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







Let’s give our brains a break

Do you ever walk into the kitchen and think ‘what the fuck did I come in here for?’ or leave the house and loose complete sense of where you parked the car?

Do you ever find yourself having some ‘downtime’ in front of a TV programme only to realise you haven’t actually taken any of it because you’re answering work emails, or running in and out keeping an eye on the cooking or the washing or…more than likely, you’re on your phone…on Facebook?

Thought so.

Ever thought why?

The minute we wake up in the morning, it’s on. Like donkey kong.

We’ve got 17 minutes to get ourselves out of the door, leaving ourselves 9 minutes to make the 10 minute journey to the station, to make the train that will get us to work just on time. We get on the train and juggle between checking our work phone to pre-empt the shit storm we are about to walk into, and checking our own phone to see if anybody put anything ground breaking on Instagram whilst we slept. The morning at work is a flurry of meetings and forgetting that you actually need the odd five minutes to have a wee. We eat lunch at our desks, hurried, whilst trying to do our Ocado order, sort out our banking and catch up on the news in 15 short minutes. We get heartburn trying to reply to the 85 new WhatsApp notifications we have. The afternoon follows the pattern of the morning and before you know it we’re running home, to try and get to our gym session before the shopping arrives, leaving ourselves approximately 8 minutes to shove something in the microwave, have a shower and get to bed before we do it all over again.

And we wonder why we can’t remember where the bloody car is?

Our brains are full. To bursting. And if we’re not careful we’ll all be in mental institutions pre-50. And I’m not laughing.

We are living in the immediate age where if it doesn’t happen now, it doesn’t count. You must be glued to your phones to reply to work emails immediately, to react to friends news and photos instantly, to reply to potential suitors straightaway before they find someone else.

For crying out loud, we even watch TV now in a condensed hour every week by watching other people watch it for us. What are we doing?!?


Can you just watch the news for me please? Cheers.  (pic- comso.co.uk)



It’s time to give our brains a break.

I took a 5 day bank holiday weekend this week. I went to bed on Wednesday night and my brain wouldn’t sleep. I tried to work out how I would catch up with 15 mates, do 6 loads of washing, write 4 blogs, pluck my eyebrows, and do the weekly shop to fit in around the plans I’d already made and whilst giving myself some time to sit down.

My head hurt and it was all my own doing.

Sod this, I thought.

I called time on rushing. Called time on the need for it all to happen now and decided to chill the fuck out this bank holiday.

On Thursday I got in the car with one of my best mates. We drove to the Kent coast where we were so far South our phones thought we were in France. I turned mine off. I stood in the sea for a while. I went for a coffee and didn’t rush it. I sat and stared into space for like a whole hour. I just looked at the sea.

I well and truly blew the cobwebs off and didn’t spend the whole day thinking FUCK – I need to stop relaxing because the shopping’s due and the ironings piling up and I’ve got to work late and try and see my mates.

I. Just. Stared.


I stared and made a pact with myself. That September is the month that each day, I will give my brain a break.

If stuff doesn’t get done, so be it. If stuff getting done will get in the way of me giving myself even half an hour of time to just stop, it just won’t get done.

I’m going to stop over committing to plans which mean I rush around like a prat worrying about being late.

I’m going to turn my phone off for at least 3 hours every day. And those 3 hours won’t include time that I’m asleep. I’m just going to stare out the bloody window on the train. I’m going to start looking up some more, not just down at my phone.

I’m going to enjoy TV in my own time, I’m going to cook nice dinners again, I’m going to cancel work drinks to go to the damn gym.

I’m going to make some me time.

And some time to give my brain a break.

Before it bloody breaks on me.

LL x


Lady London is 100


To be honest, I feel about 100 most mornings, but alas it is not I that is 100.

But the blog.

The blog is 100 posts old.

100 posts of me wittering on, moaning, listing and genuinely ranting in a vague attempt at making someone somewhere mildly chuckle.


I’ve just checked and since moving onto the WordPress site one year ago….one small year ago…my site has been viewed 65,000 times.

So this is a little blog of thanks.

