After much consideration I’ve decided being an adult is not for me. Thank you for the opportunity.

I find being twenty something a real puzzle. Half my friends are getting married, the other half are drunk and cant even find their phones, and i’m just fumbling around somewhere in the middle looking for food.

Bombarded from all angles, in the age where everyone seems to have their shit together and everything is nicely filtered and documented on social media from holidays, babies and houses to baked eggs. It’s pretty much impossible not to draw some kind of comparisons between yourself and your nearest and dearest (and those you follow on Instagram because, well look at that contour though).

I have friends that came out of the womb with a to do list and a gmail account. You know those people that own multiple houses, have a successful business, children, are married and look like they wrote the “how to slay at life” manual. While the rest of us scroll vicariously through seemingly perfect lives, feeling a little worse for wear in bed on a Saturday morning with the Morley’s fried chicken of the night previous, hinting at making an un-wanted reappearance.

giphyThe more I read, the worse I feel. I mean, I should be eating gluten free, I should be moisturising three times a day, I should own a house, I should be higher on the career ladder, I should be regularly donating to charity and I should logically have an ab by now, just one, for the love of all things high in protein?! Whereas in reality I slept through my alarm this morning and accidentally punched myself in the face in my hurry to get the “five second rule” bacon I’d dropped on the floor.

I am resolutely guilty of feeling guilty. The morning commute consists of being stuffed in someone’s armpit scrolling through Instagram where everyone’s spent the weekend volunteering in a soup kitchen, are in Bali or have spent two hours in the gym. And I’ve rolled out of bed with a carb bloat like Jabba the Hutt wondering if anyone can tell that I’ve strategically ironed my shirt with hair straighteners. Why didn’t I get up earlier, why is my bank account showing single figures, why does my hair look as if it is currently home to a family of birds, why, why, why?!

I don’t think the pressure we put on ourselves actually achieves much at all apart from sending us all into an unproductive flap. giphy (1)Crying into a glass of £3 Wetherspoons Shiraz awaiting the long awaited arrival of pay day – fine. But letting sharpened, Valencia triple filtered homemade olive, sun dried tomato and balsamic Foccacia bread make you feel bad about your life choices, no, just not okay.

The thing about your twenties is there’s always so much pressure to know what the fuck you’re doing, sort your shit out, have a plan, ask the correct questions, be going in the right direction. With most of the pressure coming from yourself and the ideals you’ve defined as “normal” or “what you should be doing”. With the occasional “what’s next then Han, I owned two houses by the time I was your age” grenade being chucked in from the stepdad from time to time.

But your twenties is the time that it’s actually ok to not know what you’re doing, to make mistakes and learn from them, learn a new language. fall in love, write, draw, travel and eat leftover pizza for breakfast. Because sometimes it’s the wrong direction and the least planned bits that end up being the most fun, to just be and enjoy the present is sometimes enough for now, and to be honest baked eggs are a bit shit anyway.

Peace, Love & False Lashes xo

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Do you even lift bro?

I haven’t blogged in an absolute age, and true to form I only ever seem to blog when I’m ludicrously excited or just plain pissed off. This time however I’m not even angry, I’m just disappointed.

January started off so well, which saw me alcohol and sugar free, skipping between dead lifts and HIT training with more pictures of overnight oats and #healthyfats than you can shake a stick at. Nothing was going to stop me, I was a force to be reckoned with, a movement, an aspiring athlete, a nutritional whizz. Have you seen what I can do with my nutri-bullet?!

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So why is it that I’m sat in bed with a spoonful of Nutella after eating an entire garlic baguette, in exactly the same place I started at the beginning of Jan.. Whyyyyy?!

I’ve always been an all or nothing kinda gal so every party/gathering/social event in Feb I hit hard. But with summer approaching and a beach holiday on the horizon the focus remained and my fitness hashtags and progress pics did not wain. August however, was where the trouble arose, on return from aforementioned beach holiday. The weather was, well, a bit shit, summer seemed to be disappearing as quickly as Kylie Jenner’s innocence and Mr Cadbury’s wrapped an arm around me and I was lost once again to his loving embrace.

