My blog is weird

You guys see a very different side to me in comparison to what many people in my life see. My closest friends know that I am pretty…erm…odd, but my work colleagues and casual acquaintances see “professional Jane.”

Professional Jane likes pencil skirts and blazers. She eats rye crackers and discusses politics with men in suits. She analyses exam results and collates them in the form of pie charts. She attends meetings with colleagues and has an actual clipboard. Sometimes, she ties her hair up with a pencil. Yes, professional Jane is a straight-laced, no-nonsense nine to fiver.

Then there’s “crazy Jane”. Crazy Jane tries to teach her cat how to curtsy (she *almost* has it). She has an inexplicable fear of foam and waltzes with herself. She likes to not stalk her neighbours with binoculars and pretend she’s a French mime artist. She also loves wrestling and tequila (in that order). Sometimes, she likes to drive slowly beside random joggers she’s never met while playing Eye of the Tiger. She also likes to frequent karaoke bars where she can rap California Love in its entirety.

So yes, I’m weird. But I’m not always weird. I could come on here and be normal but then you guys wouldn’t be (hopefully) laughing at with me.

In case you guys are wondering, crazy Jane mostly lives in a cage while professional Jane is at work. I let her out in the evening, where she likes to dance to Abba and blog. Crazy Jane sure loves to blog. She also loves talking to all her fellow weirdos and sending them virtual cake. She is uncomfortable with referring to herself in the third person so she’s going to stop now and knit some tea cosies even though she doesn’t have a tea pot. Sinister.

I like you guys a lot. I might even love you.

*Disney singing voice*

I got more awaaaards and life is wonderfuuuuuulllllll!

I’m not so sure about the second part, because a bird just shat on my Moschino handbag but the first part is definitely true :D

Firstly, the lovely tisfortea nominated me for a Liebster Award. I’ve posted the link to her own acceptance of the award because she is hilarious and sweet and you need to read it.

While I’m not going to actually do the whole nominating thing (only because I’ve done it a lot lately), I will answer your fantastic questions Helen!

What is your biggest regret?

I know it’s the cliched response but I try not to live with regrets. I don’t hold grudges and I don’t argue for very long with people, that’s the best way to avoid regret.
I do regret wearing my mother’s Prada shoes to a festival once. Sorry Mammy.

What is the first anecdote about yourself that you’d tell to impress someone new?

I’m not cool enough to tell anecdotes. I usually just get people liquored up pretty good. Usually works.

First crush?

A guy called Kenneth who I used to chase for kisses. He wore an Aran jumper and hid from me in the boys’ toilets.

How would you survive a zombie apocalypse?

I would find Keith Richards and pretend he’s my father. The zombies would think he was one of their own, so by association, I’d be safe.

Most embarrassing moment?

Fainting at mass, while altar serving. Yep. That happened.

When was the last time you cried?

Yesterday. I have all the emotions.

What is your relationship deal breaker?

Douchebaggery. The type of guy who puts a girl down to impress his friends.

Do you believe in karma?

Not as a supernatural force, but I do believe that if you are an asshat for most of your life, it will inevitably come back to bite you in the testicles.

How would your friends describe you?

Odd. Weird. Fun. Pensive. Sceptic. Sarcastic. Humorous.

What is your biggest pet peeve?

A bad attitude. I’m just a nice person who expects the same in return. Simple.

If you could tell anyone to royally fuck the fuck off who would it be, and why?

Probably Hitler. Maybe no one ever told him to fuck off and that was the problem.

Thanks Helen! Great questions :)

Next up, thegirlimtotallyobsessedwithbutdonttellhercauseitscreepy the brilliant Amanda over at Inside the life of moi. If you like me (please say you like me), you will love her! She’s funny and her posts make me want to clap out loud if that wasn’t actually really weird.
Amanda very kindly nominated me for the Quintet of Radiance Award.

Again, I’m not going to nominate. Please don’t think I’m being selfish here, I just have already accepted these awards and would be nominating the same people. I am so grateful to both Helen and Amanda and wanted to do this post because I love their blogs and I want you (yes you) to check them out.

