The Jan Cram.

Christmas is over. My spirit has been drowned in the lurking cesspit of January exams. Which funnily enough make me want to wallow in a pool of spirits.

Forget tonic, a splash of anxiety and squeeze of skim reading is the perfect accompaniment for gin.

So I've been told.

Exams seem to have this funny way of transforming usually sane, functioning individuals into these frantic, highlighter terrorists. Demoniacally chanting the definition of Organisational Structures under their breath.

"Organisational structure is taken to be the fundamental and relatively unchanging features of an organisation which are officially sanctioned by those who control it and consists of the way activities and component parts are grouped, controlled and coordinated in order to achieve specific aims and outcomes."

Just in case you were wondering.

I've also found that I seem to be at the peak of my productivity during the Jan cram. Productive in the most fucking useless ways however. Chapter to revise? Sure I'll just sterilise the fridge, organise my wardrobe by colour, bake a chicken  and ham pie and write a short novel first.

1001 Ways to Procrastinate Before You Die

or alternatively;

50 Shades of Bic

They're work in progress. My degree? It's a lack of progress in work. I think I try to convince myself that if I watch enough TED Talks on consumerism I'll be the fountain of business knowledge. There will be no need to revise a thing when I'm sipping on flat whites with aule Malcolm Gladwell, spouting off profound shite about choice being the choice of the people.

Yeah, you're right. I should probably pick up text book and stop typing incoherent bullshit over the internet. Katie Hopkins needs a purpose in life after all.

I thank you for joining me in the midst of my final degree of despair. Quite Literally. I'm away to have a wee cry while eating a cheese toastie. Women are apparently renowned multi-taskers after all.

Keep er' classy muckers.

Confessions of a Staler

Once again the new academic year is upon us; bank accounts blessed by the silent sugar daddy known as the student loan. I feel being on my third spin of the student waltzer has left me jaded and cautious. Six shot ladders and a three meat kebab you say? I could get a week's worth of groceries AND top up my metro card with that!

Somebody call the fun doctor, we've got a case of shite craic over here!

The start of the new semester also marks the release of a ripe batch of freshers, bar crawling their way across Belfast; armed with newly established independence and a 'fuck it!' attitude. Quite literally. Being out among the Hollister clad herds of them I feel like something of a twenty-one year old cougar, having a fresh faced boy yell "CHEST" at me. Is he so devoid of female presence that he's taken to playing body parts bingo when he's out on the rip? And if so what's the prize for a full house - a semi?

If so god help his anti-viral software when he discovers the dark side of the internet...

Though I really can't claim the status of a together, mature individual either. Nothing reflects on the current state of your life quite like having the thought, "FUCK, where should I hide the multi-pack of Mini Cheddars currently sitting on my desk?!", while your friend ascends the stairs to your room.

They're behind the TV, just in case you were wondering.

*they is now it. What can I say, they're bloody small bags.

You know what else makes you question your capabilities as a supposedly functioning adult? Standing emptying your knicker drawer out in front of your young, handsome landlord at 8pm on a Sunday. He was replacing a broken set of drawers in my bedroom btw, this isn't how I try to impress men.

"Hey baby, wanna come watch me pour an ocean of heavily elasticated knickers on to the floor?"

Anybody? No?

I'd say your loss but that's an utter lie. Oh well. I've got a bag of cashews and a copy of Mary Berry's Baking Bible screaming my name. Nuts and buns lads, nuts and buns.

À bientôt, you beautiful bitches.

A Mid Summer's Night's Rant

It's been a while since I've indulged in a cyber rant, probably to the benefit of sane minds everywhere. This is due to a mixture of pure neglect and six day weeks cavorting with a hot oven and piping bags.

I've swapped the tracksuit infested corridors of Jordanstown for chef whites and a permanent coating of sweat. Getting the train home everyday while coated in a sticky mixture of eggs and icing sugar, I feel the need to try and convey to the other commuters that I'm not a knock off porn star in trainers - I wash my clothes, I swear!

Febreeze counts, right?

...  

On the other hand my current state of employment makes for an interesting drunken introduction,

"What do you do?"

"I'm a baker"

"Are you really? Isn't that the type of job only the well spoken Nigella types do?"

I then proceed to drunkenly whip the cupcake tattoo I have on my thigh out, to which the dubious doubt of my profession disappears. As if getting a baked good tattooed on you is the initiation into becoming a bona fide baker. All those hordes of middle aged, French patisserie chefs walking around with croissants inked across their chests.

I wonder does Mary Berry have a cheeky wee Batten-berg tramp stamp?

This summer has also bore the beautiful fruit that is Couple Come Dine With Me. Never have my Friday nights been occupied by back to back episodes of a programme that makes me feel both hungry and lonely in equal measures. I've entered a whole new level of eating my feelings. Think Bridget Jones meets Man Vs Food - Adams Vs Every type of BBQ Crisp ever made.

And I mean EVERY type.

The ascent into August has also made me aware of what little time I actually have left in my degree, a mere two semesters to finally get off the coast wagon I've been riding since GCSE and make use of the Ikea desk I forced my ex in to buying back in the Summer of '12. Maybe this will be your year desky, just maybe.

But more than likely it'll remain littered with the excessive piles of washing and empty crisp packets. Smokey BBQ to be precise.

