Sunday, 23 November 2014

The seven stages of falling asleep on the sofa

It was only ever meant to be a little dose of innocent shut eye. Just a momentary escape from Match of the Day, or the adverts in the middle of Rude Tube, or a conversation with her husband about what they're going to do on New Year's Eve.

But now she's woken from what accidentally turned into a full-on sleep and she's livid. Her eyes dart from side to side, searching for what will tonight win the title 'Single Most Annoying Thing In The World'. Will it be that glass on the coffee table that's been there since last night, or will it be that pair of shoes that she specifically asked be placed on the mat but that stand there on the tiles, mocking her. Or will it be her own inability to stand up without tripping over the throw she's been sleeping under and looking like a dickhead.

It's the same story every time:

Stage 1: The 'little lie down'. She slides down the sofa 'just to get comfortable' whilst watching television. This is her first crucial mistake. Lying down is basically giving her body permission to drift off to snooze town. She might as well just throw back a shot of Night Nurse, sing herself a lullaby and be done with it.

Stage 2: The cover. Whether it's a throw that lives on the sofa (for the sole purpose of accidental nap time), an over-sized gentleman's jumper or a freshly washed towel, she'll grab anything she can get her paws on and throw it over herself, just to make the sofa feel even more like a bed. There is, of course, a very nice and very available bed just upstairs but in the interests of not moving a single muscle, she's convinced herself that the sofa is superior.

Stage 3: The gentle warning. A voice of calm will suddenly speak out across the lounge. "Charlotte, don't fall asleep. Remember you don't like it when you wake up on the sofa. Why don't you just go to bed, hmmm?" She appreciates his concern (even if his tone is just a little patronising - doesn't he have any faith in her?) but she's only going to be here a few minutes so he needn't worry - she is totally in control.

Stage 4: Deep sleep. Before she knows it, she is spark out, dead to the world. Only an earthquake or the Coronation Street opening titles could wake her now. And if the gentleman in the room has it his way neither of those two things is going to happen any time soon. He's just going to plug in the X-Box and enjoy a little bit of calm before the inevitable post-nap storm.

Stage 5: The awakening. The time comes when he wants to go to bed. And because he's a nice man, (and one who has heard many times that she doesn't appreciate waking up to find herself downstairs alone - why does he think it's OK to abandon her?!) he attempts to wake her. He has a number of strategies for this - from the gentle to the electronic. There's the gentle shake, the relentless repetition of her name until she wakes up shouting "WHAT DO YOU WANT STOP GOING ON AT ME" or, for the more comatose episodes, he will ring her mobile and let the sudden vibrating of the device next to her startle her back into reality. She does not appreciate the call.

Step 6: The stomp. And now she's awake. And for a number of reasons - none of which are anybody's fault but her own - she is cross. She's cross that she fell asleep on the sofa AGAIN, cross that she's still fully clothed and now inexplicably BOILING, and livid that she now has to drag her sorry behind upstairs whilst feeling (and looking) like a zombie. And so along the way she'll find anything to direct her fury at - an out of date pile of newspapers, a scarf that's fallen on the floor, or a bowl that has innocently missed its go in the dishwasher (largely because she was eating marshmallows from it before she fell asleep clutching it to her chest). She is a walking, shouting example of why one should indeed never wake a baby, a dog or a sugar-filled, world weary woman.

Step 7: The regret. Just as her mum always said, everything does indeed look better in the morning. In the light of day she'll see that actually that overflowing pile of washing doesn't really make her so mad that she wants to throw all the clothes out of the window so they can just 'bloody well get washed in the rain'; and that if she's honest, she remembers now that it was actually her idea to turn the heating up before she drifted off to sleep and that of course nobody is trying to make her sweat herself into oblivion. She apologises to the most patient man in the world (and to the dishwasher which she remembers kicking for a reason she can't quite recall) and promises just to get into bed next time she feels tired.

And so another day commences, another commute gets underway, and the clock ticks until yet another evening of dinner and warmth and ill-advised portions of sweet snacks turns into a one-woman battle to stay conscious. She must just try to stay upright for as long as possible, and then send herself to bed as soon as her eyelids start weighing her down.

Because there's only so many times this man is going to have the energy to try and negotiate with a woman who wakes up and starts shouting at a pile of newspapers for failing to find their way into the 'cocking recycling bin'.

And anyway, he did warn her that this would happen in the first place. He's just not sure that now is the best time to mention it.

*By she I mean me, by her I mean me, and by Charlotte, I mean me. What do you mean you already knew that?