For the Quintet Award, you are supposed to describe yourself with a different letter of the alphabet. I did that already so I thought to change it up I would provide you all with 26 brilliant and totally useable chat-up lines for you to use, each beginning with a different letter of the alphabet. You. Are. Welcome.

Are you from a forrest? Cause you’re a fox.

Baby, I’m a love pirate and I’m here for your booth. Arrrgh!

Could you be any hotter?

Do you have raisins? No? How about a date then?

Ew, did you just fart? Cause you blew me away!

Fat penguin. What? I just wanted to say something that would break the ice.

Given that the universe is infinite and time is infinite…wanna shag?

Hi, can I buy you several drinks?

Is it me or does this rag smell like chloroform?

Just do me.

Kiss me if I’m wrong, but is your name Chaniqua?

Life is too short for us not to be having sex right now.

Man, are you Jamaican? Cause jer-makin-me crazy!

Now I know angels exist!

Oh, you’re hotter than Papa Bear’s porridge!

P.S., I dig you.

Quel dommage que vous êtes seul
mais cela peut changer ce soir.

Roses are red, violets are blue, I have a gun, get in my van

Smoking is hazardous to my health and baby, you’re killing me!

There must be a light switch on my forehead, cause when I see you, I’m turned on.

Ukuleles. Unicorns. Things that are not as cute as you.

Very true. Sorry, I’m just telling my heart that I agree; you are the most beautiful girl in the room.

Wow, did you just clean your pants with Windex? Cause I can totally see myself in them.

Xylophones make sweet noise when they’re banged. Do you?

Zebras are basically horses with stripes and I’m just a loser with a crush.

Aaand there you go :)

And while you’ve read this far, a few more things:

I know somewhere along the lines, I have probably ignored some awards. I don’t mean to do that, I just am very forgetful!

Also, it has come to my attention that sometimes my replies don’t post when I write them on my phone. If you think I’m not replying to you, it’s because I think I already have and my phone is stupid. I love you really.

Also, if you’re on twitter we can become twitter BFFs. Hit me up (the link is at the side of my page).

Peace out homies x

Jealous Guy? Not Mine

The last time I went out to a club, I was sitting like the classy chick I am on the footpath with my two friends at the end of the night. My feet were killing my so I had them propped across one of their laps. A guy sat down next to me.

“Hi.” He smiled. I probably didn’t respond, because I was fantasising about cheeseburgers. Undeterred, he scooted closer. “Did you have a good night?”

I nodded, looking behind him for Jack, who was dutifully picking us up. Random guy upped his game. “You’re beautiful.” I never really know how to respond to such compliments, so I probably made this face:

My DAFUQ face. Attractive.
As I was about to respond that he was wasting his time and should probably be trying it on with the chick swinging around a lamppost across the road, Jack came up from behind him.
He helped me up and kissed me on the cheek.
“Good night?” he asked. Before I got a chance to respond, random guy chimed in.
“I see, there’s a boyfriend. Well, you’re a lucky man.” He extended his hand to my boyfriend. Jack shakes it and smiles. “You wouldn’t be saying that if you could see her in the morning.”
I mumble some weak protest at his joking insult, but tequila and sore feet make me pretty incoherent.

We all pile into the car. My friend, who worryingly hadn’t spoken in about twenty minutes, leans forward in the car.

“Jack, do you not feel a bit jealous when Jane gets chatted up?” Before he shrugs off the question, I know the answer. Jack has never been the jealous type.

“Nope,” he answers, smiling at me.

Eurgh. I can feel the irritation rising slowly through me. Or is it tequila? Nope, irritation.

“Why not?” she asks. I know why she wants to know. It has always irked me that Jack seems to show not even a shred of envy, ever. At first, I was delighted. I love how he trusts me implicitly and how he is secure enough in himself not to feel threatened. Jack is just a really good natured guy. Saying this, there have been times where I’ve questioned his complete lack of jealousy. I mean, some envy is normal, right?

Jack shrugs at my friend’s question. “I just don’t waste time with jealously.”

My friend is stubborn and I can tell she is not happy with the answer. She refuses to believe him. She leans forward even more.

“But you have to feel jealous sometimes.”