Cheered on by my inner sambuca spirit animal (pun intended), I decided that I was probably a total bore in Jan swerving all social events to build up those “abs like slabs”. I continued to reason with myself, chowing down the remains of a McDonalds double cheeseburger (whilst getting ready for work on a Monday, after a particularly boozy Sunday brunch) that no-one likes a skinny sober bitch anyway, right?!

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Since it’s got dark I’ve talked myself out of my 5:45am gym alarm as realistically I can do HIT training in my front room and steal back the hour of sleep I would have missed. I have since talked myself of the HIT training in the morning because it’s cold and, really unfair on the neighbours, I can go after work.

Since then I’ve talked myself out of regular after work sessions (2 times a week is alright isn’t it?!) and it turns out that if you go the pub in your lycra, it’s completely acceptable. London sometimes you do outshine yourself.

So it’s official, the procrastination queen is back. Somebody, send motivation.. (or wine). Oh fuck it, it’s nearly Christmas, and I will be the merriest mother fucker!

Peace, Love & False Lashes xo



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20 things all tall girls know to be true‏…

1. You will ALWAYS like the clothes in the Petite section of shops..

but never be able to wear them.. & if by accident you do find yourself in this corner of small wonder you immediately shuffle away post haste as if you’re life depends on it.


2. The leg bend and head tilt.. in group photos.

You know the one. You’re easily the tallest of the group but not wanting to appear giant like, enter the leg bend and head tilt like a winning combination of genius..


3. Beware low hanging branches..

Otherwise they will certainly hit you square in the face/ get stuck in your hair or  just cause you extreme embarrassment among the regular sized humans


4. Heels.. You love heels. Heels are sexy. But heels make you commit to being 6 foot tall for the day.


5. The slight un-co-ordination issues that come with being slightly more than regular height..


6. Is that a top or a dress question. It’s a dress god damn it!


7. Fitting your legs into cars/ plane seats/ basically any mode of public transport..just doesn’t happen, without looking as if you’re trying to do the crab.


8. The first meeting with someone and their first words are “my god your tall” and you’re like yeah, I mean, shit thanks for making me aware.


9. Being the univeral reacher of things that are too far for the regular sized human to reach.


10. Lampshades. Who put that there?


11. Shower heads.

Sharing a house with regular sized human’s and having to bend like a contortionist in order to be able to fit underneath it.


12. The fear of being picked up and put on a guy’s shoulders and blocking the rest of the worlds view.


13. Skirts & shorts.

They’re not ridiculously short, I just have long legs, deal. with. it.


14. Wearing your hair in a bun on top of your head..

equals committing to being 6ft for the day.


15. Not all cute guys are tall.

Having a crush on someone who is breast height has happened multiple times during your long life.


16. Up in the club..

everyone can see you dancing.. there is no hiding.


17. Full length mirrors..

well they’re not are they.


18. You must have been good at Basketball/Netball at school?

..well no, not really.


19. You look like you’d be good at long jump?

Please see #18.


20. Always being the superior hugger..

amongst your regular sized friends.


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Does running late count as exercise?

My metabolism in physical form is a snail called Nelson with an overwhelming passion for cheesy chips. Due to Nelson and his carby endeavors there is not a fucking chance that I’m one of those lucky buggers that’s a natural size 8, who can just throw on a bikini & look like Blake Lively..

So lately I’ve been flirting with the gym again. I wouldn’t call it a full blown affair but there’s some serious appeal in seeing us together again. Summer is coming and with summer, comes the denim shorts, you know the ones- the ones that are just that little bit too small, that show just that little too much butt cheek- the ones that girls will wear despite their breakfast being on display for all willing (or unwilling) passers by to see.
I mean don’t get me wrong I love a pair of denim shorts as much as the next girl but I’m not willing to become part of the breakfast club just yet! 10003176_10151949660506640_1111737804_n

Mr Gym and I have been through both great and awful times together and have somewhat of a history, I love his company and the way he makes me feel, I just also have strong feelings for Mr. Takeaway and often find myself in an awkward love triangle with them both demanding my undivided attention.

