment of animals is actually a surprisingly large factor in my choice of boyfriend. I won’t go as far as to say that I dumped my last boyfriend because of his insistence on dropping my cats from waist height to see if they bounced, but I’m not not saying it, either.

So, to update my criteria for choosing a bounce-buddy: if your name is not Captain America, you need not apply.


PS: The Great Storm Of 2013 is due to hit tonight. The prime minister has actually called an emergency meeting to deal with it.

The UK appears to be paying for several centuries of ‘Rain, Rain, Go Away…’

Apparently, there is a storm about to hit the south of England the likes of which hasn’t been seen since The Great Hurricane of 1987.

I live in the south of England.

Or, to be more precise, I live in the most flood-prone section of the south of England, and I happen to live in a 40-mile wide basin between several hills. I’m still not sure what all the fuss is about, though, as there’s nothing here but trees. While I can understand removing all the leaves from your garden so they don’t block the drains, I think it’s a little premature to sandbag your house. Especially as the storm isn’t supposed to hit until Monday. It’s Saturday, everyone!  And this is England! It rains on an almost daily basis! So what if it’s a little windy as well?

In other news, I have unwittingly been entered into a competition with my brother to see who can run the 1.9 mile circuit next to our house in the fastest time. My personal best is 17.46* (minutes, not hours, amazingly), which I didn’t think was too bad seeing as I’ve only been running it for two weeks. That was until my thirteen year old brother went out this morning and ran it in 14.02, and had the gall not to even appear out of breath afterwards.

In fairness to me, I do not run cross-country for the county and I do not play sports on a regular basis.

On the other hand, my brother is not allowed to beat me at anything, ever, so I am prepared to rip a few muscles to shreds if that’s what it takes to beat him.

Also, the times are now on the kitchen wall, and I can’t actually live with the shame of everyone knowing that I am officially slower than my little brother. Although I have an incentive not to do too well: my mother has threatened to enter me into a race if I start running the circuit in less than 14 minutes.


*UPDATE: It’s now 17.10, but I nearly died, which isn’t really the effect you want from exercise.

Here, have a cartoon strip to demonstrate how badly this will probably turn out.


I am going to be worst novelist ever. I’m going to be the online equivalent of that person who rocks up late to everything and noisily eats sandwiches while blithely ignoring the Death Stares coming from everyone else. Of course, this is the attitude I have to this blog, and I’ve managed to keep it going (just about). And of course, because I have admitted that I have joined NaNoWriMo on this blog, I now actually have to write a novel. My whole plan goes: ‘find somewhere to sit and write the first thing that comes into my head’.

I think I bought a Chrysanthemum**. I’m not sure about plants.

I am now several months into my gap year and settling into the rhythm of things quite nicely, thank you very much. Unfortunately, ‘settling into the rhythm of things’ means being hopelessly bored of work, home, work, home and nothing else to do besides work on my personal statement.

In a spirit of rebellion against being pigeonholed for a year, I have become middle aged. I bought a house plant today and went grocery shopping for sensible things like soured cream and fruit. I have taken up knitting. I decorated a cake*. 

In fairness, the cake-decorating was carried out under threat of my mother’s wrath if she got home from visiting her friends and found it Not Decorated. She left me with a bowl of coffee-marscapone cake topping and told me to slap it on the cake yesterday. As I am an intensely proactive person, I decided to let the cat get there first and was left with half a bowl of coffee-cat-saliva-marscapone with which to demonstrate my culinary prowess and reliability to my mother.

This would not do, so I made a chocolate buttercream and stuck that on there, along with toffee sauce, by which time I was becoming enamoured with the idea of making a mess of the kitchen and topped it with cocoa powder and grated chocolate. The results are thus:

I have a theory. It goes: 'It's Going To Look Messed Up Once It's In Your Stomach, Who Cares What It Looks Like On The Plate, And If It Tastes Nice, What Does It Matter?' So far, it's a pretty good theory.
I have a theory. It goes: ‘It’s Going To Look Messed Up Once It’s In Your Stomach, Who Cares What It Looks Like On The Plate, And If It Tastes Nice, What Does It Matter?’ So far, it’s a pretty good theory.

It also appears that my kitchen is somewhere at sea. The tilt is me, my house isn’t that wonky.

*I hate baking, cooking and decorating food items. I have nothing against eating said food items, but I don’t actually like making them.

**EDIT: It’s a cyclamen, apparently. I told you I didn’t know about plants.