Sunday, 16 November 2014

Gone in 60 minutes: When married people go out for dinner

How long does it normally take you to go out for dinner with your other half? An hour and a half? Two hours? Maybe even three if there's a strong selection of cheese on the menu.

They're great. The long lingering meals, the peering at each other over the salt and pepper, the flirtatious sips of gins and tonics, and seductive gnawing on garlic bread.

But when you live together, sometimes that's not what you're looking for from a trip out to an eatery. Sometimes you just want to eat.

All couples have a list of their go-to favourite places, often within walking distance of their house to allow for booze-fuelled wobbling home. We've got a Japanese place we frequent so often we should probably pay rent, a sushi joint where we can recite the entire menu and a cheap and cheerful noodle cafe which is as good at prawn dumplings as it is at strip lighting. And now we know them so well that we can put on our shoes, leave the house, order our food, eat, pay for it and get back through our front door within 60 minutes. Even less if the buses are on our side.

Because with knowledge comes speed. I know that at the Japanese I'll have the calamares, the beef teriyaki and an aloe juice, and that at the sushi house I'll have everything on the menu that features tempura, followed by the melty chocolatey fondant. Sure, you can bring me a menu if you want but I'll only use it to point at the same things I select every single time we go there. There's none of that 'Can we just have a couple more minutes?' malarkey with us; even if one of us pops to the loo, the other can order on their behalf. Our trip is as predictable as it is delicious.

They don't tell you this when you get married. Sure, they talk to you about patience and tolerance and always being best friends, yadayadayada, but I don't remember the bit when they said 'And, as an added bonus, there will be a selection of restaurants that you'll know so well that you can be there and back in less time than it takes to watch an edition of Match of the Day (though it will definitely feel a lot quicker).'

The great thing about going out with somebody you've been with for a long time is that you can admit that sometimes your hunger is so consuming that you won't be able to speak until your dinner arrives. We can just agree to use our remaining energy to both glare at the kitchen until somebody brings us our food. We can have a proper conversation once we've stopped our stomachs from grumbling or over email or whatever. Right now, we're here to eat.

But don't take this as a complaint. This little ritual makes me just as happy as when we head further afield to try somewhere new. Speedy local eating is just an extra part of the marriage deal, like joint credit cards, anniversaries, and threats of divorce every time you ask for help changing the bed.

I used to look at couples who weren't saying anything to each other over dinner with real pity. I assumed they were on the brink of a split, and were just sat there working out who would get the dog and who originally paid for the Lighthouse Family CD. But now I know differently. There's a good chance they're happier than they've ever been. They're just ravenous and sat quietly waiting for his beer, her passion fruit mojito, and the crab sushi rolls that they both love almost as much as they love each other.


Sunday, 9 November 2014

Will I ever stop feeling like a dick for trying to be funny? No. Never.

I spend an awful lot of time feeling like a bit of a dick.

If you say that you like my dress then I'll make a joke about it being vintage because I haven't been able to afford clothes since 2011 - HAHAHA. If you ask if I've lost weight then I'll mock my inability to digest wheat. And if you acknowledge that I've dyed my hair, I'll say "Well, you know, we're married now, gotta keep things fresh!" even though I'm not really sure what that means.

And it would appear that I'm not the only one.

Yesterday I went, for the second year in a row, to Mumsnet's annual Blogfest. You might remember me writing about it last year - it's a day when (mostly) women come together to learn new things about writing and blogging, chat to each other, and hear from a line-up of speakers so brilliant that it's worth getting out of bed on a Saturday morning at an hour normally only reserved for knocking back a couple of much needed post-Friday night ibuprofen. Nick Hornby, Tim Dowling, Suzanne Moore and Lucy Porter - to name just a few - were definitely worth the early alarm clock call.

Networking scares the hell out of me. Walking into rooms full of people I don't know (except in some cases from their twitter avatar, but starting a conversation by telling people you've been 'following' them feels very creepy) and having to make conversation fills me with dread. And worse, I'd paid money to do it. On a Saturday! But you have to remember two things: 1. Most people don't know anybody either and 2. It is completely worth it to speak to interesting people. (And secret option number 3. If it doesn't work out, you can always just hide in the toilet. Though that seems a bit of a waste of £95.)

And I met some wonderful people. Endless interesting women who are all giving the whole blogging thing a bloody good go, often whilst also raising a child or two, holding down a job and managing to stay up to date with major TV box sets. It made my moans about not having enough time to get things done seem pretty pathetic. And I'm still seriously behind with Breaking Bad.

