Wednesday, 4 September 2019

The Daily Fail.

I hear a lot of people talk smack about how babies should be in a strict routine, so for anyone else feeling attacked by that I thought I'd share my FAILY DAILY morning routine:
5.30- 6AM-  hear baby cry over monitor - swear a lot, stumble over all the flotsam and jetsam all over the hall floor (vow to move it/put stuff away- never do)
Try my best to feed baby back to sleep while she claws at my face/tits/nostril hair/phone/any fucking thing.
Swear under my breath.
6 AM -Take her downstairs, immediately forget to change her nappy, put Glee on, try to to cuddle her as she claws at my face/tits/phone
6.15 AM - cry at an emotional rendition of Beyonce classics redone and autotuned by a Glee cast member.
6.30 AM - Remember to change baby's nappy, manically try and distract the baby from screaming because I dare put her into a clean nappy, try to sing Old macdonald louder than her screams whilst vigorously shaking a rattle with one hand and holding her down with the other.
6.34 AM - Give up, let her rome about without a nappy on for a bit - who doesn't need air to their vagina?!
6.34.03 AM- Look at my phone for THREE SECONDS...find baby break dancing in her own piss...swear loudly.
6.35 AM - Clean up baby, wrangle her into a nappy, sing a song, read a book or 6, build 15 towers for her to knock down until she gets distracted and crawls off to find some broken glass or something chokeable I haven't noticed on the floor.
07.00 AM - Sneak off to the kitchen to stuff as many Baby Belle into my mouth as I possibly can before she notices I'm gone...
07.01 AM - She squawks, I poke my head in and out of the kitchen and try to make it peekaboo - she is not fooled. Pulling the face of an abandoned church doorstep baby and crying instant heartbreaking tears I pick her up and try not to burn her as I lovingly make her a fresh, organic obvs (ugh I hate myself) omelette which she eats approximately 1/19th of and splats the rest into her hair, her eyes, her neck, her leg creases and all over my pyjamas- because I probably am not dressed.
7.30 AM - Attempt a nap...make the setting right, get the white noise, the fan, the lovely star projector, black out that room til not a single beam of light can be found, stroke her tiny beautiful eyebrows until she falls asleep, put her down, creep out of the room with my new found super power mum agility, jump into the shower (quietly) and try to wash my soon as the shampoo is on a bubbled got it! She wakes up. 4 min nap. Excellent.

Sunday, 7 October 2018

Because pregnant women LURVE hearing how big they are...

You're fat!
Was the first comment made to me as I walked into work yesterday. 

Really set the tone for coming back to work on a Monday morning after being away on holiday for a week, a week where for the first time in a long time not one single person had commented  on my size.

I wasn't struggling as much with my body and all the changes it's been making, the enlargements and extras that are growing at an alarming rate, until the constant comments started.

It's really shocking what people think it is acceptable to say to you.
People literally will stop me in the street to ask me about my bump and then will ask if there's two because what I look like doesn't fit with the image in their head of what a 20 week pregnant bump should be. 

The other day it was assumed I have twins in my tummy....from a lady who has previously carried twins.
This is a consistant comment made to me, are you sure there isn't two in there? Your baby is going to be massive! That's gonna be a painful birth! Someone told me I will need scaffolding soon as I am so huge, someone else asked me if the cheese I was eating was full fat, and hadn't I better stick to low fat cheese? I left crying and was told to get a thicker skin. 
Right so I need to develop myself so that you can comment on what I'm eating and look like? Riiiiiight...

The comments mainly seem to come from middle aged women which is the demographic that you might think would be the most friendly/supportive/understanding to the ever changing and heightened hormonal pregnant woman. But there feels a sense of entitlement to comment on pregnant womens appearance. 

So I have say STOP.

Guess what? You don't have to comment!
All I literally want to hear from you Karen is 'You look great' even if it's a lie. Lie through your teeth. Or - Say nothing at all.
It goes the other way too. Bump shaming - are you sure you're pregnant? Can be the most damaging thing a woman can hear, she might have really struggled with fertility, she might have been so sick she has lost weight and has increasing anxiety about something she cannot control or simply Karen she might JUST NOT BE SHOWING YET! She might never show, she might show right at the end, she might suddenly sprout out at 30 weeks. 

Either way shut up.

Half the time I want to make a personal comment back however I don't think thats right, and even when close to snapping I can see that these comments are often said with no malice and no thought, the woman who told me I had got fat was smiling kindly at me, and I get along with really well, unless she's an actual psychopath and I have been tricked by her wily ways.  