I think the love affair first began whilst I was at uni (3rd year) after realising that living off large pizzas and pints of wine was taking its toll on my body and recoiling in horror at some of the pictures I’d been tagged in, the tanned Pillsbury doughboy personified! Besides, I had to find something to do on my breaks whilst writing that beast of a dissertation in between crying, rolling round the floor and complaining how unfair my life was (oh the naivety). Enter Gym like a mirage in the desert, a knight in shining armour, a light in the dark.

I’m lying, it didn’t happen like that at all. At first Gym was a shit boyfriend who never complimented me or showed any compassion, leaving me in a flustered mess on each and every one of our encounters.
I may have mentioned- I am possibly the clumsiest, most awkward person when I’m in a situation I’m not familiar with. My first gym induction started with an epic backwards roll off the treadmill much to my personal trainer’s amusement, (not quite sure how I did it to this day) but finding myself in a tangled heap in the gym surrounded by ridiculously fit people wasn’t my idea of a good time.

ad1405d3a2d9ddda6b62a60b89a4abf0-dancing-guy-loses-shoes-on-treadmillSince then I’ve kept my distance from Mr Treadmill just in case he takes it upon himself to publicly mug me off again.
There’s been other occasions of utter embarrassment in the gym, dropping a weight on my foot and styling it out by casually limping and jumping on the spot, swinging like a monkey from a pull-up bar unable to get down (saved by another PT). Training easily on a cross-trainer for 10 mins and thinking that I was an absolute cardio legend before realising that it wasn’t in fact switched on and that I have a closer resemblance to a chicken legend than anything else!

going-to-the-gym-funnyBut I know when I stick to it and ignore the pub calling my name and my cosy sofa complete with new ep of Don’t Tell The Bride playing on the big screen and actually kick some ass, my body does respond pretty well.
With my obsessive nature, whilst on one of my health-kicks of which there have been many, I temporarily zone out and think I could be one of those ripped woman with “fitspo” quotes posted over my ass, fuck I could be the next Jessica Ennis. I strut out of the gym protein shake in hand, in my work coat and gym clothes feeling like a personal trainer and fitness extraordinaire exuding comments such as “go hard or go home”. This probably being a Monday or Tuesday, skip forward to Saturday and I’ll be spooning a bucket of pick a mix justified in the simplest way “if there’s no calories on the pot.. there’s no calories in the pot!” Despite my on and off fling with the gym, cheating occasionally with any chocolate I can lay my hands on, I still find myself checking for abs after every work out and am bitterly disappointed they haven’t appeared over night? (is this just me!?). summer

In my latest escapade- I’ve embarked on a training plan to run 10K due to my ever so lovely boyfriend kindly signing us up to be in with a chance of running the 42K London Marathon (….The, Fuck?!).

10K? I hear all you fit, running people out there cry; “why that isn’t a challenge- that’s a pre-run warm up!” But to me- this is a huge challenge, I do not run for buses, P.E at school equaled hiding in the toilets and due to my fear of treadmills my natural running form is non-existent. To give you an accurate image: My running stride resembles a lost donkey crossed with Phoebe from Friends. When I run, I can’t stop for anything- If I stop I’ll never start again and will walk the entire way home- causing me to run (lost donkey style) in front of cars, because they have to stop don’t they?! side-hop

Avoiding the lure of fluffy dogs, even if they do chase me for a while and the owner begs me to stop as the dog will just keep chasing me.. I can’t. Must. Keep. Going. Even with my newly acquired random dog & owner entourage in tow. God damn it if my shoe falls off, the show must go on.

I’m definitely speeding towards becoming one of those irritating fucks that feels the need to tell the world every single time they don a pair of running trainers that makes everyone want to slap them in the face with a bacon and egg sandwich. I do apologise and I know it’s annoying but similar to the donkey, I just need to be patted on the head and told I’m doing well.