But it saddened me to see how much self-esteem was an issue for all of us. The fact that the round-table discussion on 'Blogging and self-esteem' was so oversubscribed spoke volumes. Dozens of us sat together and talked of fear of judgement when writing about personal things, nasty tales of trolling, and just wondering who the bloody hell we all thought we were for daring to put ourselves out there.

But the good news is that we all still do it. People spoke of comments they'd had from readers saying they'd found their writing really helpful, of using blogging to work through problems in their own lives, and also of all-important bloody mindedness and refusal to stop doing something we enjoy. I can't be sure, but I think Beyoncé would have been really proud of us.

And even if you reach big time stardom it seems that the fear never goes away. 'How to find your funny' - a session on how to make people laugh through your writing - was chaired by Bryony Gordon and brought together Rebecca Front, Arabella Weir and Jon Ronson. All people I like and admire an embarrassing amount. It also introduced me to Kirsty Smith of Eeh Bah Mum and Elaine Miller of Gussie Grips - another two funny women to add to my list.

And though my heart was beating through my chest (I'm surprised they couldn't hear it down the microphone) I asked a question about something that has been bothering me ever since I started this blog: Does the feeling that hits every time you write something and wait to see if anybody likes it or finds it funny - you know, when you just feel like a bit of a DICK - ever go away? And you know what? They said no. Absolutely not. You need that, they said - as soon as you think you're great, you're screwed.

And it really made me feel better. Every Sunday when I write something and hit publish I go into a spiral of self-doubt, regret, and bemusement as to why I put myself through this each week... So it's good to know that even the greats have that feeling too. We have something in common. We'll be best buds before the week is out, I'm sure of it.

And then Francesca Martinez, the marvellous comedian, actress and writer, spoke about self-confidence and self-image so well that I was at serious risk of smearing teary mascara all over my cheeks. She talked about realising that 'normal' doesn't exist, that beauty and success are all social constructs created to disempower us, and reminded us that we have the power to control the way that we think about ourselves. If only I'd been to hear her speak when I was a teenager, I could have saved myself years of angst. That woman is an absolute inspiration. If you ever get the chance to go and see her, I recommend you take it.

Just like last year, this day has done me the world of good. It taught me things, it introduced me to lovely new chums and, more importantly, it made me feel a lot less alone in this little online world. It also showed me that self-esteem is something everybody battles with, whether writing about marriage and relationships and attempting to make jokes about eating too many crisps (that's me for anyone that's new here), or blogging about family or children or, in some cases, even post-labour incontinence. (Definitely not me. Yet.)

So now I shall hit publish and wait for the inevitable feeling of 'dickhead' to kick in. But it's OK; I now know I'm in very good company.

Sunday, 2 November 2014

5 things that happen when you dye your hair a completely different colour

There is no relationship more turbulent than the one we have with our hair.

One minute we're the best of friends, making each other look good at parties, working together to hide the inexplicable shine on our forehead, and the next it's like we don't understand each other at all. Our ends are split, our parting's all over the place, and goodness only knows what's going on with our fringe.

And sometimes we reach the end of our tether. And for me that came a couple of months ago. I'd been dyeing my hair blond for the best part of 16 years and it was time for a change. So I went to see my hairdresser, closed my eyes and hoped for the best.

And within the hour I was a brunette (fun fact: dyeing your hair brown takes a hell of a lot less time than blond highlights. Regardless of what you think of the colour, you can't argue with that kind of time saving). And so started a fun few weeks of living with a whole new look. So if you're thinking of giving it a go, here are a few things you can expect to happen:

1. You will become frightened of your own reflection 
Nothing makes a person more obsessed with their own appearance than a change of hair cut or colour. You can spot them - they're the ones sat chatting to a friend in a cafe whilst looking over their shoulder at their reflection in the window, or pretending to be paying really close attention to stirring their drink but actually staring at their face in the back of the spoon.

But don't be too harsh on them, this isn't all vanity you're looking at - it's fear. When you walk out of a salon with a head full of hair that's a completely different colour or length from what you're used to, it's hard to feel anything other than startled for at least a week. I'd gasp when I caught a look at myself in a bus window, shudder at the sight of tin foil, and almost pass out when I woke up in the morning and looked in the mirror (although, to be fair, that is nothing new).