I have reflected lots on this and realised that in the past - prepregnancy - I may have been guilty of saying "wow you're so big!" without really realising the weight of what I was saying - pardon the pun. 

The negative conertations with the word fat/big/HUGE dont sit well with me, no matter  how much I want to be ok with my body, like all of us, I do have issues and with these comments comes a panic, a panic about my body size, my baby size, the apparent painful labour because Karen (who I wasnt aware was a baby bump specialist) says my baby WILL be GARGANTUAN!

It makes me actually not want to leave the house some days,  if I notice someone looking at my bump, I wait for something about my size to come up, I brace myself when people ask me about it. Its a pretty shitty way to feel. Its making me want to stay at home and hide. 
Even when I put a picture up of myself with my bump, which I felt lovely in, I was scared people were going to comment saying how large I looked. No one did thankfully and it gave me a real boost until the next day and the 'fat' comment was my morning greeting. 

So please just think about what you are saying to people, pregnant or otherwise. But especially when talking about bump size. We all grow at different rates, different speeds and in different ways. 

We are also hormonal as fuck and might punch you in the face and get away with it.
To all the Karen's out there that show great empathy and have never commented on a bump in a derogatory way I apologise for taking your name in vain...😘

Edit -Thanks for all your lovely comments, the post isn't really about what I look like though, it's about what you say to others, thoughtlessly and the impact of that on person. Most days I feel that pregnancy really suits me and my body shape, its just a shame that pregnant women seem to attract very honest and unkind comments. I didn't write this to be told I'm beautiful - even though its so lovely and I thank all of you for taking the time ti write and tell me😍  I wrote it in the hope that it would just stop some of the comments in future for others or for me, that it would make people think a little bit more before they speak. Because as I said above, these comments are meant as mean they are coming out of smiling, lovely women's mouths! And yet it still hurts. I felt beautiful in that sunset, having my lovely boyfriend take pictures of me, and that was the first time in a long time I felt attractive and my bubble was burst by one thoughtless comment. I love you all, you are the people we need! Xxxxx

Tuesday, 17 October 2017


It was all going so smoothly until I met Ian. Ian is a "Customer service assistant" for the Abellio train service more commonly known as the mafia of terrible transport. I go to print out my carefully planned journey and prepaid for ticket and the machine (which showed me more manners and humanity than Ian) informs me that I've already printed my ticket out and to seek help.
 I look carefully through the 26 very similar looking tickets I was given for my 'out' journey and cannot locate the return so I turn to Ian. Firstly Ian is nowhere to be seen so I wait patiently next to the huddle of 3-4 staff who just happen to be hanging out next to "Customer care" desk, until one of them asks the woman BEHIND me if they can help....I look over and smile sweetly and say "Oh are you supposed to be behind the desk then?" Apparently not because in saunters Ian. 
He doesn't address me or look at me, just sort of stares at the desk while I explain what has happened. He takes the other pile of tickets, none of which are the ones I need, asks to see my rail card which is definitely not important but these Mafia types eh, they follow the rules if nothing else! I should probably mention at this point Ian has still not looked me in the eye, so I don't know how he could prove that railcard was mine or not?! Does he even have eyes? I simply cannot say. He looks physically pained to sift through my tickets, I can empathise with this as it's early and I'm feeling like okay me and Ian can get through this until he utters this sentence - "I see, you chose to leave some of the tickets in the machine" erm WHAT?! Yes Ian, of course I CHOSE to leave them there because that is what I'm all about, causing trouble for myself and having teeny tiny human interactions with fuck wits like yourself, it's how I get my kicks, you got me dude you really got me there! 
But I do not say this, I look at him in disbelief and then whisper passive aggressively 'I didn't chose to do that.' He doesn't appear to have heard me but then again his facial expression has only shifted once in the last 2 minutes from glazed over self hatred to actual pain at having to do some work, so how would I know if he'd heard or not?! We have a sort of 5 second stand off where I am looking at Ian, and Ian is back looking at the desk hoping that I'll somehow disappear or materialise into a doughnut or something but I am not going anywhere. Eventually he sighs (more pain at my very existence) and tells me he will only help me get to London but not any further, the people at Euston will have to help me. Cheers Ian. You're a real inspiration to humanity. He prints me off a ticket and slides it over to me.
 As I take the ticket and put it in my purse I notice I had the tickets all along, just in another compartment. I am momentarily toy with the idea of pulling them out and gleefully shouting I didn't choose, see! I realise that that probably makes me more of an nincompoop than he already quite blatantly thinks I am. So I turn to leave and walk past the giant whiteboard with a cheery quote, something along the lines of "One word of kindness can make a difference to someone's day." Ian has clearly not read this mantra or maybe he didn't see it because it was above his one metre allowance of vision! 😠

To top it all off nicely, the tube was delayed which caused me to miss my train and because I prebooked I had to pay another £55 for a ticket and then I accidentally turned and burped in the face of the lady sitting behind me.