At 1,000 views I kinda thought my Mum and my mates where just refreshing their screens to help me out.

At 5,000 I kinda thought that maybe people on Facebook were starting to like what I wrote.

But when 25,000 individual people read my post about Tiger Tiger in January, and shared it on social media 8,000 times I kinda realised I didn’t have that many mates and strangers were reading it.

People at work began forwarding me my own posts to read and once I stood behind a bloke on the train who was reading some of my rambles.

I know it’s still small fry but it’s my small fry and for making it tick along I want to say cheers.

This week also marks a year since the Metro went ‘alright, we’ll give you a go’, and my little words went nationwide.

This is a good week.

So watch this space.

It’s been a bit quiet on the Western front of late but that doesn’t mean to say I haven’t been beavering away.

ol’ ladylondon.com is going to go through a little bit of a overhaul and the Blog Book….yes, you heard, the Blog Book will be landing, in editions, starting in September.

I’m hoping for it to be bigger, and better, and something more and more of you will keep coming back to read.

But for the time being, cheers.

And to keep you entertained, here’s some of the best bits…just incase you’d missed one.


The One Where I Wished I Was In Friends 

The One When I Joked So Hard About Being Single Then Got A Boyfriend In A Week

The One When I Trended On Metro Above The Chuckle Brothers For Two Whole Days

The One Where Croydon Went Nuts & My Local Pub Loved Me

The One Where I Called Out Southern Rail 

& last but not least

The One Where Carol Voderman Tweeted Me. 




I drunkenly deleted Tinder – and guess what, the world didn’t explode.

I know right, you might be reading this as a fellow single girl and thinking ‘hell, bitch be crazy, she’s never gonna get laid again’.
And to be honest with you, in my hazy hungover state, I had all of the never-gonna-get-laid-ever-again-anxiety. It seems to be the only gateway into anything remotely romantic/attention giving in this day and age and whilst pissed from post work drinks, I’d deleted the lot. Bosh. Gone.

Like so many twenty-somethings, my dating life of late has fallen into two categories. Category 1 – nothing. Category 2 – online. I’ve tried everything from Tinder to Badoo and the only long term thing I’ve managed to get from it is RSI in my thumb from all of the swiping.

I’d got to the stage this one Wednesday evening when I, half pissed, got on the train and looked at my notifications. I’d had 16 new Tinder messages since leaving the office. I opened my phone and before my next stop I could have signed myself up for dates to last me through to the following Monday, if I’d so wished. Yes, some of the guys I’d been chatting to were funny. On message. They were attractive. In their filtered pictures. But it dawned on me that I had no interest in going to meet any of them.

I’ve done a year & a half of the leg work. Of answering the exact same questions every single time I match someone new. Yes I’m 27, yes this is what I do for a job, no funnily enough I don’t fancy a ‘bit of fun’. It’s the same cycle, day in day out. One out of 10 you have the initial conversation with actually follow through to the next day, and only one out of 10 of those ever transpire into a date. By which point, you’ve probably dedicated about two weeks having banter with a guy behind a screen, you psyche yourself up and only one out of the ten you meet you actually have a spark with.

It’s hard work. It’s admin heavy. And I’d got tired.


So, I developed drunk woman fierce independence. You know when out of nowhere you’re Beyonce and can take on the world because you’d had a bottle of Savvy B? And I deleted the lot. In one fail swoop, I kissed goodbye. I was going to meet someone that I had a real life spark with, that conversation flowed easily with, that I didn’t have to hunt out in a bar whilst holding Tinder open because I’d forgotten which one of the 5 guys I’d been talking to that week I was going to meet.

I woke up the following morning, remembered what I’d done and for about 12 seconds actually regretted it. ‘Well how am I ever going to meet anyone now?’ was the first question that popped into my head. And the fact that I asked myself that made me not re-download them immediately and pray to the iCloud gods that they’d saved my chat with fit Greg, 29 from East Ham before I lost him and our potential future together for good.

I’d fallen into the online dating trap. The one that makes all single people think that nobody meets in a normal arena anymore.


