me and mum2

I’m turning into my mother

Ever get them moments, when you catch yourself in the mirror and think ‘my lord, I’m turning into my mother’?

I’ve had about seven this week.

Maybe it’s a getting older thing, maybe it’s a genetic thing, either way it’s bloody scary.

Here’s my Mum. The delightful Sue Irwin. She’s a treat. A tyrant, lippy and for someone of a mere 5’3 she’s often quite frightening. Ask my dad. 6’3 and at times, honestly, scared shitless.

me and mum2

I caught myself this week doing the ironing. Now, for those of you that know me, you will know that I’ve lifted the iron all of twice since moving out of home. Once to test if it worked and once to iron a top that I subsequently ruined. But this week, out of nowhere I decided that I’d actually rather have crisp clothes. I also realised that ironing them kind of locks in the Comfort so they smell nicer for longer. I know, 26 years that took.

 In that iron wielding moment it dawned on me that I had been acting like my Mum all week.

Want to know what else I did? Came to the very harsh conclusion that I actually have a preferred brand of floor cleaner. How petrifying is that? I used to stop at favourite brand at crisps or vodka and now I’m there bigging up Flash like there’s no tomorrow.

Sorry, who am I?

Domestic wise, turning into my mother didn’t stop at floor cleaning and ironing. Oh hell no. I went all out and swept under the sofa. Yep I moved furniture to clean in a place that nobody else would ever see. Who else do you know does that? Oh yeah there is one person.


For years I’ve never understood why my Mum has always got up so early when actually she could easily lay in bed til 10am as she no longer has toddlers to worry about who might be up alone sticking their fingers in plugs.

That was until this week.

When I had one week off and decided that I needed to get every solitary bit of life admin done before I start my new job. So what have I been doing? Without even thinking about it?

Waking up at 8am. And getting up at 8.30am. Without needing to be at work. Sorry, what?

And’ why’ I hear you cry? So that I can get everything I need to do, done in the morning. Because like my Mum, I quite enjoy having the afternoon indoors. Probably to subconsciously rank my cleaning products or alphabetise my herb rack or some shit.

That isn’t even the scariest thing. You know what the most frightening thing I did this week was that hammered it home that I am turning into my dearest Susie Pants Irwin?

I wrote lists. No, not a list for the Metro to make you all laugh. A list for my shopping.

Know what was more frightening than not trusting myself to rely on my 26 year old memory?

I wrote it in the bloody order of the shops I would need to go in from my flat so, and I quote my mother now, ‘I didn’t have to go back on myself’.

Because real women do not waste time.

I am a freedom pass away from actually enjoying Countdown and remembering the birthday of every person I’ve ever met.

If someone finds my youth and a bottle of gin. can you send it my way?

I’m that girl at home at 9pm on a Tuesday, because I didn’t want to get drunk, because I have stuff to do tomorrow.


LL x


14 things girls do that blokes have little idea about

I’ve had a day off work (one of 5 before the new job starts so let’s have a party about that) and it’s been one of them days where I wanted to feel good. Starting a new job next week & I fancied a bit of an overhaul.

So I did the whole hair dye, leg shave, spray tan routine that costs us a mere £20 but makes us feel a million dollars. On the way back from The Tanning Shop with no bra on (because we all know the kinds of streaks I’d be contending with if I wore one) it dawned on me that there are many a thing us girls do that blokes have little to no clue about.

So here’s  a quick Monday list for you. Things such as;

