As I stare at my fetchingly freckled toes on a balmy September’s day in Spain, I am suddenly struck by an acute sense of déjà vu.
No, Suzi, you fuckwit, you were here at the villa last year in the same week, except this year your toes are freckled in a checkered pattern that matches your sandals of choice whereas last year you enjoyed a slightly more stripy state of affairs.
I’ve not posted for a while, and for that, you have my apologies. Over the past month, I graduated from Edinburgh University with a law degree, had a few nights where I drank far too much, danced until dawn and laughed myself silly with the best people I’ve known, and dealt with the most horrific heartbreak I’ve ever had to endure in the past 21 years of my life.
Up until recently, I loved a man called Jamie MacRae with everything I had and everything I ever would have, but he wrenched out my heart and tore it to pieces. It still hurts. I still hurt. But it had to be done. I had to tell that lying, cheating, philandering bastard to swivel and never darken my emotional doorway again. The story is long, complicated, and far too painfully raw for me to recount here. I will at a later date when I’m not sleep-deprived , intoxicated with too much alcohol and in a tailspin because he obviously just drunk-texted me on a whim 10 minutes ago.
But I told the bastard to swivel through the means of the written word. I sent him a letter. And with that in mind, I have reproduced it here. To you, the reader, I hope you are never unfortunate enough to ever meet your Jamie. Continue reading
I was in two minds as to whether I should post this topic which has been gnawing at me for a while. It’s got all the right elements for controversy – mental illness, vitriol, and a rather scathing critique of how it’s all handled in the UK at the moment, both socially and medically – but fuck it, I may as well go all in. Rather than discuss the matter in a clinical generic style (or to put it another way, get all up my own arse about the situation) I shall start by telling you a story.
Last night, the sun was splitting the sky and the sticky hum of humidity was the rallying call for the Scottish summer to make its appearance. It was 25 degrees and the discomfiting heat was a joy to behold in the wake of the typically dreary UK weather. Summer in our country is my favourite day of the year. With that in mind, I felt my attire for a friend’s birthday barbecue (outside! We can sit outside! In SCOTLAND! And it isn’t raining!) should adequately reflect the season and my resulting jubilant disposition.
Or to put it more simply: HOORAY FOR SUMMER AND SUMMER DRESSES!
In the midst of being immersed in the sprawling worlds of Westeros and Essos, I picked up The Rosie Project as a mental respite from my second reread of book five of George R. R. Martin’s A Song Of Ice and Fire series. Giddy, swooping fantasy novels have always been my preference, so it was with some trepidation I picked up Graham Simsion’s cheerful debut. I’d been throroughly recommended it by a number of people, and with a slew of five-star reviews on Amazon, I decided it couldn’t hurt to stop playing the game of thrones for a few hours. Continue reading