‘Sod it’ I thought, I’m going to give it a go and prove the trap wrong. And off my home screen they stayed. Lost was a few potential good dates, long gone was Greg from East Ham and I was left sitting there actually fully watching a TV programme rather than having the weird sex chat based distraction.

To be honest, the first day or so was odd. It felt strange not to pick up my phone and just have a random flirt on a Monday just because I could. I saved all of the phone battery because it wasn’t constantly buzzing with notifications of another match, another two weeks of chatting, another not great date. But to be honest, I felt a sense of freedom from it all.

I wasn’t checking to see if someone found me attractive enough to muster up the energy to swipe me. I wasn’t constantly on the hunt for the next half arsed attempt at a date. I wasn’t thinking I should keep Friday nights free in case someone was to ask me out.

I want this story to end with me going ‘and then last Friday I walked into the pub, it was 1999 again and a bloke with a glint in his eye asked me for a drink and now we’re married’.

It obviously doesn’t. But I‘m approaching things a bit differently now.

care less about it all. I’ll make an effort to hold a stare over a bar again. I’ll smile back. I actually notice people’s winks or nods in pubs or on the train because I’m not staring down at my phone when my mate goes off to the loo or I’m in between stops. Staring down at my phone answering yet another message from yet another stranger.


I’m not obsessing on how long it’s been since I went on a date, or got laid or had a flirt.

I actually a feel a bit more confident now I’m not paraded in front of randoms for them to judge me purely on how I look.

And you know what, if I stay single for another couple of years so be it. But I’m hell bent that the next time I fall for a guy it will be a bit more real. In real time. In real life. With his real face.

Not the face he wanted me to see. The face that was actually 5 years old and filtered to fuck.


Screen Shot 2016-07-06 at 10.23.31

The dramatic & emotional stages of being a Southern Rail customer

Hold your hands up. Who travels to and from work via Southern Rail?

Oh hey!

Now hands up – who’s come hella close to commiting near murder at least 75 times since Christmas.


So let us unite and appreciate the trials and tribulations of being a Southern Rail customer. Here they are.

The emotional stages we all enter daily.

1. Joy
The National Rail app is showing no delays. No cancellations. No yellow warning signs. Today is going to be a fabulous day.

2. Disappointment
When you arrive at the station to realise that said National Rail app has lied to you like a cheating husband and you are in fact delayed. So delayed. Again.

can't even

3. Pity
For the poor man on the station that has to dodge literal bullets when he announces that yet again he is sorry for the delay to the service. But Barry, who was supposed to be driving your train, decided to take the worlds longest dump, so you’ll be late for work. #lackoftraincrew

4. Claustrophobia
When you finally get on said train, and your forced to spend the entire journey invading the personal space of someone who apparently has never been introduced to a tube of Colgate.

5. Fear
That this will be the day that your boss presents you with your P45 on arrival at your desk as this is the day that she’s finally had enough of your bullshit tardiness.

6. Bitterness
When at lunchtime you check your bank balance and realise how much a month you are spending to not get anywhere on time. Ever. Thanks Southern. Thanks for that.


7. Dread
When 5pm rolls round and you know that if you’re lucky you might be at home in time for the News at 10. Perhaps. Maybe. Probably not.

8. Concern
For the welfare of your liver. Because every time you get to Victoria and see that you’ve got yet another 45 minute wait for a train, you have no other option but to go to Weatherspoons and ride this shit out.

9. Hope
When your train actually gets a platform announced. Is tonight the night? The night that I get home in enough time to actually cook myself a dinner rather than walking straight through the door and straight into my bed.

10. Rage
When you stand on said platform next to said train for 20 whole minutes waiting for Barry to get off the loo and open the doors for you.

11. Deep Rooted Sadness
When you sit down and count up the amount of minutes you’ve wasted today alone on waiting for trains. Time that could have been spent writing your memoirs. Or spending time with your loved ones. Or like Barry, having a dump.


12. Suicidal Tendencies
When you read that they are about to cancel 350 trains a day & pretty soon you are going to have to move to the North to escape this shit.