  1. Let’s start with the brave walk home from the tanning shop that we have to do commando. Yep, if you see a girl come out of one of them places they are wearing not a stitch of underwear. Fact. We then go home and sit on and sleep between old towels so we don’t ruin every bit of fabric for 6-10 hours whilst the mahogany tone sets in. All for a glow. All that, for a little bit of a glow.
  2. Spend around 15 minutes a week getting rid of any sign of dead skin on our feet. Because if blokes see a girl with a dry foot in a sandal they are ever so judged for being crusty. You lot however can bowl round with your butters toes in a Haviana and none of us can mention it….hmmm.
  3. Perform acrobats when shaving. Legs over your head in the shower so you can get right to the very top of your leg? Yep it’s like a really shit Karma Sutra move. Any idea how near a fatal accident we’ve all had when hair removing?! It’s a dangerous game.
  4. Make ourselves cry from plucking our upper lips. Oh. Sweet. Mary. Mother. Of. Christ.
  5. Eat biscuits in secret. So that nobody knows that we polished off 7. They think we just had 3.
  6. Have to deal with boob sweat. In the gym. Or when walking home. Or just in general. It’s horrendous.
  7. Fart in secret. Sometimes, when we don’t know you that well, we run the tap in the bathroom if we need to pass lady wind. True story.
  8. Genuinely believe we are Adele when we are home alone. Sometimes we even do the actions from the video in front of the mirror when we are getting ready for work. True shit.
  9. Start thinking about Christmas presents in October. Start wrapping them in November. Be a little bit upset with you when we see you walk through the door the day before Christmas Eve with ours.
  10. Re-clean parts of the house you’ve already cleaned when you’re not in. Because we’re just better at it than you are.
  11. Deal with becoming twice our normal size every, single, month. You think it’s just 3 days of bleeding when mother nature calls. Or 3 days of no nookie?! Uh-huh. It’s about a week of bloating, sweating, spots and eating like a pregnant horse. Then a day of back pain. 3 days of cramps and needing to be within a foot of a toilet. Then three more days of post-period food intake guilt because we were needy and ordered all of the Dominos. It’s a long arse process.
  12. Keep a constant eye on our nether regions to ensure they are in decent order. Deal with a stranger applying hot wax to said area when it needs sorting out. Having to get in the shower after a wax and wanting to weep when that water hits our hot, hot skin.
  13. Carry round the equivalent weight of a suitcase on our arms every single day. So that we are always in reach of perfume, deodrant, fresh knickers, tissues, make up and baby wipes incase anything, anything at all  might happen that might make us feel rank/look rank/be rank.

& my favourite one that few of us admit to, but you should probably all know about.

14. Get up about 15 minutes before you when you’re first dating. Brush our teeth, cream our face and have a spray of deodrant before getting back into bed. So that when you wake up you don’t have the fright of your life and run away.  Such Skills.

LL x

Revellers say farewell to drinking on the Tube

The 23.54

We all know the train. The Friday night carriage of carnage that manages to drag hundreds of intoxicated, over eager, office workers back to their homes before it’s time for them to order a £60 Uber back to the suburbs.

The infamous 23.54 from Platform 15 that contains some of the most inspiring characters for a blog. The last train home and a picture that paints a thousand stories of why we shouldn’t drink.

There’s always the same old faces, that you’ll always see. I’ve managed to, and quite proudly. whittle them down to the following categories.

Roll up, roll up.

Burger King Billy.

Yep, he’s been on the big licks since around 4pm. His TM Lewin tie is covered in pale ale and he’s already regretting the minute his 4 and 6 year old will wake him up at 7am tomorrow morning to go to football and ballet. The only thing that will fend off the impending hangover, potential divorce and drink driving ban is a Whopper meal. Burger King Billy can barely find his face but he’s going to get through this meal and the extra mozzarella bites if it’s the last thing he does.


She went out after work in the vein hope that Sam from accounts would finally slip her a bum squeeze and some attention over her chardonnay, only to be met with the realisation that he’s knocking it off with Leah from Legal. She’s carried on drinking all of the chardonnay against everyone’s better judgement and now, hammered, (and pre midnight) our little Cinderella is swiping like a motherfucker. Drunk Tinder is her last resort. Should be noted that if she’s also been on the shots, she’s probably sending some pretty fruity messages. Filthy mare.

Raging Rita.

Her boyfriend was an absolute dickhead on Wednesday and now is the time he’s going to learn about the error of his ways. On a crowded carriage. She is going to scream blue murder at him down her iPhone until the happy hour martinis wear off. Power Woman.

Chatty Man.

He doesn’t care that you’ve got no interest in talking to him whatsoever, he is going to make friends on this train. Because he’s 12 pints in and has the confidence of a porn star. He will bore you to tears until East Croydon about his job that you don’t give a shit about and will not understand why you won’t give him your phone number.

Party Bus Paul.

Go home at midnight? You must  be off your nut. He’ll spend the entirety of the 23.54 making arrangements for which one of his mates he’s going to meet in the pub when he gets off the train. More often than not starts his phone conversations with ‘What Up BRUVVVAAAAAAA…I’ve got the dreaded flavour, let’s go Tiger!’. Oh god.

The Educators.

The knobs that still try and read the Evening Standard even though it’s apparent they’ve lost their ability to see. Mainly highlighted by the fact that they are reading the paper upside down. And are asleep.

& last but not least my absolute fav.

Sicknote Sally.

Oh bless her. Her boss took her out for lunch, she’s not been back to the office and has seen of the best part of 3 bottles of Merlot. There’s someone else in the loo and she’s had to resort to a little spew in a UpperCrust bag.

Poor bitch.


Review Time – The London Cocktail Club

goodge street

So this Saturday was hen do night. My friend had a lovely dinner & drinks pre wedding celebration in The Charlotte Street Hotel, Fitzrovia. Civilised with only a dash of willy straws.

