Little Miss Worry Guts : An Introduction


Little Miss Worry Guts: An Introduction. 

Nothing quite spells out ‘anxiety problem’ like driving home from your therapist’s, racked with a worry that even she almost certainly thinks you’re a complete bore.

There’s me, paying a woman good bloody money to talk to me. To help me understand why once again my brain feels like it’s packing up and moving abroad. To listen and guide me through a time that feels like my rationale has taken a leave of absence.

And I spend the whole journey home worrying that not only do I bore her, but that she is probably judging every last thing I’ve told her, and is probably spending the whole time I’m with her wondering why she wasn’t someplace else, probably watching some paint dry.

Or worse still, I’d only get about two junctions away and worry that I wasn’t actually messed up enough to warrant therapy. That I was in fact fine and her time and resources were better off spent elsewhere with someone worse off.

That’s me down to a tee.

See, like thousands of others, I worry.

I don’t just worry about the big things. You know, the bills, or my family’s health or the fact that I forgot to buy toothpaste on the way home.

I worry about everything. I worry about how much I worry. I worry that I’ll never be able to stop worrying.

I’ve got a serious worry problem (like, it’s diagnosed), that over the years has been known to stop me in my tracks and make things hard bloody work. Not big things. Little things. Like going to work. Having a bath. Concentrating on a film.

Maybe it’s age.

Maybe it’s expensive therapy.

Maybe it’s having a series of big shit things happen that makes all the other shit things seem minor in comparison.

But I’m in a moment of clarity.

(And that’s the last preaching you’ll hear from me)

Some months you think ‘girl, check this corner out that you’re turning’.

Other months you think ‘shit son, I’m one panic attack away from a strait jacket’.

But as it stands, I have more corner-turning months than lock-me-up months and for me, that’s progress.

The thing with anxiety is that it gets you when you least expect it. It floors you. It hides for a while. It pops out in the work toilet, or half way through a date, or when you’re just walking home from work and all of a sudden out of nowhere you’re a trembling mess, you can’t breathe and you’re on the floor.

It’s the pits. And the worst thing is, you don’t feel like you can talk about it. For some reason, in a world where we share pictures of our dinner with people we used to go to school with and live tweet every stage of taking a poo, we can’t share this.

We can’t share the dark moments.

We can’t share the fear.

Because we’re worried (shocker) about how people will react. We’re worried that people will judge us or that it will hold us back. We’re worried that if we talk to those we love about it, they’ll back away through fear of being associated with a crazy person. We’re worried that if we tell work about it, it’ll be hold us back from the promotion.

So we don’t speak about it. We keep it in. We keep it quiet.

And the worry just carries on worrying.

I think that needs to change.

And that’s why I’m writing this.

In the vain hope that someone may pick this up and go ‘finally, someone gets it’ or picks it up and gives it to their loved ones to say ‘This. This, right here is how is how I’m feeling’.

In the vain hope that getting it all down on paper might mean I can print it off, lock it in a box, potentially set light to it and forget that for a period of my life I had a bit of a tough time.

See, if you were to meet me, the fact that I have had a bit of a struggle with my mind for some years would probably surprise you. Whenever I tell people, they often respond with ‘what, you?!’ or even better ‘are you taking the piss?’.

If only.

Because I’m not your archetypal mental health sufferer. Whatever that is.

I mean, I don’t walk round talking to walls, or swotting imaginary flies or dressing all in black.

I don’t sit down in dark corners and rock back and forth chanting ancient proverbs.

I’m yet to be sedated. Close on occasion. But never quite got there.

I go to work, I have friends, I am mouthy and to the outside world I am confident, outgoing and full of beans. Some people think I’m quite funny and may use the word ‘mad’ when talking about me but only in reference to the fact that I’ve spent a large proportion of my years promoting mid-week tequila and bar dancing sessions.

To them, I’m ‘mad’ in the fun sense.

Not ‘mad’ in the ‘mad’ sense.

I’m always the first to say yes to a night out, the first one to book a last minute holiday, the first to say what I think about a situation that doesn’t sit quite right with me.