Kitty Burpez

Thursday, 26 January 2017

The shit storm...

I have just had one of the most dangerous wee's of my life!

Fuelled by 2 pints of water, a tall, soy, decaff, burnt caramel latte and two glasses of Prosecco, I had already checked out the minuscule toilet cubical on the Megabus I had splashed out on, for the 6 hour drive back to London, to discover to my horror a giant, fresh, gleaming turd staring back at me from under the toilet lid! 

Now, that turd was fresh. That turd had been there for no longer than 15 minutes. Which meant the turder was definitely watching the toilet door nervously or proudly (?!) as no one from upstairs where I was sat had used the toilet yet. Gagging I panicked and slammed down the lid hoping to locate the flush. You would think it would be easy to spot in a tiny sliver of a room but no of course I pulled the emergency button!

Obviously I froze with fear desperately thinking up ways to ensure people knew I did not do this monstrosity of a poo without sounding like I actually did it! But fortunately this being the Megabus no one gave a shit...(hahah!) If I had fallen down dead or been sucked down the toilet, no one would have noticed let alone come to my rescue... After waiting what felt like a long time I unfroze, located the flush and hoped for the best. I needed to use the loo and badly (FYI - not for a poo). All went smoothly and I left the toilet without having to explain myself to anyone. Fast forward 2 hours. I am yet again desperately in need of a wee, this time it's worse. 
I'd been putting it off, trying to ignore it. Knowing what I will face if I have to go back to that toilet...But I'm getting old and my bladder isn't what it used to be, so crippled with the pain of my full bladder I reluctantly go back to the toilet. Firstly I wait for literally 10 minutes, I am hearing lots and lots of flushing noises and the notorious stench of shit. (Anyone who goes to festivals will appreciate this) but alas I have no choice, I will literally wet myself if I don't brave it. Finally a very guilty and empty looking man stumbles out, he looks up at my desperate glare and away from my accusing eyes. He and I both know that what I'm about to go through is going to be bad. Very bad and significantly worse than what has just taken place in there between himself and the toilet. 

I enter..I step in and peer nervously at the toilet. The lid is down - this isn't a good sign. I take a deep breath and try to ignore the poo molecules that I am currently inhaling (in my mind they are hundreds of tiny poo emoji's being sucked up my nostrils with every breath.) I take out a tissue (I came prepared) and use it as a glove to open the lid. The toilet is now just a blocked bucket of about 17 people's pisses and poo's. It's all swirling around together like a big poop cauldron. 
Am suddenly very aware that I have no choice in this. I HAVE to pee. I am so very hydrated that MY pee could very well be the pee that pushes this situation to an overflowing tsunami of community shit. Carefully I wipe down the seat (I plan to hover but what with the bus drivers erratic driving, my plan could definitely fail) to be fair that's the least of my worries - I could be about to create a literal shit storm. I start to pee very tentatively at first but then I realise I need to hurry, what if the driver has to break hard and I have to spend 2 more hours on this bus draped in other people's excrement?! 
So then I start power pissing or try to! (Why when you need to hurry does your wee just decided to take its time?! It's spent 2 hours pushing up against your bladder causing physical pain and then it's get all shy?!) 

Thankfully I manage to finish without falling down the toilet, causing an overflow and/or touching anyone else's urine!!! I have survived and I have nothing else to do but wait for the next two hours praying I don't have to pee! 

Shitty Lo

Thursday, 2 June 2016

See - hormones ruin EVERYTHING!

There are many things that are embarrassing about going to the GU clinic, seeing someone you know for instance, seeing a guy you slept with, bumping into your promiscuous Aunt perhaps...but none so embarrassing as bumping into someone you work fact it gets worse for me...I bumped into one of my students...not a student that would keep your secret, but one that would probably use it to blackmail you with, one named after a cheap bottle of wine, one who isn't embarrassed about being there herself...

