Hi there! You look great. I have almost too much to spill – there may be dribbling.

February started with bronchitis and ended in a new job; like Dickens, but with Netflix and Kleenex Balsam.

Not only were the lovely team at Papercraft just heartwarmingly nice about me leaving, but mega editor Jenny created two gorgeous fabric birds, inspired by (and frankly much better than) the tinfoil birds I made ages ago. So cute!



Even better, Jenny’s taken time out from her rigorous schedule of being fabulous and interfering with moose to post a free template for those birdykins, so you can make ‘em yourself. I know, right? Thank you Jenny! Now it’s time to take a long, hard look at your own boss and shout ‘Hey boss! Where my birds at?’

So now I’m working on the fantabulous The Making Spot, Future’s all-newish craft website. Whee! Quick, click over there and wonder at the amazing jumpers. Do it!

In other news, the boy turns 32 tomorrow, and will celebrate by working late, late, late. C’est la vie des Phins. I have no idea if that French is correct.

Goodnight, lovely peeps x

This is my eighth of twelve lovely but busy working days, so I only have brainspace to show you a couple of pics. Nice, though, aren’t they?

Dad’s birthday cake, inside the gorgeous stand that the boy gave me:



Me and Lu manning (ladying?) the PaperCraft inspirations Cake & Take stand at the Olympia yesterday.



That’s it! xxx

I was born in 1980, which I’ve always liked – I reckon when I’m ancient, it’ll be easy to work out how old I am.

Anyway, the point is that I recently turned 30, huzzah!

All year there have been vague plans for a fabulous party to mark the occasion, but due to mine and Chris’ crazy deadlines of late, it just wasn’t going to happen. Happily, though, I work with a bunch of lovely people who go out of their way to make a massive fuss over birthdays. Check it out:



Cakemaster and all-round domestic goddess Angela made this amazing three-tier tower of monster cupcakes. Each one is different, with features made of Smarties, marshmallows, chocolate buttons and other deliciousness. Raaarrr!



Mega editor Jenny crafted a flock of tinfoil birds, while Lu made tiny bunting for their beaks. Hello!



There were also the pinkest flowers in town! Then we went out to lunch where there were fab presents and handmade cards and just a massive, head-swelling fuss.

Thank you to everyone who sent lovely presents and cards, you are obviously GREAT.

Next, Christmas! Have a very merry one, you gorgeous peeps. See you on the other side. x

Hi there! I’ve got some Actual Work to do this weekend, so the most-exciting-yet Whocap will be live on Tuesday. Ooh, come back then and we can discuss Weeping Angels, sexy shoes and that Graham Norton graphic.

My lovely colleagues treated me to a set of pink moustaches to cheer me up this week. Angela took a picture. Nice, huh?



Have a groovy weekend! x

Hello! I am once more full-time and fabulous, as long as for 'fabulous' you read 'dishevelled'. New Job is much fun and everyone at Future Towers is ludicrously friendly. I've learned more in four days than I've learned in ages and all is new and interesting. I shall be back soon with more tales of cunning and adventure. Or possibly just more shopping moans.

Today I left teaching, which is a difficult thing to talk about in a concise and sensible way. I've spent the last week dodging the question 'Are you sad to be leaving?' and wobbling over 'Will you miss the kids?' There's not really a yes or no answer.

It's a career that required six years of training and a level of professional dedication that excluded late nights, hangovers, spontaneity and the lightheartedness that generally accompanies one's twenties. It took most of my free time and, in South London, a good chunk of my sanity.

But at the same time, I loved my work. It was creative, interesting, stimulating and taught me more about art than art school ever did. And working with kids of any age is so brilliant and fascinating and hilarious that there's no way to not miss it. I'm proud of my students, and everything that they've achieved, and the things they might achieve in the future.

So that's my ridiculously long and earnest answer to the flippant question I've been fielding all day. Maybe I'll go back to teaching one day, or maybe I won't. I can say for certain, at least, that it was never time wasted.

Onward!

Recently my mum told family friend Linda that she would give her the address for this website as it is 'sometimes entertaining'. This damningly faint praise reminds me that things around here have been fairly dull of late, mainly because my life has become a tedious administrative procedure interspersed with sporadic Kir drinking and increasingly bizarre hairstyles.

To break the monotony, I was going to post an outlandish anecdote, full of interesting things like 'Got chased by an enraged milliner' and 'Invented new primary colour' or possibly 'Thought could hear angels in the cupboard, turned out to be family of nesting crickets' but frankly I'm tired and I don't want to string a ridiculous, open-ended fable together lest I regret it in the morning.