I’ve done jobs that mean I have to make conversations with absolute strangers five times a day. I’ve been on blind dates. I’ve had boyfriends. I’m a daughter. I’m a mate.

You see, I’m just the girl in your office. The girl on the tube. The girl sitting next to you in the pub.

I’m your best friend. I’m your sister. Your girlfriend. The girl you want to take out to dinner.

I’m you.

I’m everyone else.

And just because I don’t look like I struggle. Sometimes, I feel like I’m falling apart.

And that’s what this is about. Looking beyond the lack of strait jacket and realizing that things like this happen to everyone.

And if they were to break their leg, or develop pneumonia, you’d support them and help them to get better.

Mental health is just the same. It’s a broken leg. It’s a chesty cough. It’s a spell of vertigo. And just because we can’t see it, doesn’t mean we don’t need to talk about it.

So at the risk of airing my dirty, panic attack stricken laundry to the world, I’m going to try and start a conversation.

A conversation about the fact that like me, there is a world filled with people that are struggling a bit.

And we’ve got to start talking about it.

Because if there is the one thing I’ve learned since being a 15 year old girl worrying about my journey to school through to being a 27 year old woman worrying that her thighs and laugh made her un-marriable, it’s this.

Talking helps.

So, let’s start.



Excerpts from a modern love story…

‘…and there he was before me. All seven very well filtered photos of him…’

‘…our first date was like no other. We got shitfaced, moaned about our jobs and had a snog outside the train station….’

‘…our eyes locked in a coffee shop queue.  And I shat myself . We’d been speaking on Happn and I’d got drunk last week and sent him a picture of my tits…’

‘…my heart skipped a bit when I realised she actually looked like her Tinder pictures…’

‘…I knew we would go the distance, the first time he ended a text with a double xx…’

‘…the night we first made love something changed within me. I knew she was better than the rest of the girls I’d slept with. 
That week…’

‘…we kissed goodbye at the train station after spending a night of unbridled passion, tangled in each other. He said he would call me later and off I skipped filled with anticiaption. I waited and I waited.

He came online, he went offline, and then I never heard from him again…’

‘…we just clicked, you know. I mean I knew we would. Because the internet told us we had so much in common…’

‘…then there was that time he came round to Netflix & Chill. And he stayed for breakfast. And I knew then it was getting serious…’ 

‘..the day came that I realised that I preferred sitting on my sofa looking at my phone next to her then I did anyone else…’

‘She put us in a relationship on Facebook.
When we hadn’t had ‘the chat’.
I locked it off there & then’.




Turtle Bay comes to The Cronx

Caribbean food & rum lovers rejoice.

Turtle Bay has moved into Croydon.

I was invited along to the press launch earlier this week, and I’m not gonna lie, it’s good.

I ate so much food I needed to pretty much be wheeled out of there in a barrow and the cocktails were lip smackers.

But mainly.

It felt clean.

Not just the environment (obvs) but the grub.

Clean and bloody well cooked jerk, tender curry goat and dumplings that weren’t greasy. It didn’t feel naughty.

Just nice.

& to top it all off, Laura even said the jerk was up there with her Mum’s. Which is saying something as nothing in the world is ever as good as Mummy Laura’s jerk.

The staff are wicked and know they bloody know their stuff about rum.

And a little insider for you… just for Turtle Bay, Croydon they’ve devised a new off menu cocktail.

The Kate Moss.

If you’re in the know, ask for one at the bar.

Honestly, it was to DIE FOR.




Turtle Bay opens this Sunday. Go & feast



Image: Croydon Advertiser

An open letter to rail commuters

Dear fellow rail commuter,

I wanted to write you this note so you have something to read on your journey home. I want to keep you company as you sit outside another suburban station miles from your house, as you sit on another ice cold platform, as you wait for your replacement bus service in a town you’ve never heard of.

I wanted to write you this note to divert your attention from what’s going on around you.

To stop you from unleashing fresh hell on the man who’s listening to Meat Loaf on full volume in the seat opposite. To stop you from hurling profanities at the lady eating a katsu curry out of a bag in the seat beside you. To stop you from launching your newspaper at the girl across the aisle who’s having an argument on the phone with her boyfriend about who left the cooker on.