2. People will ask you why you did it and you'll have no idea how to answer them 
And that's because you'd have thought your reasons were obvious - you wanted to, you thought it would suit you and because, you know, you only live once and you can always dye it back (if we all get behind it, #YOLOAYCADIB will definitely catch on). And the problem is that, regardless of what is actually meant by this question, it always feels like either:
- I don't like it and can't understand why you would do this to yourself; or
- I can only assume that you've had some kind of breakdown
So you can either try and convince them that it looks awesome, or pretend to cry and hope they'll buy you some sweets to make you feel better. I don't need to tell you which way I went *chews strawberry foam mushrooms*

3. Your dearest friends and family will not recognise you until you're standing directly in front of their faces saying "HELLO, IT'S ME!"
For the first few weeks after I dyed my hair, I'm pretty sure that my husband woke up every day and wondered who the hell was lying next to him. I've heard it's good to keep your other half on their toes, but making them think that a crazy stranger has broken in and got into bed with them is possibly taking it a little too far. But, on the plus side, if you're trying to avoid somebody or enjoy scaring the bejesus out of people you know and love; this could definitely be the approach for you. I also recommend adding some dark glasses and a plastic nose for extra horror.

4. And some people don't notice at all...
It's incredible. You go from blond to brown, add a heavy fringe and a chunk of red lipstick and yet some people - people you've known for years and years and years - won't notice at all. In some ways it's quite nice - it's pretty nerve wracking the first time you step out with a new look so it's kind of nice to be treated like nothing has changed. But on the other hand, it makes you wonder what it would take to get a reaction - a full face lift? A second head? If only I had the money, I would find out in the name of research.

5. Sometimes you'll wonder what the hell you were thinking
The problem with hair is that you never really know when you've nailed it. One day it looks good and you love it so much you want to swish it in the eye of all your haters, and the next you want to chop it all off and start again. This is just what it's like to have hair, no matter what colour it is. So it's better just to give it a good wash and a blow dry and remember that you actually do like it, you're just overtired and paying too much attention to birthday cards that say "Blonds have more fun!"

Or otherwise, remember #YOLOAYCADIB

Sunday, 26 October 2014

The inevitable list: 30 things I'd like to do before I turn 30

I will be 30 next July. THIRTY.

And, as is customary, I have written a list of things I would like to achieve by that time.

Is this just an opportunity for me to write down some funny thoughts I've had or is this an actual record of my hopes and dreams at this pivotal moment in my life? Or is it something in between. I'll let you decide.

1. Find a mascara that remains on my eyelashes throughout the day. Not down my cheek, not - somehow - in the middle of my forehead, just on my eyes. Come on science, I'm on a deadline.

2. Remember once and for all that the phrase is 'Off your own bat' not 'back' and stop just saying 'ba' and hoping nobody notices.

3. Finally decide what type of book I'd like to write and START WRITING IT.

4. Do more drawing. I bloody love drawing. Stewie (top) needs some company.

5. Watch The Godfather Part II. No I haven't seen it, yes I know it's amazing, no I don't know what I've been doing with my life, yes I have heard it's better than the first one, no I don't need to borrow your copy thanks, yes I have had this conversation a few times before.

6. Go to New York, get discovered as the next Carrie Bradshaw and commence living a disproportionately glamorous life considering the pittance I must surely earn from writing just one column per episode/week. I shall live the dream.

7. Find a black skirt that actually fits. This is definitely too ambitious in this time frame.

8. Learn how to cook an appropriate amount of potatoes to feed two people.

9. Buy a new pair of jeans. Oh god, I already can't face it.

10. Spend more time at the wonderful British seaside. I love arcades, I love chips, and I love being at constant risk of having my entire lunch stolen by a seagull.

11. Start having the balls to say "I would like to be a writer who gets paid to write words, please!" when people ask me what I'd like to do with my life, and then have the additional balls required to make it happen.

12. Reduce my chocolate button consumption to just one bag per week NO I'M SORRY I CAN'T DO IT I TAKE IT BACK YOU CAN'T MAKE ME

13. Stop feeling the need to merge words together for my own amusement e.g. shoppurtunity, mumbrella, ex-snack-tly.

14. Never ever let anybody in the world know that - until the age of 24 - I thought that the direction of North, South, East and West changed depending on which way you were facing (like with left and right). This secret must die with me.

15. Go to the Lake District. I am an adult and I want to go for a walk.

16. Speak with confidence about where and what 'East Anglia' is.

17. Learn how to bake a cake that doesn't break when I take it out of the cake tin. The GBBO crew would not think much of my presentation skills.

18. Sigh long enough and loud enough for my husband to FINALLY change the light bulb on our landing which broke three years ago. (I'm not tall enough to reach and - on principle - refuse to risk my life by standing on a step ladder to try.)

