Derry Girls: I LIVE FOR DERRY GIRLS. There still lurks within me, the fat fifteen year old of yesteryear, not to mention the girl from a small village ,so it’s very relatable- turns out Irish mums, like Welsh mums, will strip you down in the kitchen to wash your whites and slag off the English a lot. It also mingles a lot of cracking quotes (“Foreigners fucking love the Giants Causeway“) with an actually moving storyline about growing up during the Troubles, so enjoy the whiplash between laughing and crying a bit and feeling guilty for laughing.
La Mante: Everyone knows I love a bit of Netflix and Kill, but La Mante is something else. It’s basically everything you’d sterotypically imagine a French serial killer flick to be- artfully shot, just generally amazing production value and visually stunning, beautifully acted by gorgeous people, but also soft and lifelike in ways that just serve to make it bloody alarming. I had to sit down quietly with a cup of tea when it was over and reflect on what I’d just seen. Plus it didn’t fall back on that stupid crass “oh everything is red someone is probably going to die soon” rubbish that so many dramas do these days. Très Bien
Nineties Nostalgia: So I’ll be thirty this year (fucking thirty, what?) and I think I’m experiencing my first wave of adult nostalgia. I remember my mum’s face when she saw me wearing a Led Zeppelin t-shirt , as she realised she had lived long enough that the culture of her generation had come back around, and my dad lecturing me about how we kids “didn’t invent rock and roll you know”. Well, I keep seeing people , people half my age, wearing ribbed crop t-shirts, scrunchies and hoop earrings , jeans up to the bellybutton and although it is giving me some incredible existensial angst (I can feel the flesh melting from my face, death is looming and my joints are starting to click more frequently) it is generally making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I might go and re-purchase a little black dress and a white top to wear under it, although I don’t know from where, as Tammy is now closed.
Betty Crocker Gluten Free Cookie Mix: I SUCK at baking cookies, they always spread out into one giant crispy cookie and leave me feeling sad and disappointed and half heartedly picking at the squishy bit in the middle of a tray of gloop. Well, goodbye failure, hello Betty, I know it’s cheating, and I don’t care
Whatever this Godawful Virus is: all sodding week I’ve had one long headache, fever and chills, nausea, and a one way ticket to snot city. Since Tuesday, which quite frankly feels like a century ago. I have not succumbed to illness for almost a year, save one incident of coeliac poisoning, but this one got me good. I’m going to try and venture out of the house today, because the last thing we want is for me to lose the fucking plot as well (I think the walls might be closing in, I’m not sure), but I’m already looking forward to the nap I’ll need when I get in.
Watching Other People Jog Past the Window: LOOK AT ME! LOOK HOW HEALTHY I AM! HAHA! Stupid joggers. It’s been a beautiful week and our road leads directly down the sea front so obviously the moment there’s sun, there are tonnes of lycra wearing losers (usually me included) bopping off down the road for a good refreshing run. Watching them go past as I lie in a pool of my own snot has not been great.
Greenpeace: Firstly, I have a battle raging in this house, against plastics and also against some kind of flu thing. Secondly, do not fucking knock on my door ever again. I’m having a hard enough time without some white guy with dreads named Patrick adding to my considerable burden of having to drink Lemsip and also trying to make this a zero waste home. Get out.