I’m sorry, I’ve messed up. You’re not sitting down are you?

I hope you can read this from the depths of that man’s armpit in which you have been burrowed since Burgess Hill. I hope that you can read this through the scarf you have over your face to block the smell of the toilet you are leaning against. I hope that you can read this in amongst the suitcase friends you have made in the luggage rack.

I wanted to keep you company, because I know you left work two hours ago. I know you only live an hour away from the office. And I know you’re still three hours from your front door. 

I wanted to keep you busy as I know you’ve completed every puzzle in the paper, and I know you’ve used up all your data trying to find out where you are and when you’ll be home, and I know that you don’t bother bringing a book for the journey anymore because you no longer have the space to open your arms wide enough to turn the pages.

I wanted to write you this note so you had something to do other than check your bank balance and see how much money you’ve lost to your rail provider. I wanted to write you this note so that you have something else to occupy your mind then the complete injustice of spending thousands of pounds a year just to apologise for your constant tardiness.

I wanted to distract you from the fact that you are late to yet another dinner with your wife. That you’ve missed yet another bath time with the kids. That you have once again found yourself eating toast for dinner because you got home an hour after you normally go to bed.

I wanted to take your mind off of the foot you nearly broke in the scrum getting on the carriage you’re now on, take it away from socking the bloke one who keeps asking you ‘to move down’. Move down to where?! To stand on top of that pensioner? I wanted to take your mind away from weighing up how much your London life is worth this drama. How much happier you could be working the deli counter in your local Sainsbury’s. Take your mind off of thinking how much money is really worth this shit.

I wanted to write you this note to let you know that you are not alone.

Stay strong, you’re nearly home*

With fondest regards,

The woman crying, doing her make up and Googling ‘how much could I actually earn working in Croydon’.


*you’re not.


My 2017 message

I know, right. It’s like Queenie on Christmas Day.

But here’s just a little note from me, to wish you a happy new year. To say thanks for the love for the rambles over the last twelve months, and to say I hope it’s a good’un.

I know that technically today is just another day, it’s ‘just like any other Sunday’, but if you need an excuse to shake things up a bit, start afresh, or do something new than what better day to give it a go.

If I learnt one thing in 2016, it was how shitty it feels to wait around. Waiting on others to make up their mind. Waiting on results. Waiting on news. Waiting for something magical to plop in your lap.

So in 2017, please don’t wait.

If you’re unsure how he feels about you, just ask. If you’re not sure where something’s going, find out. If you want to change your job, then do. Because trust me, the last thing you’ll want to do on New Year’s Eve next year is sit there and feel like you’ve wasted your time.

Wasted your time on a job, on a plan that never came off, on a bloke that couldn’t make up his mind.

Just grab whatever it is, whoever it is, shake it and don’t hang about.

Go into the new year with your head held high, go into the new year liking all of your good bits, and accepting all the wobbly little bits.

Don’t walk into it thinking you need to change a lot about yourself. Enhancements are fine. Additions are great. But full blown change aint the answer.

Be sure of yourself.

Expect good things to happen, not bad.

Laugh hard, eat well and say ‘yes’ some more.

Get away, get some sea air into your lungs. Spend a day every now again with nothing more than your favourite person in the world. No phones, no TV. Just you.

I hope that your 2017 is calm. I hope that it’s happy. I hope that at some point, no matter how small, something really magic happens for you.

There wasn’t enough magic last year.

So here’s to a good one.

David Bowie/Slate.com

Our kids will talk about 2016

I know I go on

And on.

And on, about how I think computers are killing our brains, how social media is making us completely unsocial and how before long we are going to turn into people that can only communicate by means of using our thumbs.

But I do think it’s the case and I think the year we’ve had highlights this like none other.

If I had a pound for every time I have heard someone say ‘our kids will talk about 2016’ since about May, I’d be a very rich woman.

Same if I had a pound for everyone who had highlighted to me what a terrible year it has been.