Don’t get me wrong although I’ve upped the anti on my fitness, I’m still championing team burger and am a proud sponsor of pick-a-mix at the weekend and treat myself when I need to.. (and no blog post would be complete without) alcohol…
18482-tumblrm0g64jk5vs1qf3eupo1500gi-9KOoI thought I should distill all the health with a decent measure of alchoholic fucking about. I’m well known for being a complete idiot once I’ve had a few drinks and now in my head (3 weeks into my training plan) I’m also a drunken idiot who thinks she’s Paula Radcliffe. So I’m tearing down our street at midnight after a few drinks screaming .. “I’m gonna get to the house before youuu” when I run slap bang, straight into the back of a parked car. The bf meanwhile is ahead of me, naturally (and walking) asking what the fuck I’m doing whilst I’m styling my epic fail out by pretending to hide behind the car and waffling about a lost medal.

Let’s face it I’m not a fitness expert, or an athlete, I’m not winning any medals any time soon and I haven’t hung up my carb hat totally but I am getting into shape and trying to be healthy. Don’t get me wrong I will still have those moments mid-week when nothing will suffice apart from a share bag of M&Ms,  yes I said share bag and yes I’m going to bore you with every last detail, deal with it..

Peace, Love & False Lashes xo

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Modern Day Manners in Girl World

anigif_enhanced-buzz-1385-1373398764-23Saturday night with my belle. The Blair to my Serena, my twinnie from another minnie, the salt to my pepper. Yes we have been known to get into some pickles and last Saturday was no exception. The idea was few drinks, a few giggles and a good catch up. Instead we got served up a large helping of irritating men with a side of sleaze and a sprinkle of well meaning life advice.

When you go out in a two, one of you being single and one of you being not so single, there’s the danger you’ll be handed the wingwoman gauntlet. You know the one- that friend that will babysit that hot guy’s ugly friend, ignore the nose hair and not even mention the fact that he’s got my name wrong 3 times and seems to be unable to keep eye contact (with my eyes at least). Ok well as you can probably guess, I was wingwoman & if I do say so myself I generally do a pretty good job! anigif_enhanced-buzz-25895-1368117375-14

I smile politely, laugh at all the right times and keep the dumbest one of dumb and dumber occupied with conversations about non consequential nothingness while my bff is happily chatting away. That’s until they start to blag/ make stuff up/ or get too big for their boots – that’s when I start to have some fun of my own.

The Blagger. On finding out I work in advertising he suddenly worked in advertising too.. What a small world! He immediately jumped aboard the blaggers ship attempting to impress me with his knowledge of “those viral things” and the fact he’d worked with loads of ad surfers. He obviously thought that I’d be impressed by a few quickly delivered statements of completely made up content and the fact that he knew the word viral.. He definitely picked the wrong blonde.
If he’d have just been honest and told me what he really did for a living I could happily humour him and chat away but the fact the he kept hurtling further down that rabbit hole, tripping himself up at every hurdle, was just too much fun to shy away from. Catching someone out is so much better when you have 20 mins of ammunition to use against them. Our conversation flowed with me asking him if he’d heard of mediaworld as that’s where I worked and him enthusiastically yabbering on about how amazing their work was (they don’t exist) and me baiting him further saying that it was down to me that the Coca Cola branding is red.
So I let him carry on and then casually said “so what is it you really do, because the last half hour was absolute bullshit and can you please explain to me what an “ad surfer” is”. Turned to my right to see his mate and my mate open mouthed waiting to see what would come next. Turned out so he sold wood for a living. Online content/wood-easy mistake to make.

Mr Swagger. Dancing away. Again I’m doing the bff duty of smiling politely as the next tweedle dee and tweedle dumb duo chew our ears off about the music and bottles of grey goose (why do guys do this?!)- I can handle that though, whatever floats their boat. Until one of them, despite me explaining I’m not interested AND taken says “ know you’re my ideal kind of bird, what you saying?”. It’s on.
Oh I should be flattered by this very generic compliment- I hear you cry! Is it a compliment if he looks like Ali G’s little brother complete with sunglasses on indoors? (Why?!) Anyhow I’m in no way flattered and this is precisely where Mr Swagger can be firmly placed back into his flower pot to grow up.

anigif_enhanced-buzz-1406-1373395728-22“Unless I’ve temporarily forgotten starring in the movie with the cute little pig- I’m definitely not babe and as I can’t fly I’m willing to put money on myself not being a bird”. I proceeded to do the eye and memory test by closing my eyes and asking him what colour my eyes are- uh green? and then what my name was- it begins with L? Obviously not a match made in heaven then, what a shame. I shan’t be losing sleep over it.