I once again thank you for your endurance through this written babble of consciousness,
Until next time xo

The burnt Barca Blues

What's red, white and needs a shower? Right now, me.

 Just one day of exploring the sun soaked streets of Barcelona is enough to get my Ulster fry on. I'll have a side of after sun with that, please. But I really shouldn't be complaining, burnt in Barcelona is much preferable to the grey haze of Belfast for a few days.

 Oddly, My 'norn Irish decent has also proved something of a novelty with the men... Don't get me wrong, I love a good flirt just as much as the next person - and then some. But I feel like I've been released into a monastery with a 'libré' sign around my neck, especially when confronted with an observation that "they don't make the Spanish girls like you, they're all bones and brown hair". Who knew too many variety boxes from Wok a Moley would one day pay off?!

 No one, because it doesn't. I'm still single.

 The city is incredibly beautiful though, the Guadiana inspired architecture flooding the streets with intricate brickwork and awe-inspiring archways. My Instagram account is going into meltdown, as is my friends' list... I never can resist a little travel brag...

 I think I possibly subconsciously got so horrifically burnt so when people exclaim how positively lobster like I am I can exclaim, "oh, I was in barcelonaaaa'. If you encounter this you have my full permission to punch me in the face, god knows I could do with the human contact.

 As exams loom I now have to face reality and bury myself within the lifeless labyrinths of the library, though reality is I'll be perched in every coffee shop within a two mile radius - scouring the internet for sociology journals and Game of Thrones memes. Most likely the second part. After all - Winter is unavoidably coming. My education? Not so much. Keep charismatic you beautiful people of Belfast xo

Come Fly with Me

I've done it. I've finally grew the pair of lady balls everyone's always assumed I had. I'm traveling - solo. Barcelona here I come - the garish carrot orange hues of Easyjet promising adventure and memories to be made. That and you'll be sat beside a Carlsberg fuelled stag do playing 'rate the flight attendant's arse'.

Here's hoping for an all male crew.

With sickly filter coffee in hand I reek of a new traveller - nervous anticipation and Trip Advisor. The hombres Espanyol are in for a treat...

That's provided they like pasty Belfast girls who say 'cunt' too much.

Cunt.

I honestly don't know what to expect on this virginal voyage, chorizo and culture? Sangria and singed shoulders? Either way, camera in hand I plan to capture as much of the European euphoria as possible -  and take a break from the rum steeped Saturdays of Laverys.

Hasta la vista, lads. Xo

Sun Cream and the Ad Man's Dream

Summer; where the skirts are short and my dove roll on is pushed to it's absolute limits. When they say 24hours I take it they don't mean human hours? Because I can barely get 24 minutes out of this aloe Vera bad boy.

 There's something so infectious about those golden rays that make us crave carbon-crusted burgers and drinking on the street. It's risen above 15oC? Hell whip the Strongbow out and let's have Kid Rock's 'All Summer Long' on repeat. Yes Cool FM - I'm talking to YOU.

 Me? I don't really like summer all that much.

Yes, you've read correctly. Due to my albino like complexion anymore than 5 minutes without factor 50 and I look like a piece of bacon in a dress. Which actually may improve my appeal to the opposite sex.

Now where's that babyoil...

Don't get me wrong, it's sure as hell a lot nicer perusing around the streets of Belfast without the constant grey drizzle rendering your hair eternally frizzy. But when it gets to that point where you can't tell if you're perspiring or going for a paddle in your own bodily fluids - I'll pass thanks.

Though I can't deny there's nothing I relish more than whipping out the 'aule sundress and sandles, suddenly turning into an extra from Mad Men. Though I'm more likely be busting balls in the boardroom than swapping diet tips over typewriters.

My diet tip? I like to go by the 5:2 rule - Five meals a day, twice daily.

Thank you once again for your endurance with my written rampage, stay beautiful xo

I can't get no sleep.

I am shite at sleeping. I know to look at me it doesn't seem like that. “There’s a girl who sleeps like a log and eats like a horse” And shits like one too most likely.

But surprisingly I don’t sleep very well at all. When you don’t sleep you get to discover the hidden elements of the night you couldn't have imagined existed. For me this has been Classic FM – the amalgamation of Mozart and the middle class. The presenters sound like they've been found by someone going into Harvey Nicholl’s with a net and some caviar.

Munching your cardboard Lidl cornflakes to the sound of John Sushi – being brought into the small hours of the morning with Margarita Taylor. Nothing screams private education and polo like having a cocktail or a Japanese delicacy as a first name.

If that was to happen in my family I’d probably have been named Battered-sausage Adams.

Mmmmm... Battered sausages.

There’s something so soothing yet gravely intimidating about individuals who use the words, ‘whom and alas’ without being ironic. I can’t even read the word alas without picturing images of Dumbledore going all wise on Harry’s parent-less ass. But that probably says more about how my mind works than the general consensus on the word ‘alas’.

The reason I’m so aware of the obvious difference in class between myself and the Classic FM presenters? I’m currently residing on the upper Lisburn Road. Where the grass is green and the trust funds are pretty. I think they can smell my labeless scent when I’m walking down the street. That or I just look like a busty tramp – which incidentally would probably be my rapper name. 

Busty Tramp – keeping the flow tight and the necklines low.

Again I thank you for persevering with my filth riddled ramblings. Keep ‘er lit. xo