It’s the year in which we lost so many well-loved, well-admired and, in parts, adored celebrities. We said goodbye to musical icons and legends of stage and screen in what seemed to be the cruellest culling of national treasures we’d ever known.

What happened to 2016? Had it been cursed with cancer and illness that was affecting even the seemingly untouchable amongst us?

It’s the year that saw a national joke make it into the White House. A year that saw two of the world’s greatest powers in the UK and the States make monumental, historical political changes because those that live there were so disgruntled, disengaged and angry with the state of their nations.

Terrorist attacks carried on with vigour and the fear that we all seem to live in seems to have grown stronger than ever.

I do think that our kids will talk about 2016.

But not for the reasons that we think.

I think they will talk about it, as it is will be the year that will stand out in the history books (if they still exist then) that showed the power the internet had in shaping world events.


Victoria Wood/Telegraph Online

It was the year that all of a sudden one family’s heartbreak, be that the Bowie’s, the Rickman’s or the Wood’s, became a nation’s grief.

It was the year that we first realised how obsessed we’d become with the idea of celebrity. The same amount of ‘well known’ people died in 2006 no doubt. But we only found out about it when we picked up the Sunday papers, and read their well-crafted eulogy written by a well-respected journalist. Or we found out at the end of the BAFTA’s when they paid tribute to the greats.

They were honoured, but not exploited.

Now, that person dies, and within the hour meme’s of their ‘greatest quotes’ are flying around Facebook and we are taking that family’s heart breaking moment, as another excuse to tell the world how sad WE are that the person we never met has died.

2016 isn’t any worse than 2006 in the celebrity death stakes. The internet has just made them more iconic. Facebook has just made them more personal and the speed in which the news reaches us via our BBC iPhone bulletins make us think that every musician and actor we’ve ever loved will be dead by Christmas. And it’s on our phones, it’s in our faces and all of a sudden it becomes ours.

Our sorrow. Our pain.

This age and obsession with celebrity has seen 2016 be the year that a ‘celebrity’ was voted in to the highest political office in the land. Like a really horrific reality show.


Trump/ Business Insider Online

2016 will go down in history as the year that we saw someone with no military or political experience, but a large following on Twitter, end up in the bloody White House.

The year that when the UK voted, by majority, for Brexit.

The year that Trump won the most electoral college votes.

But yet we still decided that we needed a re-vote because all of a sudden we weren’t happy. Because our Facebook friends stated their anger, we liked it. We agreed. And rather than sit back, like we would have done 20 years ago and say, the nation has spoken, we were enraged (*holding my hands up*)

Those conversations weren’t had in person with members of parliament. Those petitions weren’t signed with a pen and a trip down to City Hall. We took to Facebook and Twitter to announce our incense that the electoral system, that’s been in place for hundreds of years, was no longer good enough.

And outrageously, we were (albeit it momentarily) taken seriously. Because the internet got angry, we nearly changed political systems that have been in place longer than our family tree.

2016 will be the year that such drastic political advances were made. Because nations were so disgruntled and so disengaged.

Are we?

Are we disgruntled enough to go on strike? Disengaged enough to revolt and go on marches?

No we’re fucking lazy.

But happy enough to type down on our Facebook status how we feel about the state of the universe. So everyone can see it. But we won’t do anything about it.


WW2/ Women’s History

Look back 70 years, and unlike our grandparents, we’re not living in a world war.

We’re living in a digital age.

Where every shit piece of news, every bad story, every friend’s redundancy, every poor performance by the NHS is blasted out on to our phone for us to read, devour and take on.

The friend’s Mum who had a bad experience with the NHS becomes ours because it’s on Facebook.

Our ex-colleagues redundancy becomes ours because it’s on our LinkedIn.

That terrorist attack that killed a friend of a friend of a friend of two friends removed is something you would have been saddened by but wouldn’t have felt a personal connection to twenty years ago.

But all of a sudden something pops up on our feed because something’s been shared and then all of a sudden we are connected to the Nice atrocities or what happened in Brussels, and that pain becomes ours.