My tale of woe begins on a rainy Thursday afternoon, I decide to pop in to the GU clinic after work - not because I'm riddled - No. Because I am after sorting out some form of non hormonal contraception because adding hormones to my body is like adding salt to an already very large, angry and painful wound - I don't need them to be a crazy bitch, and with them I could quite happily murder someone with a nail file and be able to justify it with my estrogen levels.

Anyway as soon as I enter the building I spot her, the student I've been working with this very day...looking very pleased with herself like she's spotted a goldmine of gossip...and she's right, at her age I would have been fucking delighted to have seen a teacher in public. Let alone in the midst of an STD and pregnant teenage mecca!

She is definitely not embarrassed to be there and I definitely am.

In the 3 short steps it takes me to acknowledge her whilst trying to regain control of my face and get rid of the look of horror I SO want to pull, I grimace at her whilst silently reaching into my mind for a plethora of excuses as to why I am there, as she can't know the real one of course! Even though it's all pretty innocent it just doesn't seem innocent enough! She cannot know, that I, a 28 year old woman have actual sex! (yes...its true...I do...*Flips hair*)

So I reach the counter where I have to stand waiting for the woman at the reception desk to stop pretending she hasn't seen me, and finally as she looks up, and loudly asks 'How can I help you?'

How the fuck do you think you can help me Susan?! I'm in the fucking GU clinic for a start! You don't even have a sign on the door for what I'm assuming isn't an inept mistake and maybe Susan just maybe, it's to give the patients a little discretion? So why, tell me why, when I walk in, giving it the textbook shifty eye glance and awkward smile would you think it's okay for me to have to tell you exactly what I'm there for?! What do you want my life story?! You want the gossip Susan?! Seriously I just want to get my vagina out (not for you Susan) and then I want to leave, and I'm 99% sure that the majority of people who are also cowering in the corners against the brutal NHS lighting are also here for the same thing, and I'm fairly certain Susan, that this is a daily occurrence so lets not dilly dally shall we, just give me a form for fucks sake so I can discreetly write down my problems and we can go from there!

Whilst my eyes are bulging at finding the strength to keep in this rhapsody of rage and stop it exploding all over Susan's forehead, my mind is rapidly forming an actual palatable excuse! Hooray! It is all so clear and simple now, - just say you're here to have your coil checked, perfect. It's a nice adult form of contraception, its plausible, It shows I am a responsible adult, who is so mature about sex that I am willing to have an actual hook placed inside my womb. Yes, I think - that is the one, she will be impressed and I will become her role model of life and I will save her with this one sentence from a life of STD's and possible teenage pregnancy.
So, my head has got it sorted but true to form, unfortunately my mouth hasn't...

And I loudly announce 'I am here for a check up..!' This short but scandalous revelation physically ricochets off the bank-esque glass (that is probably placed around the reception area to protect the office folk from what exactly?! I dunno, maybe to prevent the peril of possible airborne vocal STDs?!) and smacks everyone - including grinning student (who is positively leaning forward and [would be] taking notes by that point) in the face like it's unheard of there!

This rambunctious public declaration of possible scandal is still ringing in my ears as Susan tells me that they are now closed...and that I'll have to return tomorrow morning for yet another disastrous scenario.

Thank you Jeremy Hunt.

Now I have to walk past Chardonnay again and my brain is frazzled by this point and I mean, well it must be because it will have to be to explain why I did what I did next...

In order to try and grasp any scrap of pride or dignity that I could possibly have left,  I decided it would be a really good idea to walk past her and creepily lunge towards her and gurgle in some sort of sinister low voice and say 'It's not what it looks like!'


Why oh why did I say THAT?! Not only that but why did I combine it with a terrifyingly ominous voice and side swipe movement that could only instill fear and/or weirder theories of what it actually was I was in there for!

I couldn't bear to look her in the face so I stuck my chin in the air and walked out like a winner, got round the corner and started profusely sweating and swearing and headed off in pursuit of Gin and other friends to comfort me.

Yours hormonally charged

Kitty Lo

Wednesday, 28 October 2015

Mathslexia part 1...

I've always struggled with numbers, Carol Vorderman has been somewhat of a nemesis for me and more recently that Rachel Riley...she's somewhat easier to hate. Until I was old enough to understand Countdown (British game show involving word and number puzzles.) Take away the O and the down and you'll understand what maths made me feel like! Which is a more appropriate name for a game show for someone with all the dys's- dyscalculia, dyslexia, dyspraxia, disappointing my mother, distracted by anything, dysfunctional, disemotionally stable, disco genius, dis food tastes so good I'mma never stop eating etc. Anyway, until I reached the age of about 12 Sesame Street's Count Von Count was my arch enemy! That Transylvanian bastard (is that racist?! Can you be racist against a puppet? Is he stealing all our jobs?! Is he a refugee/terrorist?! Is he paying his taxes?! Is he on benefits?!!!) With his eternal life, strutting around in his cape (I always wanted a cape) and his flawless counting ability. Rubbing it in my face by laughing his head off at the end of yet another impeccable example of how his counting is far superior to mine. Twat. 