“I don’t believe you.” There’s a silence.
“Okay. Jane, I’m doing this because I’m starting to think Jack might be a robot. Tonight Jack, the hottest guy I have ever seen bought us all drinks but it was all just to impress Jane. Even when she politely turned him down, he didn’t relent. He showed us his six pack.”


“He was gorgeous. He was in a band.”


“He whispered something in her ear.”

“Oh yeah?” Even though we have his attention, Jack is laughing. “Look. I know this stuff happens when you girls go to bars. But I know exactly what Jane did. She was polite, but she did nothing wrong. She was probably thinking he was an arrogant douche.”

We all burst out laughing. Because he was exactly right. I hadn’t been at all interested in the guy. When he had finally given up, I had referred to him as an “arrogant douche.” If you’re thinking that’s harsh, he kept telling me that he’s going to be huge in a few years and that I’d regret not shagging him. Nice.

My friend seemed satisfied. “Okay Jack. I get it; you don’t get jealous. Really though, it’s pretty amazing.”

Before I go on, I should explain that I don’t get chatted up often. It’s not like I’m constantly fending off a plethora of randy men. Most days do not involve strange men buying me expensive champagne. It has happened enough though for me to note Jack’s response, or lack thereof. We are both very laid back people, but even I struggle with jealously. I would not have the same reaction to some girl throwing herself at Jack. In fact, I’m pretty sure my reaction would involve a lot more flailing and swearing.

I recently brought the topic up with Jack because it had been bothering me. Something was playing on my mind.

A few years ago, when I was training to be a teacher, I went to a party with all my trainee teacher buddies. There was a guy in our class who had been pestering me for a few weeks. Again, I don’t want to sound like a big meanie, but he wasn’t a nice guy. He also couldn’t take a hint, or a very direct “I am not interested in you”. The night of the party, I was polite to him but I tried to keep my distance. At the end of the night, we all went back to campus to carry on the party. As I touched up my makeup up in the bathroom, creepy guy (as he shall henceforth be called) came in and closed the door behind him. Straight away, I started to panic. Sure enough, he started telling me how much he liked me, would make a great boyfriend, yadda yadda. I tried to explain that I had a boyfriend and that wasn’t likely to change anytime soon. All of a sudden, he lunged at me. I just remember feeling his hands trying to take my dress off and then deciding “yep, I have to knee him in the crotch.” Which I did.

Now guys, think about it. I was upset after this incident and I felt it was only right to tell Jack. If this was your wife of girlfriend, what would your reaction be? Jack’s was one of measured calmness. He asked if I was okay and I said that I was. He asked did he hurt me and I said no. That’s where he left it. I would never encourage anyone to get violent but… Well, I was kind of expecting a more passionate response.

A few weeks later, we bumped into creepy guy when we were having lunch with friends. While Jack wasn’t exactly friendly to him, he also didn’t accost him for what he had done.

I felt conflicted about that. Part of me was proud of how calm Jack had been. I couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed though. I wondered why Jack hadn’t pulled him aside and said something along the lines of “you ever tough her again and *insert threat of Joe Pesci proportions*”.

I know it sounds terribly 1940s housewife of me, but there has always been a part of me that wanted Jack to be slightly more possessive over me. Then, of course, there’s the feminist side of me that would detest that. Women, eh?

All in all, I’m lucky that Jack is so laid back. I’m lucky that he isn’t controlling and I’m glad that he had trust in our relationship. I mean, he could be like this guy:

Am I right?

Still, there’s a teeny weeny (hee hee, weeny) part of me that would love Jack to be at least a tad jealous. So at least I know he’s actually human. You know John Lennon’s song? It’s one of my favourites because of the vulnerable honesty he portrays.

What about you guys? Do you feel jealousy? Or are you relaxed like Jack?