However, before heading into the hen harem, a few of us decide to pop for a quick late afternoon drink nearby.

Gladly we stumbled down the iron steps to the dark and dingy London Cocktail Club, Goodge Street.

goodge street 2

had to pinch this from because my camera wouldn’t work in the dark! joy.

To my surprise, before 7pm (even on a Saturday) they have a happy hour where all of their signature cocktails are 2 for £12, which for Fitzrovia is basically PoundShop prices. The staff are super friendly and really knowledgeable which helps.

I learnt from the lovely tattooed lady (sorry love, I didn’t catch your name) where the Porn Star Martini originated. You know what, I enjoy my drinking sessions being somewhat of a school day so I really appreciated her.

Two Porn Stars each and more salty popcorn than you can shake a stick at we were on our way. I’ll be honest, and bearing in mind I’ve really done the leg work, this is hands down the best Porn Star I’ve drunk in London. And I’ve got through more than is healthy.

Sip the prosecco, don’t shot it, because it’s actually not Cava like you find elsewhere.

You are left well alone but still attended to nicely. It’s snug. And private. And to be honest, is a perfect little date venue if you’re out for lunch and want a late afternoon drink. You feel like you’re sneaking around somewhere you shouldn’t be. Which is great.

Tip. If you’re looking to be there anytime after 6pm, book. Even it is two stalls at the bar. The place is tiny and you’re not going to enjoy it as much squished against a wall tipping Gin Collins down yourself.

Also, listen when they recommend a cocktail .They clearly know what they’re doing.

I’ll be back.

London Cocktail Club
61 Goodge Street


It’s not like it is in the films

Displaying FullSizeRender.jpg

This week I finished reading Ben Elton’s ‘Popcorn’. For those of you that haven’t read it, it centres around a couple that go on a killing spree after being ‘inspired’ to do so by a Hollywood blockbuster.

The book focuses on how real life events would play out on the big screen. And it got me thinking how different things are played out in films and on the tele box. You know, how they never actually depict real life. Ever. At all. And how much more fun it would be if they did.

Circumstances such as.


Film version –

Expertly delivered one liners that completely sum up the way you’ve been feeling for a week and exactly what you think of the person on the end of your wrath. Powerful. Poignant. And normally finished off with you being able to turn on your £450 heels and walk away leaving the other person feeling small and reflective.

Real life –

‘You’re just a fucking fuck face’…storm out, trip over some washing that you left on the floor. Probably cry a bit. Say fuck some more. Keeping it real cool.

Confessions of love. 

Film version –

It’s just, it’s always been you. Your my morning, my night, I love you.

*to the sound of harp music, probably in the snow or near some fireworks or the Eiffel Tower*

Real life –

Yeah this is going alright init. What do you want, pizza or Chinese? My treat.

*to the sound of whatever is on itv2*

First kiss with a love interest.

Film version –

Smooth. He tucks your hair behind your ear and smiles at you. It’s normally raining. Or snowing. Which makes you look prettier, not like Amy Winehouse after a big one. It’s gentle and sexy. And sober.

Real life –

Often half cut, at a bus stop. Sometimes a tooth clash because you’re not quite used to each other yet. More often that not a bum grab. Always a misjudgement on the ‘tongue or no tongue’ game. Normally always quite unsexy.


Film version –

Polished, well-timed right hooks that cause the other guys face to fold and shake in slow motion. Normally floors the other guy and the puncher doesn’t feel a thing in this hand.

Real life –

Two pissed up blokes basically just pushing each other around outside a kebab shop. Whilst swearing. A lot.

Break Ups.

Film version –

Tears that somehow make you look pretty and vulnerable. Well structured confessions of how you’ve been feeling for a long, long time. An old indie song plays in the background. A soft focused walk out of the door of the cute little coffee shop whilst you leave someone on the sofa looking sad but still really fucking hot.

Real life –

Screaming. Making no sense. Throwing things. Slamming doors. Both look like an absolute car crash for about 3 weeks afterwards due to lack of sleep and constant late night text arguments about who is the bigger bellend.

& best of all.


Film version –

Music playing. Normally some kind of smooth R&B. Couple involved have always managed to light some candles and reapply their make up prior to said fumble. The action between your top and bra coming off and you laying down on fresh white linen is one smooth move. You are pert, and well tanned, and the action happens without any kind of foreplay. And goes out for an eternity. You both finish at exactly the same time, at the same time as the song ends handily and then spoon whilst looking like you’ve just stepped out of the hairdressers.