Goodnight!

Today a little boy asked if he could 'keep' a large knee-scab that had been brutally ripped off in a playground fall. Er, okay. I guess it's one for the album.

In other news, I bought a gigantic bag of crystallised ginger the other day and am secretly hoarding it around the flat. Open a cupboard: GINGER? Or a drawer: DELICIOUS GINGER? The boy has not noticed yet, which is odd as I smell distinctly gingery all the time.

Here's a sneaky peek at my linocut.



Linolicious!

Oh hullo, it's October. Work remains crazy to the point where the boy was packed off to do the weekly shop on his own on Sunday. He delightedly returned having spent half of what we normally do; clearly it's just my lo-carb beer and whimsical fruit-buying habits that blow the budget.

I made an policy decision early on in my blogging career not to get into politics because, er, it invites twatty comments, but I'll break with tradition this once just to ask: Is anyone else heartily sick of hearing about the US elections? The only three pieces of information us cheese-lovin' Europeans really need are 1) who the candidates are, 2) what they stand for and 3) who wins. Enough with the excruciatingly detailed stream of information, mainstream domestic news broadcasters!

In other news, I am making a linocut for the first time since I was at school. The boy is being very helpful, occasionally grabbing the lino out from under me, doodling instructions for cut/don't cut all over it, then thrusting it back. Sometimes he'll even take it off me and cut the fiddly bits. Thanks!

Things here in Historic Bath have been a little on the stressful and grumpy side this weekend, mainly due to the boy having a massive work project on and me still grappling with a confusing timetable and some tediously complex admin. We spent the weekend alternately working and feeling guilty for not working, with the boy in the office all day Saturday and, he predicts, until midnight tonight. It was a timely reminder of why we left London; because every weekend was like this but worse and with added sirens.

In happier news, lots of the designers I interviewed for the Holland Herald over the summer have been in contact to say that they've heard raves about their pieces and requesting issues of the magazine. This is, of course, wonderful to hear, but it's getting increasingly embarrassing having to explain that I am not, in fact, a go-getting, Lois Lane-style media type, but rather a pyjama-wearing, Ikea-kitchen-table-sitting layabout with no access to the actual magazine whatsoever. The peeps at Hetty Rose have put a scan of their snippet up here, which I mention merely to highlight that I love Hetty Rose shoes and fully expect the first one of you to earn a million to buy me a pair of silky, fancy loveliness without delay.

That's it. Apologies for the poorly structured rambling but ... I don't even have an excuse. Bye, loveoo!

Hi! Here is a picture of Alex recommending some films to watch.

Excellent task-completing, young man! I should probably make clear that the depicted DVD collection is merely an artist's impression of Alex's actual film library. I have no idea if he really owns 'Dune' or 'Alf'.

In other news, the last three weeks have been good in an I'm-glad-they're-over kind of way. So many things have happened that I can't remember lots of them. Er ... we went to see piano-driven '90s rocker Ben Folds! We bought a stupid tent that we can't construct! I assumed control of the entire school for a week! And Lise saved my Arts Week by being a dancing genius! Thanks!

Friday sees both the last day of term and the anniversary of my move to Bath. See you then. Bring cake.

I've ended up with rather too many things on the boil this week, from columns to portfolio rejigging to teaching to form filling, and frankly I've become a little frazzled. Although I suppose I should really try to finish that culinary metaphor properly, hang on ... I've got too many things on the boil, and now I've ... what? Bubbled over? Left to steam? Bruised the rosemary and put it in a pop-sock? I don't know.

Still, today at work we made dragons out of clay. That's a pretty fun thing to do for money, right?

When I took my job it was part-time, but now it's kind-of-full-time-and-actually-a-teensy-bit-more. It's not bad at all, really, but I am heartily looking forward to half term next week*, in which I plan to read a book for more than three minutes without falling asleep. Rock 'n' roll.

*Yes, another one! Ruddy teachers! Etc!

In other news, we have decided for financial reasons only to eat things from our freezer for the rest of the month. Oddly, while I haven't yet reached lasagne saturation point (LSP), I feel like I might throw the next plate of spaghetti I see directly out of the window and into the shrubbery. Pasta hooliganism!