Dear Future Me

Dear future me,

Have you seen the movie Tractor? No, me neither, I’ve only seen the trailer. Har har, get it? You always say open with a joke sooo…

Moving swiftly on. I decided to write this because I wrote a letter to fifteen year old me who obviously can’t read what I wrote because she’s in some 2002 time warp wearing combat pants and drinking vanilla Coke, but you can. You, future Jane, or present Jane by the time you read this (my braaaaain), you can read exactly what I wrote to you and heed my advice. Just because I’m younger than you doesn’t mean it’s going to be bad advice. I just want you to still have fun, even if you probably can’t drink tequila and put your foot behind your head anymore.
I reeeally hope you’re thinking:


I hope that everything is going well for you. If you are healthy, have a home, still have Jack, have a son or daughter and a steady job then I want you to know that you are very very lucky. Because you’re me, you probably complain, even when things are going well. But listen- you need to quit it and appreciate what you have. Don’t make me jump into my flux capacitor and come get you.

Right now, I’m happy…but there is so much more that I want. And I am hoping that you have some of those things. Of course, you’re not going to have them all. I doubt you’re best friends with Jennifer Lawrence, living in Aruba and hosting Letterman. But if you are happy, healthy and secure… Well, that’s all we’ve ever hoped for, right?

I want you to know that this Jane loves to laugh. She loves Jack very much. She loves the countryside and the sound of laughter. Her family are everything to her. She helps young minds open up to the world around them. If, for any reason, something has made you forget all of this, then I want to remind you: your life has meaning. You were happy. You can be happy again.

If your life is going dandy and you know it, then swell. It would be really great if you could master time-travel and come back to give me some dough. Come on Jane, I’m waiting. No? fine, I’m so putting you in a home.

Let me just end by reminding you that you once touched Nick Carter as he was thrusting in leather and covered in sweat, just incase you forgot. Who am I kidding, of course you didn’t forget. I just wanted to revisit that memory. *goes to dark part of mind*

Also, I’m dying my hair already because I’ve spotted a grey hair or two. If you could keep that up so I don’t resemble a Shakespearean hag, that’d be great.

I’m going to go do handstands while I still can, don’t be too jealous. You’re still a total catch.

Yours (literally),

Past Jane (creepy smile) x

My Happy Place

“Just, I don’t know…kick it in.”
“I can’t just kick it in. What if I break it?”

My boyfriend and I are standing at the door of an abandoned cottage. I know the walls are whitewashed, but they now appear a sinister mossy green colour after years of neglect. The thatched roof is on the verge of collapse and as I look up, I spy a small tree sprouting up from behind the chimney.

Jack shoulder-charges into the door again. It doesn’t budge. Shoulder and ego bruised, he turns to me. “You know technically, we’re breaking and entering here.”

“Calm down Sipowicz,” I snap, “this is my grandparent’s house. I have every right to be here.”

As a child, this was my favourite home to visit. I use the word ‘home’ because it was a home in every sense of the word.

Located miles away from a main road, down a tiny boreen (boreen is the anglicised version of the Irish word ‘bóithrín’, meaning ‘little road’), it could have been an illustration in a Grimm’s fairytale. Surrounded by lush greenery and colourful flowers, it was a simple whitewashed cottage with a beautiful straw thatched roof.
Down the garden, a swing hung from a large oak tree. A stream separated the pretty garden from my grandparent’s vegetable patch, where they grew all their own produce. Hens roamed freely out in the yard and the din of my grandfather’s beehive could be heard faintly from the front door.

Inside the house, there was three rooms. Three rooms in the entire house; the main room, which functioned as a kitchen and living room in one, and two bedrooms. That was it. When I was a very young child, my grandparents didn’t have electricity, so they heated their water in a large pot above the fire. The fire was the centre of their home; a beautiful open fire that seemed to be eternally lighting. There was a wheel beside it that you had to spin in order to stoke the flames and as kids, that was our favourite novelty activity in the house.

My grandmother was always baking. Her favourites were apple and rhubarb pies and different types of breads. Everyone’s absolute favourite was her soda bread and I can still smell the bread baking in the oven and wafting all around the cottage as we waiting impatiently at the table. She would always let me ‘help’ her, though I wasn’t tall enough to reach the counter top and I always ended up with flour all over my face. She would construct a miniature version of whatever she was baking for me and then tell everyone proudly that I made it.

When I cast my mind back to my childhood, this is the place that I felt happiest. Whether I was acting as my grandmother’s sous chef or evading cantankerous hens in the yard, I was carefree in this idyllic haven.

