I’ve never really had a head for numbers, but I know all the important ones.
I am a great liar. I know, it’s not a particularly endearing character trait, but I try to only whip it out for small scale jobs, like pretending to door-to-door salesmen that I’m only 17 or offering a detailed description of a nightmare train journey to my boss as the reason why I’m late, rather than saying that crying until I was sick was the reason that my schedule got knocked slightly out of whack.
Yesterday, when I heard the news that Victoria Wood had died, I longed for my mum’s bed.
Timehop is as close to an on-phone game that I ever get. Used merely to remind one of the most mundane moments of life so far by some, to me Timehop is a daily puzzle in which I have to match up a seven year old tweet with the name of whichever boy it was aiming to impress at the time.
I saw a guy wearing a Deadpool onesie at the cinema last week. And I don’t mean a Deadpool suit, by the way, I really do mean a onesie; it was loose and a bit bobbly. Classic onesie.
The Life Changing Magic of Not Giving a F**k took advantage of me.
It’s that time of year when supermarkets get greedy, stick two fingers up to the chronological order of our calendars and awkwardly cram Valentine’s Day items next to Easter items, as if anyone, at the point when they realise that February is just a dreary 28-day extension of January, cares whether the chocolate that they put into their mouths, or anywhere frankly, is heart shaped or egg shaped.
Gourmet Murder Kitchen is a not a cheap horror film, shot in the kitchens of a community centre in Basingstoke, with a plot that sees Gordon Ramsay pick off a cast of beautiful female trainee chefs.
The Black Country Embroidery Society are total bitches.