At school I became fearful of maths, which started off by hating red pens. FACT - red pen never means anything good. NEVER. Even when there's a fake smiley face next to 2/10 - don't trust it! They are just trying to break it to that you are completely hopeless, in gentle way.

I've got to a point where I'm realising that you need to know basic maths for generally getting by in the world. So I've signed up for an evening class to try and learn how to count higher than 10 without breaking into a sweat and/or tears. I'm going to call it The Education Crowd- that's what I will call the sitcom.

This place is like it's been set up for me write about and it really needs it own production. When I first went in I felt like I was on my very own Truman Show the woman who greeted me had the look of someone on the brink of a stroke or suicide. Her face is a face not made to smile, her complexion that of a giant waxy Edam with blood spatter instead of blusher. Her eyes glazed with a slight look hatred. Hatred for what? Me? The customer, nervously looking for a friendly face? Was this too much to ask from a receptionist? Maybe just a hatred for her own very existence? We may never know. (Actually to be fair maybe it's just mental health issues - hey no judgement we've all got them.)

After this tackling this grey entity of a woman, she called over 'Demetrius.' Now take a second, close your eyes and let your imagination wonder...what would a Demetrius look like...I'm talking the epitome of a stereotypical Greek man, I'm talking smashing plates, I'm talking skipping instead of walking...I'm basically talking Stavros Flatly from Britain’s Got Talent circa 2009...everything you are picturing is correct except for his personality which that of a mouse trapped inside this Greek gods body. Demetrius looks like the most Greek man a Greek man could be until he opens his mouth, and then he is the most softly spoken gentlemanly man ever. Timid in his demeanour and almost apprehensive to approach me...and soon the reasons became clear.

 The next character is a beautiful, black haired, elegant older woman. She is sitting down but you can tell she's positively statuesque and the personification of glamour. She has a leopard print bangle on her arm over her jumper. She looks like she could be one of the glamorous mothers from Made In Chelsea, who can calmly threaten to cut off a young stockbroker's ball bag whilst making it sound like she's offered them the deal of a lifetime, simultaneously guzzling Champagne- in the same way I used to drink Lambrini down the park when I as 14 *looks wistfully on* ah memories...

Damn Lambrini nostalgia side tracking me...

'Bee' is the statue's name. Which is peeeeerfect - I almost died when I heard it. I've already decided she will be my mentor; she will coach me into becoming maths genius and man eater. I will lose 2 stone, become addicted to exercise and avocados. Will find a way of cooperating a leather pencil skirt into my daily attire and for some reason carry a cane that I'll use to intimidate hot men into doing things for me by using evocative S&M montages (I haven’t got time to do anything except montages - because I'll be far too busy and important.)

Anyway, Queen Bee's one flaw is juxtaposed to Demetrious...Bee's voice should be husky and sexy and soft and fucking flawless! But when Bee opens her mouth she sounds like a fruit and veg market seller from Dagenham. If you heard her voice without seeing her you would picture some sort of hairy toothed, grubby smelling, tracksuit clad, 40 ciggies a day, reprobate screaming at her kids. (Perhaps Demerious and Bee should swap voices....) But Bee doesn’t have kids there to be'slave so that role falls upon the hen pecked Demetrious and the one remaining member of this oddball crew. I'm going to call him Darren. Darren has the smallest role in The Education Crowd but it’s a very important one. I didn’t even notice Darren until my third 'experience' there. From as far as I can see Darren’s main purpose in life is wear some form of England t-shirt. Any form of England t-shirt. As long as there is some sort of English flag stretched across his rotund frame Darren is dressed for the day. ( Still no judgement I haven't got the flattest stomach!) The rest of his outfit is a pair of those Adidas tracksuit bottoms that were popular in the '90s. The kind that are made out of shiny, highly flammable, synthetic material with three white stripes down both legs. I feel like Darren is the main reason the room smells of scalp. It’s almost too cliché to tell you that he has dirty hair, way overdue for a cut, with a matching beard that almost covers his mouth...and of course the look wouldn’t be complete without the textbook, extra thick NHS glasses, smeared with some sort of substance that doesn’t bear thinking about...