Everyone’s everything is everywhere for us to see, so everywhere we turn, it all seems like it’s all shit.

We take all of this aired laundry on as our own.

As our own belief that the world is in rack and ruin and we’re basically all fucked.

In parts it is. But in parts it’s been a hell of a lot worse.

All I say is just take a moment to look at your own life. Your actual life.

You may well have had a bad year. But it will be isolated. A few bad months. An illness. A death in the family.

Things that happen year in, and year out. As sad as it is, it’s life.

Now, look at the life you believe to be your own.

Because you’ve taken on, literally a world, of information over the last 12 months. A world of posts, and updates, and news flashes and all of a sudden everyone’s dead, everything’s shit and we’re all doomed for good.

We’re all being bombed, we’re all getting Zika and to top it all off Prince is dead and I never met him but I downloaded his album once so I AM SAD.

Look at that life, and yes 2016 is the worst year you’ve ever had.

And guess what, 2017 will be even worse.

So just look at your 2016 and imagine it if you hadn’t had access to the internet, to social media, or to a smart phone.

Then ask yourself if it was really that bad after all.

My bet is that it was an average year. Maybe in parts it was good.

But we can’t talk about that.

So please, put down your phone.

And just concentrate on you.

Before our history books become history sites and our kids read about the years that their parents stopped using their brains, and yes, the world got a little bit fucked.


Can everyone just shut up about 30?

I’m not even near it.

To be precise I have got two whole years and five whole months before it arrives. Thanks very much.

Yet it’s the only thing that gets mentioned. All of the time. Every day.

By my friends. By people at work. By me. Annoyingly.

My little crew of girls is my age. We met at school and have watched each other grow up.

Ok, when I say grow up, I mean grow up in the ‘we’ve watched each other get proper jobs and not entirely fuck them up’ sense of the word.

Sadly, despite having waxing, hangovers and social arrangements to discuss, the main topic of conversation on the group chat last week (and for what felt like the 17 weeks prior to that)…

…How old we’re getting.

Because we’ve stopped going out like we used to. Stopped getting (as) pissed on Tuesday’s as we used to. Started enjoying getting up and going to the gym like we’ve never done. Started looking at relaxing breaks in Cornwall rather than booking up four nights of pure bedlam in Ibiza like we’ve never done. Stopped snogging strangers like we used to. Started drinking red wine rather than Lambrini. Stopped getting ourselves into silly situations with silly boys.

Ok, ok. That last point is a grey area.

But you catch my drift.

Anyway, I halted it last week. I got the hump and told them to ssh.

‘Cos we’re not old. We’re not even close.

We’re changing, yes. We’re growing up, potentially. But we’re not getting old.

We’re only getting old because the world keeps telling us that we’re getting old because we’re nearly 30.

Because apparently that is ancient.

And according to some arsehole, somewhere in history, 30 is the year that everything HAS TO HAPPEN.

Because you know, if you haven’t bought a house, found ‘the one’ and turned your spare income, your spare room and your spare womb capacity into a flurry of children, you’ve basically fucked it all up. And royally so.

No consideration is given for how long it takes to build a career, for those of us that are that way inclined.

No thought given for those of us that want to live abroad or travel when we’re not spotty 19 year olds with zero clue about anything, but grown ups who could appreciate the life lessons time abroad will teach us.

No regard paid for those of us that were told that your twenties were for job hopping, smoking, dancing, flirting, tequila-ing and kind of buggering it all up. Buggering it all up but learning. Learning what works for you. Learning what doesn’t.

But most of all, learning who the bloody hell you are.

I’m lucky to have other friends*, and relatives who aren’t my age. Who didn’t finish studying let alone start long term dating until they were 30. Who spent their twenties living out of rucksack in the middle of some godforsaken town in Peru. Who jumped on planes to go on dates, because fuck it, why not. Who’s mind was so far away from mortgages at 28 that they didn’t even know how to spell it.

*that makes it sound like I’m not lucky to have my same age friends. I love them, honestly.

They lived. They learnt what they liked. They learnt what they didn’t.

They figured their shit out.