The Tough Guy. Being an absolute fountain of knowledge after a bottle or 4 of wine I decide to take it upon myself to discuss the bouncer’s career path with him. I’m not sure whether this is a typical girl thing or whether it’s just me that turns into Karen Brady after a night on the sauce?
I also turn into someone that gives advice that sounds like one of those inspirational quotes that is generally plastered over an image of a tree and shared all over Facebook “live your dreams, do what you love and you will never work a day in your life” – much to the amusement/ despair of the bouncer who simply asked if I could leave my drink inside. Encouraged by my faith in him to become the next Richard Branson, he begins to flex his muscles and discuss all the people he has to “deal with on a regular ” painting himself as a modern day Superman fighting off a world full of drunken bandits. “Who would look out for Cinderella if I wasn’t here”.. yes he actually referred to me as a Disney character, it’s almost as if he knew my history with shoes!large

The Eyebrow. Whilst I’ve been giving life advice to a very amused bouncer who has very kindly allowed me to sneak my drink outside, probably in an attempt to get me to shut up. I turn round and my beaut of a bff has just been chatting to a guy. I look to his left and no lie, this guy is what I can only describe as Lord Of the Ring’s finest – Golum. He’s giving me the eyebrow, I say eyebrow (singular) as there was just the one, all be it a very long one. I’ve well and truly done my wingwoman duties to death tonight and this guy looks like all his Christmasses have come at once. After the speech about being taken and Mr. Eyebrow not buying it and pursuing me with stories of his very nice car, I’ve subtly switched my rings over and brought the faux engagement out to play in an attempt to get him to back the fuck up. Eventually he believed me and offered me a piggy back to the bus stop, why ever not?

I guess if my life was boring and if I stuck to nodding and smiling as most would, then I’d have nothing to write about. But I guess what I’m saying here is, when striking up a conversation with a stranger in a bar why not start with something a bit less generic. I’d much rather ponder on whether it’d be better to have arms as legs or legs as arms (arms as legs btw) than talk about your new car. I will continue to stick to modern day good manners in girl world and have my ear unceremoniously bent by an undesirable if my BFF is getting chatted up by his cute mate. BUT beware the blaggers, swaggers and anyone that begins their conversation with “babe you’d love my Mercedes” that you will probably regret starting that conversation 😉

Peace, Love & False Lashes

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The Hoarder and the SMART car..

Can you imagine the modern day version of Cinderella’s castle? Well we found it, fell in love with it and the Wicked Witch and fate himself have tag-teamed and announced an immediate sit in protest. Either that or the estate agent read my last post…

782172If fate was a person, he would be a control freak with short man syndrome, dreadful breath, a receding hairline and tendency to piss on other people’s parades. There was a reason for the TBC on my last post. I appear to have downed a hell of a lot of Limoncello and have been left with a bitter aftertaste and a slight hangover. I specifically didn’t post pics of the dream pad as I didn’t want to invite fate over for a cuppa. It turns out the little fella didn’t need an invitation and wandered in pulled down his pants and took a shit on our carefully made plans.

Short Man Syndrome: An angry male of below average height who feels it necessary to act out in an attempt to gain respect and recognition from others and compensate for his abnormally short stature. Also synonomous to little man syndrome.

enhanced-buzz-18741-1379528490-0It came as a bit of a blow. The short of it is (excuse the pun), the dream house isn’t ready yet. The house is, the current tenants aren’t quite ready to leave though, which is inconvenient as I’ve Pinterested every single room already god damn it, not to mention memorized the address! So to be honest I don’t care that the current tenants are in a pickle with their new build-they need to get the fuck out of my beautiful new house.