Then, suddenly, my father and my grandparents stopped speaking. I’m not going to explore the reasons behind their rift here, but it was a serious falling out. When you are a child, you are completely unaware of the complexities of adult relationships and I was no different. I had no idea why we had stopped visiting my grandparents; all I knew was that we had.

My grandmother died first. When we heard she was sick, we went to see her in hospital. Although she didn’t have the strength to speak, I will never forget how she squeezed my hand. I will also never forget the single tear that slid down her wrinkled face as she smiled weakly at me.

When she passed away, my father and his father still did not mend their rift. I never got to return to the cottage while anyone was living there. My grandfather died a few years later, and the house was abandoned. As the years passed, it seemed to exist solely in my memory. I could not bring myself to visit it.

One day, I visited my own father in the house I had grown up in. As I prepared coffee for us both, I spied something hanging on the wall. It was a commemorative plate, with a prayer and a picture of Pope John Paul II. One identical to this had hung above my grandparent’s fireplace.

“Dad, where did you get that?” I pointed to the wall. His eyes followed my finger and a sad smile settled on his face.

“I got it from your grandparent’s house,” he answered. There was a silence while I attempted to figure out how he could have done this. He must have registered the look of bewilderment on my face. “I went to the house a few weeks ago.”

I can’t describe how I felt on hearing this. You know that feeling you get when you’re not sure whether you’re ecstatically happy or heartbroken? I just shook my head when words evaded me. Dad looked sympathetically at me.

“The door is unlocked. It is abandoned and no one has been there for a long time. You should go and see it but…be careful.”

Be careful. I still remember him saying that, because it seemed an odd choice of words.

I asked Jack to come with me. I felt apprehensive and I didn’t quite know why. This was the place where all my happiest childhood memories lived.

The pathway to the house was completely overgrown, so we had to negotiate through briars and brambles. Several cuts and swear words later, we were standing in front of the cottage.

It was different. Of course it was, it was years later. Still, I felt a profound sadness looking at it. The clean whitewashed walls were now covered with years of fungal growth. The roof was beginning to cave in. I imagined the house like a soldier returning from war; damaged, ravaged, broken and changed forever.

Tears streamed down my face as I took in the nettles, the briars and the green moss that seemed to have infested every beautiful inch of the house. Jack squeezed my hand and planted a soft kiss on my head.

“Are you okay?” he asked tentatively, as I dried my eyes.

“Yes. I’m okay. There’s just such a profound sadness in knowing that this is what that beautiful, magical place has become. This house was the most beautiful part of my life and now it barely even exists.”

We stood looking at it, until I felt ready to go inside. When Jack finally got the door to open, the smell of dampness and neglect welcomed us. I stepped in gingerly to the main room. Dampness crept up the walls. The whole place was shrouded in darkness.

As dreary as the place looked, it wasn’t what affected me the most. The mouldy surrounding moved out of focus. Everything was exactly as I had remembered it; perfectly preserved like it had just jumped from straight from my memory. My grandmother’s Blue Willow China adorned the large oak cabinet, my grandfather’s patchwork blanket still rested on the back of his rocking chair, cutlery lay in the drawer by the sink just as it always had. The beds were still made. Pictures of relatives hung on the walls. I could almost hear the squabbling of all of us children over the wheel by the fire. I could almost feel my grandmothers gnarled and warm hand on mine as we baked together. The stories that a neighbour used to tell of the púca and the banshee when he visited echoed around the room.

I stood still, taking it all in with a find smile. Jack slid his arm around me.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered. I nodded. It was no longer confined to the deepest recesses of my memory, but instead was here in front of me; a house filled with stories.

“I’m ready to go. At least this time, I can say goodbye.” I felt a strong sense of comfort leaving and I feel it now. Knowing that the house is preserved like that, with all the utensils that my grandmother lovingly used still hanging up over the cooker, gives me a warm feeling that I will hold onto for a long time.

As we drove back to our own home that summer’s evening, I considered my dad’s words- “be careful”. I now knew what he meant. Revisiting old memories can be a painful business. It can leave you weary and unfulfilled. This wasn’t like that for me though. I left that house that day knowing that it was just as perfect as I had always remembered. I realised that it belonged in my past, and it was a part of my life that I would never forget. It’s time for me to make some new memories.