And finally, an all-caps THANK YOU to my brother Gra, who sent us some excellent gifts from his recent Japanese jaunt. We have not yet discovered the magical properties of the towel, but I will report back in due course. Never fear, I shall send your PS3 back post haste!

That's all.

ETA: Another list that made me laugh.

Fifty one kids. Six adults. Four days and three long, sleepless nights. I quickly lost all respect for the couples I saw struggling with one or two kids on our day trips. What's the problem? There's only two of them! Look at me, I've got eight in tow!

The kids were actually very well behaved, with the three default moods being a) excited b) tearful c) carsick. I tapped into new reserves of patience and travel-game-inventing.

When the boy came to pick me up last night I could barely keep my eyes open to walk to the car. And now I am about to have a beer and watch Doctor Who and savour the sweet, sweet silence.

I've been operating on crazy-time this week, which means getting up crazy-early then running around and multitasking in a crazy manner until I collapse on the sofa mid-evening and have to be hefted to bed like a big sack of crazy. Next week I'm off on school camp, which fills me with a terrible foreboding. Hilariously, I have been put in charge of bringing sports equipment.

In other news, let's all send some good exam revision vibes to Cope, noted Welsh speaker and tall American. Good luck!

Big shout out to those of you on strike today. I have very much enjoyed the media brouhaha that has ensued. Especially the bits where voxpop morons claim that teachers get three months 'off' every year. Yeah, those longs summers are all about the fun, fun, fun. No tedious weeks of planning or resourcing whatsoever.

In climate news, this morning it rained so much that it soaked through my parka and my shoes, but now it's all sunny and delightful. West country weather, you are crazy.

I'm off work for two weeks, which obviously means I must get up early and spend every hour of the day fretting about work. The good news is that the fretting can be alleviated by a) doing work and b) watching Rustie Lee's Hotsauce on TMF. I missed the beginning of Rustie Lee's Hotsauce, but it seems to involve the terminally cheerful 1980s chefwoman choosing music videos based on her disturbing attraction to men thirty years her junior. It's unaccountably great.

I've been on a teaching course at the University of Bath all day. Oddly, it was hosted by a well-known British sprinter who let me hold his Olympic gold medal. It was amazing, even for me as The Least Sporty Person Who Ever Lived. The PE teacher next to me almost had a coronary episode when I passed it to her.

In other news, HOORAY BST. Yes, we've lost an hour of our lives, but we'll get to live it in Autumn and the nights are all lovely and light again. Maybe the boy will cheer up and stop winding up other sufferers of Obsessive Punctuation Disorder.

Three days left of term, baby.

Freelancing has taken off to a point that I feel like I'm leading a slightly exciting double life. Wiping tables by day, interviewing across time-zones by night! Dawn-til-dusk dogsbody, moonlit word-count wonder! It's been pretty great to stretch my conversational legs in a grown-up capacity, although it's more difficult to discipline myself to do a day's work after I get home from my actual day's work than I anticipated. The lure of Sammy Sung is strong.

The boy and I had a mediocre Easter weekend and spent most of it feeling sorry for the sad loss of our London yuppie lives. The boy, rather brilliantly, decided that the only cure for yuppie-life-withdrawal is just to go out and be a goddamn yuppie again for an evening. The full shebang, suited and booted, frocked and heeled, just the two of us. If you've never been on a night out with the boy, I can thoroughly recommend it. A man eternally out of time, he turns into a bizarre roaring '20s-style swell when faced with white-aproned waiters and a cocktail menu. After a few, if you really encourage him, he might teach you an Edith Piaf song, or make a dreadful pun with the bartender, or tell you what some really dirty words mean.Try it yourself!

There are two cathedrals in Liverpool, and each of them are frickin' spectacular. The boy took a few good photos on his iPhone, if you want to have a gawp.

In other news, HELLO LOVELY PEOPLE who have begun writing me to say they find this website browsable and time-sucky in the nicest possible way. Especially Amanda, who I'm betting wishes she hadn't bothered since she received my beer-enhanced reply. You guys rock.

Today I am writing various things and making some more wire birds. I'd really rather make a wire stag, but given space constraints, I guess I'll stick to the birds. Here, for the curious, is an inexplicably tiny photo of my embroidered heart for the Art of the Stitch competition last summer. Didn't get a place, but at least received a box of amazing threads from the sponsor people at Anchor. Cheers!

Yesterday was dressing-up day at work. I dressed up as Professor Trelawney, but no one knew who I was supposed to be. In fact, I have the sneaking suspicion that most of the staff just thought it was another one of my wacky hair days. Oh well.