So if they weren’t worried about 30, why the hell are we?

It’s no age. It’s not young but it’s certainly not old.

It’s not a deadline. It’s a number.

And if you do what you wanted to do by 28, then 28’s your number.

And if you do what you wanted to do by 48, then 48’s your number.

But until the feeling comes that you’ve done it all, you’ve seen it all and your ready to settle, don’t just stop because 30’s arrived.

It’s not like time stops at 30 and how your life is then, is how it’s going to stay.

It’s just another cake, another party and another load of cards that you’re probably never going to read.

It’s another day, another year, and no excuse for you to think that great things can’t continue to happen.



For the love of God.

Can we shut up about 30?


LL x







17 things we worried about when we were 17

This week, I woke up worried about the future of my unborn eggs in a world that is now being run by reality TV stars.

I have things such as health, bills, career prospects that play on my mind these days. It’s boring and grown up and I don’t like it.

If only it were 10 years ago. When, to be brutal, I couldn’t  have given two shits who was sitting in the White House and I certainly paid no thoughts to the gas bill.

If only it were 10 years ago when all we had to worry about were things like;

  • If you could actually handle overtime at your Saturday job.
    Because, you know, between doing four hours in a shoe shop and completing a whole two bits of coursework a month, you were pretty stressed.
  • If you were going to get found out for not actually having had sex yet.
    Because apparently the earlier you do it, the cooler you are and THE CLOCK IS TICKING.
  • If you were going to get found out for not actually finding thongs comfortable. Because everyone was wearing them. But your mum didn’t really want you to wear them because in her middle aged mind they just meant sex. And you didn’t really want to wear them because they felt like you were being inappropriately touched up by dental floss.
  • If you were going to get rumbled for using Sparknotes.
    Like every teacher in the land didn’t secretly praise the day that got invented and the day you were smart enough to use the internet so they didn’t have to actually converse with you.
  • If you were going to get embroiled in a teacher/student affair like the girls in the North you heard about on Newsbeat.
    Because, I’m not gonna lie, we all saw how Mr Allback looked at me in AS Chemistry. And it was a look that just screamed ‘let’s elope to France’. Trust.
  • If your EMA was going to stretch out far enough for you to go bowling AND underage drinking in one weekend.
    Or if you were going to have the heartbreaking decision of having to choose.
  • If your Mum was going to find out that you smoked at lunchtimes.
    Like she wasn’t wise enough to smell it on your uniform but was just storing it in her armoury to completely and utterly obliterate you one day.
  • Parent’s evening.
    And potentially getting found out for not going to 3rd period History two weeks ago because you and Sexy Sean were bumming a zoot and having a snog at the back gate.
  • Saturday’s.
    And the risk of having nobody to walk round a shopping centre with, with absolutely no purpose whatsoever.
  • Having to convey your emotions on text messages before the invention of the emoji. How did one even let a boy know that she fancied the living shit out of him without the invention of the monkey. HOW GODDAMIT!
  • Having to manage your time.
    You know, how does one teenager fit in doing her Art & Design homework at the same time of spending ample amounts of time flirting with that boy from the common room on MSN messenger. I’m not a magician, Mum.
  • If the overall look of your MySpace really reflected you as a person.
    I mean, can you tell this is the real me? Maybe I should add on some more pictures of B2K.
  • Wondering if you ever will truly get over the fact that Ben Anderson snogged Sian Blackey at that party EVENTHOUGH he’d been texting you for like 3 whole days. And after he’d told Josh from next door that he thought  you were decent. This is what real heartbreak feels like. This is it.
  • If you were able to grind correctly.
    Like, am I doing the right thing with my hips to this truly awful dancehall song at this honestly frightening house party in the middle of South Norwood?
  • If your bum looked peachy enough in your acid washed jeans from New Look.
    Or if you needed to go down another size so that you couldn’t breathe, but so it really popped out so boys would chirps you on the bus.
  • Dealing with the gut wrenching, agonising pain that even though you are full blown grown up with your own mind (ahem) and your own money (all £25 a week of it) you still have to actually LISTEN to what your parents have to say and still live in their house. What. A. Drag.
  • If you were pregnant.
    Because that girl in J17 said she got pregnant just from fingering ‘outside clothes’  and you kissed Reiss from work last Saturday so you’re pretty sure you are next in line for a teenage pregnancy.