Real life –

Two people hopping around a non-tidy bedroom, whilst trying to drag your skinny jeans off. You almost certainly haven’t shaved your legs as you’d hoped and the lighting is either bright big light or pitch black. You’ll knock heads, teeth and someones arm will go into someones eye at some point. It’ll be a special occasion if your underwear matches. He still will struggle getting your bra off so you’ll end up doing it yourself. There are few smooth, seamless movements. There’s the start stop whilst you fumble round for baby stoppers and your bed linen is far from crisp and white. More badly patterned and creased. It finishes anywhere between 15-45 minutes later (depending on the amount of booze involved) and as you turn over for a cuddle you’ll no doubt manage to kick your fella in the balls. Your hair is all over the place and you both look like you’ve been thrown at a wall. One falls asleep snoring whilst the other gets a dead arm from the awkward position you’ve ended up in.

Because, it’s not like it is in the films. If only it bloody was.

LL x


All the reasons that Brighton is fabulous

For those of you who know me, this post doesn’t come as a surprise.

I’ve been ending up in Brighton on Friday nights, for weekends away or just on a little whim for over ten years. I’ve seen my best mates skinny dip on the beach, my first ever love & I had our first “moment” on the pier once 8 years ago (where’s that violin!?!) and I’ve been known to get in the car at 8pm at night to just drive down for a bag of chips. I’ve been spending more & more time there of late due to a wonderful little crowd that hang out in Telescombe Cliffs (special shout out now to Ade & Trish Parrish – one day they’ll have their own blog) and if I have my way I’ll own one of them town houses one day.

The chips, ex boyfriend and general merriment of this seaside town have always made me have a fondness for the place, so much so that I thought it deserved it’s own post.

So here it comes. All the reasons that I think Brighton is just fabulous

Ok, ok. First things first. The view.


I mean that is a whole lot of sea for your money.

The Lanes.

Oh hey cobbled streets of treasure trove goodness. Yes, please just march on down there and buy me an engagement ring. Immediately! They literally turn me into a human magpie. Minus the feathers.

The lengths the town goes to, to celebrate Pride.

Why just have a street party, when you could have 12? And a concert in a park? And a parade? What the hell, just make it a national holiday and be done with it!

The arty farty coffee shops.
And the fact that you don’t have to go further than ten feet to find one.


Cheap, cheerful and as hotels in Brighton go, it’s pretty much up there for everything you need. It’s clean, it’s comfy and the breakfast is cooked to order and insane. As a club. Hilarious. And the terrace in the sun is literally worth it’s weight in concrete gold. LEGENDS


I, to this day, have never been in. But I could sit outside that window and marvel at them damn cakes all the live long day. You chocolate sculpting genius.


The Cabaret Scene.

Enjoy your wine whilst listening to some absolute fire crackers belt out some power ballads? Yes please. My favourite? Without fail. Gabriella Parrish. Her voice will make the hairs on your arms stand up.

gabs and me

Not heard of her? Well I literally do not know where you’ve even been! That’s me & her just as she finished on the Cabaret Stage at Pride. Whaddapiece.

Bluebird Tea Co

Ok, me and these guys go back a few years  but my god. Why settle for a bit of English Breakfast when you could go all out and have a tea mixology lesson? What a lovely selection of brews. Keep it up.

Bluebird Tea Co.


Defy anyone to not get all of the entertainment out of a grabby machine and some candy floss.

The air.

All of the sea air. & the fact that it’s so clear that it actually makes you tired. Love it.

Wildlife Festival.


Great new festival with a wicked little vibe. And because you can’t camp, it means you get to leave the festival, head back into town and carry on your night out. In your wellies. Standard.

The fact that it only takes an hour to get there from London




Yes, please. I would quite like two course lunch, which is delicious, and a glass of wine and get change out of a tenner. Favourite place to eat. And them people. Ever. So. Friendly.

That Hot Dog place outside the station.

Annoyingly I never get the name of it…but my word. That is a good old sausage in a bun.

Sally Vate’s Rock’n’Roll Bingo

Best way to play bingo

Best way to play bingo

It’s basically a musical version of bingo. Amazing. Only real way to spend your Sunday night to be honest. Oh yeah and is if the bingo wasn’t funny enough, the drinks are half price. And for those of you from London, that means the bottles of wine are £5. Yes, £5. Work on Monday is horrific but absolutely worth it – Charles Street.

Talking of cheap drinks…

The fact that a round doesn’t cost you a mortgage like it sometimes can in London. Which is always nice.

Oh yeah and then there’s the fact that in the evening, you get to look at views like this…

I took that. I know right. All of the pride.

I took that. I know right. All of the pride.

& last but not least.

The fact that you can be who  you want, wear what you like and love whoever tickles your fancy. And nobody is going to bat an eyelid.

Next stop. Reckon this blog would work well if I called it Lady Brighton? Hmmm. Food for thought.

LL x