Disclaimer - these people are lovely people, slightly mad, but all genuinely lovely.

So apparently setting the scene of meeting this clan of misfits has overwhelmed me and taken away from the actual point of this post. Therefore part 2 to come at some point.

Yours still numerically challenged,

Kitty Lo

Wednesday, 7 October 2015

How Hummurous...

People always say 'look on the bright side' and 'think positively' but it’s really hard to do that when you start your day running late for work and then realising you've left your keys upstairs, which leads to tripping up the stairs, and trying to recover your step you lunge forwards but in doing so you step on the ridiculously long scarf you have wrapped around your neck and strangle yourself.

Once recovered from that and you're on your way to work (running/wheezing and sweating) you receive a text from your ex asking if he ever told you about 'the date with the girl and the quiche' cue adding 2+2 together and coming up with 675...I'm not overreacting I'm just mathslexic - dyscalculia for those of you with dyslexia. 

Basically I can't look at numbers without breaking into a sweat but that’s a whole other post!

I get through the gates to work and promptly throw my umbrella under an 18 wheeler lorry causing me to shout 'Fucking hell' really a place of education!

I get in to work to find the hot guy is in today and promptly set about trying to act cool- the problem being in trying to act cool, is the same as anything I do - it goes wrong. So here I am trying to be breezy and chilled in front Mr Glittery eyes and I suddenly need my inhaler (obvs) needless to say being cool and having asthma don't go hand in hand (although a couple of times the damsel in distress act hasn't gone down too badly, but you just have to try not to cough up phlegm/throw up on them/both - both of these things have happened to me)

So I reach into my bag and to my horror put my hand in something cold, slimy with a strange texture. I pull my hand out and smell it before I see it. Hummus. Yesterday's hummus that's been festering, unrefrigerated, all night long. Really garlicky, slightly gone off, pungent hummus. Glittery eyes is looking at me absolutely pissing himself laughing, quite rightly so...but it's hard to be alluring covered in a smelly substance. I mean I struggle when I'm freshly washed and dressed so this definitely isn't one of my most attractive moments. So I start to take out the contents of my bag one by one, the themes of the items coming out of my bag vary from ridiculous to embarrassing to just plain vile.

Firstly I forage around and pull out one by one an embarrassing amount of lip glosses/lip balms/lip sticks, pretty much all in the same shade! (I quickly put on some gloss in order to at least try and emulate a little glamour and salvage any chance of him finding me attractive - quite a lot is riding on this one slick of gloss aptly named 'Blush'- the pressure is on) I start pulling out packet after packet of Paracetamol, I have a great excuse because I'm ill but really this is my hangover stash! Obviously I have my giant banana phone case in my bag - now infused with hummus to go with its synthetic Bananary smell, two dirty forks and a bread knife(?!) two tampons, one of which had broken free from its packaging and was now demonstrating what it's purpose was by using hummus...not embarrassing at all! Endless receipts, pens, 2 calculators (mathslexia) a broken pencil case containing 0 pencils but lots of hummus, lots of my hair stuck to everything, tissues, various half eaten sweets covered in tobacco even though I don't smoke (wtf) and the pièce de résistance- a dirty pair of socks! Not even nice socks, greying, stained grubby socks, the socks of a 9yr old boy in 1998 when kids actually played outside. No idea how they got there or why they were there, can only imagine they crawled in there themselves!
But with every cloud there is a silver lining, being the expert on being single I know you have to take every opportunity when it comes to meeting Mr Right. Mr Right is currently of form of glittery eyed support worker who has just witnessed me being a massive twat but is still smiling at me and hasn't looked physically disgusted...yet. So I announce very loudly to a member of staff that my name is 'KITTY LOPEZ on FACEBOOK' 3-5X (just to be sure he's got it) My normal voice is about 5 decibels louder than most humans, so you can imagine at this point I'm probably deafening everyone in the room. I even put on a Spanish accent at one point...I'm not entirely sure why but it felt right. I'm not 100% sure if I was looking at him at the time as I was still trying to act 'cool' (I have no idea why considering today's turn of events) I may have been glaring at him with my eyes as wide as they could go to ensure he understood the message being directed at him...either way half an hour later BOOM A FRIEND REQUEST FROM GLITTERY EYES!!! Yaaaaaay sometimes it pays to be a dick!

Yours nearly married
Kitty Lo