I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned that I’d been sharing a house with a modern day version of Stig of the Dump. I’m all for helping the community, but not when he’s sharing a bathroom with me and smells like the mixture of slept in urine, damp dog and toe jam. So I didn’t take the news that we may have to wait 2+ months to move, very well at all.
anigif_enhanced-buzz-6980-1379518280-23Tears ensued, along with the high pitched screechy talk that fashions itself out of pure despair. Cue emergency call to step-dad.
My step-dad is one of those guys who isn’t into hearts and flowers and talking about feelings but he’ll always try and find a solution, so he set us up with a flat whilst we wait for our castle. I was a bit peeved though as just as I’d finally stood on my own two feet, the sheepskin rug was cruelly pulled from under my knee high ensconced feet causing me to land straight on my ass again. With my parents entering stage left in snazzy capes once again.

The boy was amazing and tried everything to cheer me up, takeaway, wine, cuddles, sympathy, jokes. I wasn’t the easiest audience, picture Grumpy- of the seven dwarfs rocking up at an audition to play the part of the BFG and your half way there. In between being plied with sympathy from the boy and tough love from my stepdad, I realise this isn’t the end of the world as I know it.

So the next weekend we pick up the keys to our temporary flat and get packing. Well I go out for dinner on the Saturday OD on red wine and wake up being coaxed into a new day with a cup of tea, ibuprofen and two hot cross buns surrounded by what looks like the aftermath of a clothes bomb.enhanced-buzz-25461-1379610327-12 Admitting to a hangover was a huge no-go but when I found myself wandering from room to room clutching a jug, a slipper and a spatula I realised I was in bandit territory and I was going to crash if I didn’t keep the caffeine flowing. This saw me stuffing everything and anything into the nearest box and piling into the SMART car with all of one box at a time and a portable cup of tea feeling like I was in my very own Disney tale..

“The Hoarder and the SMART car”

As there was no logic or labeling to our packing this has resulted in a new daily game of suitcase roulette which isn’t nearly as fun as it sounds. Causing me to rock up to work in hoodie’s for the best part of the week, this being the best possible option next to sequin dresses or Christmas jumpers which seemed to be my only alternatives.. Thank fuck I work in advertising.
The flat’s lovely but I’m still not completely used to having my own place and still have to check all cupboards for murderers each night on returning home from work. Also the fact that there’s a loft worries the hell out of me, I mean if you were a lunatic or psychopath where would you hide?!

Arriving home first last night (once I’d checked for murderers) I decided to light some candles to make the flat smell nice before the boy got home. Slight problem in not being able to find a lighter, but as we used to have to improvise by lighting the old cooker hobs using the one working hob and a birthday candle this was not going to stop me in my tracks. The only problem with this being that we had no birthday candles so using my initiative I rolled up a letter and lit it on the cooker which went up in flames faster than Lindsay Lohan’s acting career.

Walter-White-Oh-God-Drives-Car-Away-Breaking-BadPANIC ensues of me running around before throwing candle, letter and fire into sink in complete blind panic attempting to get rid of any sign of mini fire whilst crashing around in an attempt to locate the lights. Which must have made me look like some kind of indecisive pyromaniac.

It’s going to take a few weeks to settle in and realise that the noise of the heating clicking on is not a psychopathic killer coming after me, it’s acceptable to admit to forgetting where I live on occasions and yes I may have to strategically hide, chuck out some of my old clothes before we embark on our next move. But most importantly we’re living together, just us two and I will no longer get unwillingly high on route to the bathroom.. Rock on!

Peace, Love & False Lashes xo

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When life gives you lemons.. soak them in Vodka and make Limoncello xo

As I may have shared with you all before, I’ve recently started saving for a mortgage. I was happily into my second month of saving when disaster strikes in the shape of el stepdad and a casual phone call telling me he’s decided to sell the house I’m living in. This leaves me with a month to find a new abode, about £670 in savings, a hell of a lot of shoes and a fucking migraine. Why is nothing ever simple?!

Looking for properties is insane, can I just say this is so completely different from searching for a uni pad or somewhere to crash over the summer. I pretty much could have slept curled up under a table for my three years at uni and I wouldn’t have noticed, as long as the pints of wine and pizzas kept coming.. (Yes I did say pints of wine and if you’re judging me, you did uni all wrong!!)

Lets get this search on the road.