Do you have a cherished childhood memory? A place you go to (even in your mind) when you need comfort?


Too lazy to think of funny title

Even though I’m on work holidays, I got up early this morning.


Erm, I was kinda expecting enthusiastic applause there… but whatever.

I put on my new jogging pants. I even put on a sports bra and my Nike hoodie. I slipped into my Puma running shoes. I was PUMPED.

Then I went to my sofa and watched three hours of trashy TV while eating M&Ms. But I was like dressed like a jogger, so that has to count for something, right?


I did, however, write a very serious and grownup blog post that I’ll put up later. But first…


Wanna come throw popcorn at malfunctioning appliances and mumble in monosyllables with me? You can have the red M&Ms. I don’t want them.

More Awards..I’m gonna dress as a bear and hug you all

You guys. Right now I’m adulting hard; wearing a onesie and eating Coco Pops. I am in a damn good mood. I got two weeks holidays from school today, which I needed more than Justin Bieber needs a knee to the groin. I also have been the lucky (and very grateful) recipient of some more blogging awards this week, which makes me want to hug all of you, or failing that, we can just do this:

Firstly, I want to give a big shout out to Amanda over at Insidethelifeofmoi who nominated me for the Versatile Blogger Award. I adore her blog and if you haven’t checked her out, then go now. She is brilliant and funny and…WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE?

Anyway, the next two bloggers I want to thank are Julie over at Random Musings From a Type-A Workaholic and Rob over at weight2lose2013 for both nominating me for the Wonderful Team Member Readership Award.

Julie is a wonderful blogger and has been so wonderful to read and comment on my blog. Julie, your support really means a lot and thank you for this award. If you haven’t seen Julie’s blog, then you need to check her out. She’s funny, entertaining and multi-talented.
Rob is another wonderful blogger that I want to thank. He is bags of fun (I was going to say “sacks of fun” but that sounds dirty) and besides blogging about weight loss, he also blogs about gardening, music and he shares some amazing recipes.

This is a really cool award. Whenever I write a post and people take the time to actually read it, it really means so much to me. I have some wonderful followers who are always so great to interact with me and I finally get to give these guys an award to show my gratitude, WOO! Sorry, too much caffeine.

The rules are simple. You thank the blogger who nominated you. You post the award on your blog. Nominate 14 bloggers who read your blog and let them know.

This is my way of thanking my readers. I will say, I get a little stressed out when compiling these lists because I always accidentally leave someone out. So I apologise to the person who
momentarily will be poking some Jane doll with needles in advance.

Here are my lovely nominees:












I’m also going to nominate Rob and Julie because I appreciate their interaction too.
I know not all of you do these award things so you don’t have to actually do anything, just know that I appreciate you :)

Again, if I have forgotten anyone, then it’s because I’m an idiot and my head hurts. Notice the way I didn’t even clean up the links, that’s right, I’M LAZY!

Think I’m finished? Not by a long shot sister. The wonderful Sarah has also nominated me for Sisterhood of the World Bloggers Award.

I’m going to pick some of my favourite chicks here. I think I’m supposed to answer questions but this is turning into a thesis, so I’m just going to nominate some women I lurve-Females, assemble!















So there ya go ladies, enjoy :)

Phew, that was intense. Sorry the links look messy, but I *trails off with lame excuse*…Thanks to those who have nominated me and I’m going to go hibernate now.

Do you talk to yourself?

I talk to myself on an almost daily basis. I would really like to think that I’m not crazy but, well, there’s only so many conversations I can have with myself before I start questioning my own sanity.


This morning, Jack went to work before me. When my alarm went off, this is how my monologue went:

“Suppose I’d better get up. Man, I’m so warm and snuggly. Is snuggly even a word? Snuggly. Snugg-ly. Hmm. Jane, you’re talking to yourself. I think you need a holiday.”

Really Joker? REALLY?

Then of course, there was my fight with the toaster. The toaster burned my toast cause the toaster is a d**k.