LL x


A little story about worry

So here goes.

Time to talk about something that would normally stay in the dark deep box of stuff that Jo wouldn’t necessarily put on a blog. Like, ever.

But sod it. Rather than worrying about what people think about it, I’m just going to write it.

For those of you that know me well, you’ll know for a number of years I’ve struggled with anxiety. I used to worry about worrying about worrying about stuff that nobody else would ever consider to be something you would need to worry about.

I’d have panic attacks daily, sometimes twice, sometimes thrice and things like going to work, or straightening my hair or getting out of bloody bed stopped being those things that were easy.

I’d worry about everything..

I worried so much about how I came across that I genuinely wondered why my mates were my mates.
I worried so much about how I looked that I genuinely wondered why I ever had a boyfriend, let alone one that was actually quite nice to me.
I’d get myself in a state about going to a family BBQ because I would spend the whole time worrying that everyone would think I was a knob.
I spent a LOT of time worrying that I was a knob. That was a big one.
I’d worry that my bus was going to crash. That I’d get the sack, every day. That the chicken in the fridge was almost certainly going to kill me. That the bloke on the bus was staring at me because I looked like a troll.

I  got some help, I got a diagnosis to stop me feeling like a lunatic, I spoke to some people but  it never went away. Not properly. Not until recently.

Now, without going into a load of detail, in the last year I’ve finally had some proper things to worry about. When your family’s health and well-being is put in danger, you finally realise what worry should be. What worry was saved for. And that thing wasn’t the size of your nose or your arse or your boobs.

And as shit scared as I have been at times, it put my old worry into a bit of context.

Out of nowhere, I no longer worried about walking into a pub in case people were wondering who the Wicked Witch of the West was. I stopped worrying that I was going to loose all my mates and money over night. I realised that getting myself in such a state about my belly that I’d have a panic attack was literally fruitless. People’s lives, health, that’s what mattered. Not my hang ups.

hey girl, I'm feeling fly tonight

hey girl, I’m feeling fly tonight


On Monday I had a little celebration. It was exactly 365 days since my last major panic attack.

I had a bag of Malteasers, a cup of tea and decided to write this.

Because I know a lot of people are where I was 3/4 years ago. When they thought that worry was gonna control them for the rest of their days and they would die alone and in a house with some cats because everyone would run away from the bird who had a panic attack all of the bloody time.

And I suppose I just wanna say it’s going to be alright. Something massive will happen and from an outsider looking in, it will be the thing that tips you over the edge. But actually, it’ll be the thing that saves ya.

Because it’ll make you realise what you should worry about in life.

And that thing isn’t what’s in the mirror, or in the fridge, or on the bloody bus.

LL x

If you need a little bit of help with the worry thing, then click here for some tips x


2015 – it’s a wrap 

So remember last year I did little wee montage of all pictures that summed what a shinkickingly good 2014 I’d had & I’m sure you all absolutely loved it.

Well, here we go again. Except less pictures, more words, less shinkickingly good (in parts just shin-kicking to tell you the truth)

It’s been a funny old year if I’m honest. A right royal rollercoaster.

So anyway here goes. Thank god!

Jan – April

To be fair it didn’t start off too shabz, truth be told. I entered the year with a new sense of ‘I’m not all bad’ and decided to make a move towards having a bit more get up & go about myself. I met a boy, who was a treat, and went hell for leather back into the world of semi-perma dating. Scary right! It was, but I needed it. Not needed a boy. (Pah. Do I need to sing Independent Women at you? ) But needed to know I could do it and not royally f it up. Well. More of that later. I can feel a story coming on.
Me & Jupp went to Disney land to say a fond farewell to our early twenties. What better way to celebrate turning 26 then eating candy floss on It’s A Small World…here we go. I know you all secretly wanted a picture of us in the ears. Shabang!


I actually turned 26. Which was petrifying and I didn’t enjoy it even slightly. Tell a lie. The night out was blinding….here we all are. This is the night we discovered the joys of Café Patron tequila. Which to be honest, as sad as it is, is up there on the highlights list because of the incredible decisions it led us all into making thereafter.