Looking for a house is stressful enough (me wanting Victorian conversion, and the boy wanting the latest in modern design complete with a space ship in the living room) without twatty estate agents phoning up and asking if I’d like to rent a 2 bed flat to share with a friendly Albanian family. Funny enough no. stupid-people-ecard

Why is it that estate agents put lovely houses on their sites that either don’t exist or are no longer available? & to cause further insult to injury- send me a house that is above Poundland. If this wasn’t already enough, when I say that living above a shop wasn’t really what I was after, as ideally I’d like something on a residential street, with plenty of natural light and good transport links I get the response “OK princess”.
Cue angry Facebook status and absolute total rage at effing estate agent! It’s not as if I’ve asked for a swimming pool in my front room and a heli-pad on my terrace, jeez Louise.

Dear Mr Estate Agent,

No hard feelings, this just isn’t working out, it’s not me, it’s you.

Kind Regards, your commission x

It’s like finding an advert for a beautiful shiny Ferrari and when you arrive to test drive it, the Ferrari disappears into a puff of glitter and you get left staring at a beaten up old Fiesta. But if you don’t fancy the Fiesta, there’s always the Del Boy-esque three wheeler that they pull out of the garage at the last minute, just as you start looking desperate. I work in advertising and there’s standards you have to adhere to – you can’t intentionally miss-sell or try and trick consumers by blatantly lying.

So please tell me why this doesn’t apply to Mr Shiny Suit at Bellend lettings? Why put up a picture of open brickwork and authentic Victorian features when your trying to sell a storage cupboard in the arse end of no-where, you’re not fooling anyone!?

anigif_enhanced-buzz-27277-1388656274-2I’m an advocate of shabby chic but some of these places were leaning a little too literally on the word shabby and demonstrating chicken and chips rather than chic.. So true to form I freaked out, threw all my toys out of my pram and screamed into a bar of Oreo chocolate which had been carefully placed into my hand whilst blubbering about immediately moving to America”.

Phrases to be aware of:
“Cosy studio”– You can answer the door, watch the TV, shower and cook dinner all from the comfort of your toilet
“Convenient for access to main roads”– your garden doubles up as the hard shoulder
“Popular and buzzy area”– the police make frequent visits
“Friendly neighbours”– nosy randoms that will “pop round” at every opportunity
“Full of character” – old, decrepit and infested with mice

Dosed up on chocolate and experiencing a sugar induced slap in the face I realise yet again, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve been sending links upon links to the boy and setting up viewings for the weekend without properly considering our search criteria. I have no idea what our budget is, I have no catchment area in mind, it turns out “open brickwork” isn’t something you can search for and rejecting a place for the windows looking a tad on the small side may be slightly presumptuous. anigif_enhanced-buzz-23899-1380627943-15

Looking for a property is like being thrust kicking and screaming back into the dating world again and god have I had some mares. I have no concept of how to act when I actually like somewhere, do I act casual and send a little note to the estate agent saying I’d like some more details or do I bear my heart and say I want a long term relationship with this place and ask for an immediate viewing?

It turns out places go quickly in London. Flat goes on the market – there’s no “can we view at the weekend?” it’s drop everything, pick your shit up, get round to this place, be charming and hope you’re better potential renters than the other 10 people that have viewed it that day. Not only do you have to up and run, but you have to share your sacred viewing time with a human version of Basil Brush and a woman who keeps opening cupboards and laughing into them. Somebody. Shoot. Me.

The renting process has now evolved into a property based version of Take Me Out. Where you go into the process ready to bid for the property, sell yourself, your job, your ambitions etc the best answers and aesthetically pleasing couple winning the trip to Fernando’s/ get to rent the property. Half way through writing our personal statement (yes- personal statement?!)- I suddenly feel like I’m back at university just with better hair and feel totally overwhelmed thinking that we’re going up against real grown ups that hobbies don’t include Red Wine, Buzzfeed or funny cats.

anigif_enhanced-buzz-6139-1368120467-0But the reality of coming home to a house where Bin Jenga isn’t a readily accepted game, I don’t have to open the fridge and put my head in just to avoid awkward conversations and where I no longer have to hear hobo sex is so appealing.  & besides I really think that this place is the one….

Peace, Love & False Lashes xo

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