Tomorrow the boy and I are driving to Liverpool to see a concert in the cathedral. Exciting! I wonder if my in-laws will notice that I have put on weight and not plucked my eyebrows in three months? Blargh! Witness the full genetic horror I bring to the family line!

In other news, I am simultaneously obsessed with and rubbish at SingStar.

Oh, look! This is the first day in 20 days that I haven't had to wake up, get up and go somewhere at an ungodly hour. I feel giddy.

No real news other than a crazed working week making up all the hours I missed while I was away, and the higher-than-usual consumption of Innocent banana and coconut smoothies. Waking at 6am when your brain thinks it's 10pm apparently leads to the complete inability to face solid food.

Today I have to fill in my tax return - boo. The good news is that the tax return people (and their benevolent overlord, Adam Hart-Davis) must be used to dealing with utter cretins like me, because the steps are laid out and explained the simplest possible language, with the most important words in bold so you can't possibly miss them. Also, if you do it online, you don't even have to find the right page in the form; it just springs up magically on your screen. Such convenience!

As I have nothing further to tell you, here's a clip of Bernard Black doing his tax return. Ma!

Today I have been on a course! It was a very good course with biscuits and everything. We learned how to write. Not how to write in a creative sense, with similes and metaphors and such like, but how to physically write. It was pretty amazing.

We learned how to sit at a desk and hold a pencil and form the letters in the air. We had to copy from the board in Welsh. We had to take Greek dictation. We had to write with our feet on the floor, then with our feet wrapped around the chair legs, then left-handed with our eyes closed. We wrote while chewing and while listening to music. Then we watched DVDs of other people writing and analysed them.

Then we got more biscuits. All in all, a good day.

I think I'm so badass with my kitschy fashion 'sense', but it only takes a small child to blast through the bohemian veneer:

Small child: Where did you get your ring?
Me: (Proudly) In London, at a market.
Small child: It looks like it's from a cracker!
Me: ...

In other news, I am somewhat poorly, the boy is back from Paris, and the flat is very cold indeed.

ETA: The boy has just demonstrated his usefulness by solving two of the problems mentioned above by making me a hot toddy. I am now warm and toasty and feel like my sinuses have been cleared by a snowplough. THANKS!

The boy's hot toddy recipe:
1 measure of single malt whisky
2 slices of lemon
Good squeeze of Marks and Spencer honey
Hot water
Put whisky and honey in fancy tumbler of some kind. Top up with hot water from kettle. Squeeze in 1 slice lemon. Perch other slice of lemon on side of glass for added comedy value. Stir. Give to wife. Feel virtuous. Make lewd jokes about 'giving it to wife' when you read this.

Teaching is a particularly difficult job to leave because, while the adults can handle it, a few of the kids can't. Today most of my students were pretty cheerful about the situation, but a few were withdrawn and one (6th former!) even cried.

Still there have been beautiful gifts and cards and far too much wine for one person to drink. My classroom has been gutted, my desk cleared for the first time in three years and my whiteboard washed shiny-clean. Chairs on desks, folders shredded, thank you and goodnight. This afternoon lots of people asked if I was excited about moving, happy to be leaving, sad to be leaving, looking forward to some time off or whatever. To be honest, I feel nothing at all other than utterly knackered.

All I want to do tomorrow is lie in bed with my new book (squee!) and wait until I feel like myself again. But! It's time to pack and scrub and label and lift and carry and assemble. Jesus. The only thing that's currently keeping me going is a permanent loop of Jenny Don't Be Hasty which I view as a kind of oddly specific message from the universe rather than a jaunty music track that I got for free with a Coca-Cola/iTunes promotion. Hooray grandiose delusions!

There has been much tentative excitement brewing in the flat of late. Excitement, possibly laced with doom at the clusterfuck we have brought down upon us. But! It's all in a good cause and features a number of dramatic storylines:

Excitement!
I am leaving my job! Leaving! My! Job! Can you imagine? Because I certainly can't. The oddest part is that I have to finish out the academic year, so it won't really be happening until the end of July. Leaving! Etc.

Adventure!
We are leaving London. O London, city of sweet depravity. How I will miss you and your excellent and unfairly maligned public transport system. We are moving to historic Bath, cultured home of studenty types and organic cafes. What this means for our already mangled accents I can only imagine.

