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