Me, 26, and standardly in a Jo Irwin issue jumpsuit. What else would I wear?


My May will go down in history. For none of the right reasons. Even Laura’s manager at work asks about ‘the girl that had the terrible May’. Want the run down? I’m going to make it funny. Cos well. It’s me. Now, take a deep breath. Because you need to read it and remember this all happened in 4 short weeks. 4 short, terrible weeks.
The aforementioned boy binned me on WhatsApp ( yep double blue ticked ditching –ouchy!) the week before we were due to go on a grown up mini break. Never did get that hotel money back. Bastard> I found out the ‘promotion’ I’d got at work was no longer available (foot/gut/thanks for the memories> I went to 2 funerals – fav > I had a dodgy smear test and for a while it was all like, oh my dayz, what is wrong with me, it’s life ending init, oh I am so dead. Had to have a biopsy on my cervix which was all of the pain> I didn’t get a job at Jimmy Choo that I super really wanted > I collapsed, ended up in A&E and made Dean think for a good 7 minutes that I’d exited this mortal coil (yeah I went blue. Smurf Jo)> I discovered aforementioned boy had shacked up with a 45 year old from work (safe brother, safe) & was in a Facebook relationship (grown up) a mere week after binning me. Hmmmmm>oh yeah, and our boiler packed up. That finished me off.
See what I mean? WHADDA SHOCKER.

June – September
Minus crying, a lot. Ha. Jokes. I picked myself up pretty quick sharp as it goes and hit the gym. I discovered the joys of The Body Coach, graduated and felt like a lean winner….go on then – here’s what I did

(Worth noting I don’t quite look like that at the moment because it’s December and I like bread again!)
We went to Edinburgh. Got abused for being English. Vowed never to return.

We went to Wildlife festival and shook our tic tacs – big time. I got hay fever for the first time and made the mistake of drinking with anti-histamines. Oh it was bad.

My best boy mate packed up his bags and buggered off travelling for 18 months. I cried some more.

We celebrated my bestests engagment party. It was the best day of the year. It was emosh. Proper emosh. More emosh the more gin we drunk. But at one point in the evening I turned round and saw a garden full of people that we’ve known for 15 years, sitting together and celebrating a real life changing moment. I made a speech. The groom to be nearly cried. It was THE BOMB.


Then my little Benji turned 30. The hula party broke me (ha! No comment) and we went off to Lille for 3 nights. I came back with suspected gout from the wine and cheese and Ben turned 30 in true, true style. Whilst hammered.

What else happened? Oh yeah. My blog made it onto the METRO…. I nearly died that day. Literally nearly collapsed on the floor (don’t worry Dean, not literally this time) when 42,000 people read my first ever article for them. I’m still writing for them. My own blog is flying and I actually, smush I know, feel really proud of myself. Really bloody proud.

September – November. 

The time came when the heartbreaking decision had to be made to move my little Nan, Joanie Brickell into a care home. It was gutting. Literally the worst. We all knew she couldn’t be on her own any more but watching my Mum & uncle have to push that button was wrenching. It’s taken some adjustment, numerous escape bids and many a sleepless night (mum worrying nan, us worrying about mum) but we’re getting there. And she’s settling in just a treat. Thank god.

I took the bull by the horns and FINALLY GOT A NEW JOB. Wahoo. After getting signed off with stress (low point alert) I thought ‘ya kna what, some stuff just aint worth it’.

The year had well and truly taken it’s toll and the job as it now was had whacked a final nail in the coffin. I took the two weeks & made my mind up that absof*kinglutely wasn’t going back to where I was 3 years ago all depressed and wound up and noise. I’m now a PA, I don’t work in fashion and you know what? I bloody love it.
I watched one of dearest mates get married in a ceremony that would have brought tears to the harshest of women. Lady Lachhar and her Gregory tied the knot in October in the phenomenal Babington House. We got dressed up, I wore a bindi, I danced all night and had dinner sitting opposite Eddie Izzard. Random. But amazing. Here’s to them two, and many happy years togther. Love you.