“Ugh, why can’t you be a regular toaster? Why do you have to be all ‘ooh, I’m a hot toaster’ and incinerate everything?!”

I realised my cat was looking at me, possibly thinking Um, human, there doesn’t seem to be another human around sooo…. who the hell are you talking to?


Of course, I don’t talk to myself all the time. I’m not a total weirdo. Right? RIGHT?

I just find myself thinking aloud, I suppose. I also have arguments with household appliances, which I almost always win.

The way I look at it, if Hamlet could talk to himself, then so can I. I mean, he turned out fine. Ahem.


So I’m going to put it to you, lovely readers. Do you talk to yourself? Or am I even more insane than I thought? Am I going to wake up to my cat saying this in the morning?


My First Poem

I have never written a poem on my own before and I don’t know how this happened. I wrote this, on my phone (which is very unpoetic of me) and in less than ten minutes. It just poured out (probably because it’s not very good, but I suppose you should never ignore what your mind sends you). It is dark and personal but I felt like posting it. I teach poetry comprehension on a daily basis, but I have always struggled with writing it. So here you go guys, my first poem:


I couldn’t have known when in your arms
That you were longing for something else, somewhere else
Away from my cries and outstretched arms

I couldn’t have known why the tears in my blue eyes
Mirrored the tears in your blue eyes
I couldn’t have known how my screams echoed around an empty room
The pictures of faraway places ripped from the walls
You would never go there

When I laughed it broke your heart
I didn’t understand, you thought
I didn’t yet know pain, yet I saw it everyday
In your white knuckles and your strained smile
Assuring visitors of my placidity

Now, a woman, I see you smile
Sometimes you laugh
But she knows the pain you harbour
She remembers the tears
She remembers studying your face, searching for comfort and hope

The baby
The girl
The child

Don’t worry guys, I’ll be back to my weirdly humourous self soon.

How a skirt ruined my day

Today, I really considered wearing a snuggie to school.
Mostly because I was cold and cranky but also because I forgot to do my washing and all I had left in my school wardrobe was what I call my mermaid skirt. My mermaid skirt is a knee length black skirt that is verrrry tight around my legs. When I walk whilst wearing it, I shuffle like a self conscious mermaid, hence the name “mermaid skirt”.

Given the fact the wearing a snuggie would prompt my students to assume I’ve had a nervous breakdown (which I’m sure won’t happen for at least five years), I had to go with my mermaid skirt.


Firstly, I have to climb a flight of stairs to reach my staff room. Now, I once descended a mountain with a broken ankle, but this was a challenge.

Little did I know that the stairs would be the least of my problems.

At break, a football came towards me as I was doing yard duty. The students called towards me to kick it back.

“Go on miss!” the boys called in unison, as I realised that I could not actually extend my leg enough to kick the ball. Nor could I bend down to pick it up and throw it.

“Er, get it yourself lads,” I mumbled as I shimmied away.

Later in class, I had a similar conundrum. I dropped my whiteboard marker as I was explaining poetic devices. I do this often, and usually I bend down, pick it up and move on. Today, I just stared at it. When telekinesis didn’t work, I mumbled to a student up at the top of my class to pick it up for me. It was literally a foot away from where I stood.

After that class, I noticed a student skipping class in the hall. I was about twenty metres away from him.

“Hey! What are you doing?” The student froze on the spot. I took tiny, tiny steps towards him for what seemed like an eternity, all the time trying to maintain my I’m really mad at you, fear my wrath face. When I finally reached him about five minutes later, I forgot what I was going to say so I just sent him to class.

My skirt woes did not end there. I had a lot of copy books to bring to my car and one of the other teachers offered to carry them for me. As he helpfully loaded them into my car, we chit chatted about the day. As I opened the front door of my car, I realised that I could not get it without actually flopping in (like how I imagine a penguin jumps into water). So I just hung there, waiting for him to stop talking. And I waited. And waited. And then finally, he left.

As I launched my ass (literally) into my car and tried not to break my own ribs, I vowed to never, ever wear this skirt again. EVER. If I was Taylor Swift, I would be penning angry skirt breakup songs. Tomorrow, I’m going with the snuggie.