Sorrow
And all this because the boy has got a new job at Future publishing. Nice! Sadly the job starts in two weeks, meaning I will be living it up, New Cross stylee, on my own for two months. Poo. Imagine how lonely I'll get. Imagine how many packets of Capri Sun I'll consume.

So that's what's going down. This move will be my fifth in five years, baby! Rock on.

Somehow I've managed to limp to the half-term finish line. Although I guess as it's only half-term it's not really a finish line as such, more just a pit stop. Or perhaps I'm mixing sporting metaphors in a confused manner. Anyway, what's important is that the last fortnight has been utterly horrific, workwise, and now it is over. Huzzah!

Lots of things have happened, no doubt I might tell you about some of them when my mental faculties have returned. Susan came to visit! Even though I barely saw her thanks to my ludicrous sleep schedule! The boy went to Barcelona! Which really sucked ass! Etc! But the most exciting Ribbledoot headline is that this morning we took delivery of this:

Dr D. Washer! Never again do I have to refuse to scrub the boy's beloved griddle pan. We can use the KitchenAid blender with impunity. We have become part of Western Society. O happy day!

Rock on.

Today at work I got some board cleaner on my contact lens and spent the whole day all blurry. I had to refer to students as 'Blonde hair ... curly blond hair! Next to boy! Yes, you!' I'm such a pro.

In other news, this is my last ever 'User column. Please note that I got the word 'fucking' published in a magazine. My mother will be so proud. Now I can retire from the heady world of publishing with all of my ambitions fulfilled.

Two days left before we finish for Christmas. Thank Christ. Literally.

Three weeks left of term and all sorts of crazy hi-skool shit is going down. Today was apparently Bring Your Addled Hormones to Work day, and we spent much of the morning breaking up fights and ushering crying people into the office. We were sufficiently rattled that we entered departmental lockdown at lunchtime and shut ourselves in an empty room for a bit of peace.

In other news, I have been a terrible wife this week. The boy and I take it in turns to cook, you see. While the boy has been producing culinary masterpieces such as seared tuna and tomato pasta and medallion steak and green vegetables, my last offering was a packet of Walkers Sensations chicken and thyme crisps and a bar of chocolate. Bon appetit! SORRY. You married it.

The Polar Bear.

He's a freakin' tiny genius.

I've said to Nik that I will stop writing my columns at the end of the year. This is pretty sad; not only did I get paid for sitting on my couch typing nonsense into a Word document, but it was good to do something that wasn't school related on a regular basis.

But! I shall find solace in the tiny miracles:
Amazing sunrises from the station platform.
Cold weather.
Wearing a winter coat.
Ocado, The Finest Online Delivery Service On Earth™.
Hot baths.
Chocolate Digestives.
The boy's fuzzy scalp.

Tomorrow is an INSET day, which means we have to go to work but there will be no students there. This is a pretty decent way to ease back into Work Mode; come in for a day, find your bearings, wear jeans, then have two days off to recover from the shock. I don't feel too bad about things at the moment and am even cautiously optimistic about it all.

My current major concern about is going back to the 5.30 get-ups. Six short weeks ago I thought nothing of staggering out of bed at sunrise, washing, dressing (badly, it has to be said), eating, commuting for an hour, setting up a classroom, attending a staff meeting and sitting down to teach all before 8.30. These days I'm lucky if I get my contact lenses in before lunchtime.

Can't we come in to some money? If only this was 1956. I could spend my days sewing and wearing headscarves and causing lesbian scandals and attempting suicide in hotel rooms on John C Reilly's birthday*. Stupid emancipation.

The boy is off to Berlin tomorrow 'on business'. Pah! He must think I'm some kind of moron! We all know that by 'on' he means 'writhing on' and by 'business' he means 'a raised platform as amazing German ladyboys in gimp masks throw jelly at me'. Bastard.**

No pictures today, I just can't be arsed.

*It's possible have confused the year 1956 with the movie 'The Hours'.
**This paragraph has been wholly invented for comic effect and in no way reflects the professional conduct of my husband.

You may be aware that today is results day. Oh I could tell you all about exam results and how they work and what happens if mine aren't good enough but what good would come of it? No good at all I say!

Instead, here is a picture of Pointy Kitty. As you can see, he is pimpin' it big style in his marabou and satin crib, yo. If you want to make your own pointy kitty, you can get the pattern here. It is very easy even if you have not used a sewing pattern before. Think of the pussy army you could amass!

ETA: The boy says Pointy Kitty is 'sinister'.