Then to round it off…I only went to bloody Japan didn’t I. A place I’ve wanted to go since a kid, and there I was, standing in Tokyo and thinking. Girl. You did it. I hung out with my best mate for two weeks, saw the most amazing stuff, took all my kit off in a hot spring and lived the dream.

I had a lot of time to think whilst I was out there. Long bullet train journeys, long flights, actual time to sit down and relax. A lot of time to realise that yes, this years chucked some serious bad shiz my way, but I still got to Japan. I didn’t flake. I didn’t fall down. I got on with it. I cried a lot but I got there! And saw this.


Now we’re here. I’m pleased to say that the year’s ending much better than it started out. New job, blogging like a demon, life changing holiday and a bit of a new attitude.
I’m a bit more ‘sod it’, a bit more carefree. Hopefully less worry and panic. Nobody wants another hospital visit do they!
I’m signing off now for the year. Cos well, I wanna go get merry, a bit fat, and sit down and work out where Lady London goes in 2016.
Thanks to each and everyone of you who’s been there to scrape me off the floor this year. To everyone that’s read the blog. To the Metro. To everyone that stopped me flying straight into a wall.
You know who you are but….

Mum (mate, how you do it I don’t know ), Bex, Laura, Sarah, Dean, Kate, Hannah, Josh & Ben

I love ya.

Merry Christmas kids. Over & out.



Are we all becoming a little bit disposable?

Without getting all deep & shit, I thought I’d write a piece that was less flippant. Less listy. Bit more from the heart and thought provoking.

Pah! Who am I kidding? I’ll try my hardest to drop the swear words and bullet points and try and make my point but I don’t fancy my chances!

The point I want to make today is about throwaway societies.

It’s a known fact that long gone are the days that we call out a repair man to mend a broken washing machine, we’d just hop down to Curry’s buy a new one and bin the one that probably just needed a good old clean. No more would we dream of sitting down one cold Saturday afternoon and trying to get to the bottom of the problem on our laptop, we’d just make do with a not-so-great one for a few months, wait for the sales and get ourselves a new’un. Or even worse bin one that’s in perfectly good order but not as pretty as it’s replacement model. We bin food before it’s actually gone off because the packet tells us too and we get through clothes like there’s no tomorrow.

It’s a way of life we’ve all grown accustomed to. We live in a world where there’s a helluva load of choice and we want to move on quickly to the next bigger and better thing.

Thing that worries me, is this.

Have we started to become throwaway with each other?

I heard a story today about a girl that went on a date with a lad from Tinder. Half an hour in, the sparks weren’t flying and he went to the loo. Lady X got out her phone, opened up her swipey app of joy and lined up another liaison for later that night. She finished her drinks, made her excuses, and moved on to the next.

The worst bit about that story was that I wasn’t even surprised. It was one of a long list of brutal dating stories I just keep on hearing. Where people are binning perfectly good working orders for the new pretty replacement.

Because they can, because it’s easy and because it’s quick.

Since when was that how we behaved? Since when we were we so desperate for the next bigger and better thing to come along that all common decency got thrown out of the window with our old fridge?

It’s sad that the days have gone that you’d give it a shot. Even if sparks weren’t flying for the first hour (because of nerves mainly), you’d stay for a few more drinks, or at least until you’d both finished eating, to see how you felt. Also the well mannered and decent human in you would just go home afterwards. Not out on another date!

I know I go on about it a lot, but the world of online dating is turning us into pretty fickle people and I’m not all that chuffed with it. If you’d put the time and effort into meeting someone when you were out in a bar (in the good old days when people spoke), more often than not, you used to make the time and effort to get to know them, and give it more than 45 minutes.

Nowadays, we make no effort. Our thumbs do the talking and because we’ve invested no time, we invest few morals.

We’re becoming disposable to each other and before long, if we carry on, we’ll have all run out of swipes. And we’ll turn round and realise that we’re all in the same dump, With all the perfectly good fridges. And perfectly good singletons.

And we’ll have to resort back to talking to each other face to face again.

LL x