January is about soups and spreadsheets. You may think it's about gym memberships, dry January, Veganuary (woohoo), facing the soul-crushing reality of going back to work whilst desperately crawling towards payday, but you'd be wrong. For me at least, it's soup and spreadsheets. Let me explain.
I'm moving on Saturday. It's a long story, but all you really need to know is that our soon-to-be former landlord has proved himself to be totally cretinous. Imagine a landlord version of gaslighting, where despite all behavioural (and legal) evidence to the contrary, he tries to convince you that you are in fact doing him a massive disservice by, for instance, asking that your deposit be protected. He believes that he can't possibly be a dodgy landlord because, and I quote, 'I've never asked you to pay in cash'. SIGH. Anyway, my housemates and I are looking forward to the day when a text from our landlord no longer induces a migraine, and this Saturday are moving to what promises to be a delightful little house in Tottenham.
Is Penny full of crap? It's a question I ask myself often, though not in the third person because that would be strange and somewhat self aggrandising. On this particular occasion, I'm asking it because I frequently end my blog posts with some sort of personal resolution- something I'm going to try to do better,… Continue reading Little by Little
It's been 10 years since I started at drama school. Holy crap on a pancake. In many ways it feels like it's been 10 years- I'm certainly not the same person that I was back then. We've all grown up, gone in different directions, passed a few milestones. But in other ways I can still remember so vividly the first few days of nervously formed connections- like bonding over a shared love of brightly coloured jeans, and the utter joy of knowing I was about to spend three years working at something I was truly passionate about.
On Sunday morning I woke up fully clothed with my contact lenses still in and glitter all over my bed. I couldn't remember how I got there and feared that finding out would unleash a series of mortifying flashbacks. We'd had a houseparty. I was drinking from a mug and can only assume that by… Continue reading It’s only an absinthe daquiri…