    Life was so hard.

    LL x



What happened to woo-ing?

I know, I know. If I had my way, we’d all be living in the 1940’s and meeting boys at dances. Having them throw stones at our windows and not chatting up birds on Tinder when we went to the loo.

I know I’m pretty much the worst person when it comes to trying to get involved with online dating, and I to this day can’t get my head round Snapchat.

I’m not exactly great at moving with the times.

I’m old fashioned. And recently, I’ve realised that I’m mega old fashioned when it comes to romance.

I recently went on a date with a boy who was charming. Cheeky, but not crude. Funny, but not overbearing. Complimentary, without being cheesy.

We had a wicked night. Giggles, wine, plenty of flirty banter.

So, when he text the next day to find out if I fancied going out again, I had somewhat of a spring in my step. Good date. Big tick for me.

So when time for the second date rolled round and his suggestion for what to do was the following….

“pop round yours for takeaway and cuddles ;)?” 

…I was understandably slightly put out.

Firstly, if you think three white wine spritzers one night is enough to warrant me wanting to invite you into my home the following week, you clearly are mental. And, I’m a bit offended that you didn’t want to put a bit more effort into the pre-game, mate.

And secondly, if a wink emoji says one thing to me, it’s not cuddles.

If it’s a Chow Mein & Chill you’re after love, you’re barking up the wrong tree.

What on earth happened to woo-ing? 

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of them girls who demands a six week stint of dinners at The Ivy and ice skating dates with diamonds. I like to pay my own way and the less fancy/more real a date the better.

But Jesus.

I expect a little bit more effort to be put in than some shit Pinot and one weeknight of your life.

In a world where we can get a lay at the swipe of a thumb, have we waved goodbye to all levels of romance?

Has courting, getting to know each other and building up to a night with someone you don’t want to run away from the next morning all gone out of the window?

Because apparently, woo-ing now consists of;

Charming someone on a dating app. Having one stilted round of drinks in an overly kitsch pub somewhere that’s near both your offices because you can’t be arsed to make much effort. Assessing whether the other person flicks your switch and then attempting to remove each other’s clothes before you even really know where they went to university or if they have a middle name.

I remember, not even that long ago, when first dates were still mega exciting. You’d get really ready – not just whacking a bit of lippy on in the loos at work.  One of you would pick somewhere cool/fun/interesting to go that meant you could chat, rather than just get half cut. There was such an element of excitement attached to them.


Now they feel a little bit like a shit & brutal job interview. With wine. And lots of it. And more often than not, an attempt to be in your birthday suit before midnight.

I know I’m basically on a  one woman crusade to take things back to the old school, but I think we need to meet somewhere in the middle.

Before we run the risk of sleeping with everyone in London, before stumbling on the one that we want to sleep with more than once.

But more importantly.

Before we all become a bit immune to a bit of romance.

LL x

The view from Tingtagel Castle. Shortly before the Cornish tea. Nom

Beautiful Cornwall

I’ve not done an image filled post before, but the weekend I’ve just had warrants it.

6 mates. 1 stunning beach side cottage. 1 epic bike ride. 1 even epic-er hike through the rocky coastline. Far too many bottles of wine and even more cheese.

We’re all stupidly busy and finding a weekend when we were all free wasn’t the easiest of tasks, but we pinned each other down, booked a truly beautiful AirBnb and took a convoy of Fiat 500’s to Bude in Cornwall.

The views, the fresh air and the pints of Rattler cider were enough to make me want to go back again next week. But the company, the cottage and Cornish tea on the edge of a cliff really sealed the deal.

We had a wood burner, we had each other and we had plenty of red wine and the weekend was one word. Delightful.

Here’s the snaps. And incase you ever needed more of an excuse to leave London for a long weekend, here’s some.

To beautiful Cornwall. Thank you x