19. Stop being so passive aggressive.

20. Go to Budapest. The level of holidays on this list is already unrealistic.

21. Ooh and Istanbul.

22. Move this blog over to WordPress and make it look so good that the internet has to be completely redesigned to keep up with its wonder (or just so that maybe a few more people want to look at it. Either way.)

23. Either find a photography course and go on it or STOP GOING ON ABOUT IT.

24. Finally make a decision about what to do with my wedding dress. NB: Wearing it to other people's weddings is not cool. I realise that now.

25. Invest in those blue Bertie brogues I keep dreaming about. The universe clearly wants us to be together.

26. Make an album of our wedding photos and have a physical reminder that there was indeed one day in my life when I wore the right thing to a party.

27. Get better at gardening. And by better I mean: actually do some gardening.

28. Learn once and for all that lying down whilst watching a film - no matter how enthralling - is a one way ticket to Sleepy Town.

29. Watch the end of all the films I've missed due to the above. (Current count: 732)

30. Organise an excellent party. And by excellent, I mean one that involves lots of sitting down, chatting, and a guarantee that we'll all be tucked up in bed by 11.30pm. At our age we need all the beauty sleep we can get.

Sunday, 19 October 2014

Relationship advice: How NOT to have an argument

Everybody thinks they know how to argue. And then they move in with somebody and find out that they don't.

I thought he and I were different. We don't like confrontation, I thought, so we'll just sort everything out like reasonable human beings, forgetting that I am not a reasonable human being.

And although it's true that we don't like confrontation (who does?), I do like a clean house, a tidy bedroom and to live with a human being who realises that if you're not in a room, you should TURN THE FLAMING LIGHT OFF. He, on the other hand, likes the precise opposite, so we had no choice but to exchange just a few cross words to ensure we'd both survive cohabitation.

And I know now that I did it all wrong. Although we survived the process, sometimes I wonder how. So to save everybody else the trouble, I thought I'd share what I learnt: here's how not to have an argument. Let this be a lesson to you.

Lots and lots and lots of sighing
Next time I update the 'Other interests' section of my CV, I'm going to add 'passive aggression'. My first tactic for addressing my frustration when I found that he had failed to change a toilet roll/not emptied the bin/left yet another pair of boxer shorts on the bathroom floor (is it intended as a gift? You know, like when a cat brings you a dead mouse or something?) was to sigh over and over again in the hope that the increase in condensation in the flat would alert him to his errors. It didn't work.

When asked what's wrong, say "Nothing"
When the sighing got so excessive that I was at risk of hyperventilating, he would give in and ask what was wrong. And instead of just explaining "Your inability to grate cheese on the kitchen worktops without it look like a bale of hay has just exploded in the house," I just said 'Nothing' and assumed that he would know that what I really meant was LOADS. Yeah, that didn't work either.

Start talking to yourself
This is probably the most absurd stage in the passive aggression journey. At the end of my ridiculous tether after he'd refused to decipher the precise meaning of my sighs and clearly coded 'Nothing', I resolved to just start talking to myself in the hope that he would finally catch on. It's very easy, all you do is stomp about whilst tidying the house muttering the following under your breath:
"Well hello there pair of pants, how very nice of you to come and sit right there in the middle of the bathroom floor! I guess I'll just pick you up myself, shall I? Hmmm?!
or, for the ultimate in being a complete twerp, start thanking yourself:
"Oh thank you, Charlotte! How kind of you to clean up all my sh*t! Yes you do have MUPPET tattooed on your forehead and may I say how well it goes with your eyes. Your big muppet eyes." 

He didn't bite. He just sat and watched, baffled as to why he had ever agreed to move in with such a complete lunatic.

When forced to explain what is the matter, completely lose your sh*t and all perspective about what you were originally cross about
Eventually after one to two hours of the aforementioned arsing about, he would finally ask me to just say what the matter was. And I'd have wound myself up SO much by that point that I would just start blurting out expletives whilst pointing at the fridge or the bin like a mad person. I'd be apoplectic with rage and yet I wouldn't really be sure why. His original crime - for example, eating all of the chocolate orange my grandma had bought for me, or talking during Coronation Street - had escalated to such an extent that I'd lost all ability to articulate myself. We'd both just have to retire to different rooms for a bit whilst I gathered myself, and he played X-Box until I was ready to start behaving like a normal human. What a bloody palaver.

Just calmly mentioned that something was bothering me, explained why and, as is the rule for everything in life, tried not to behave like a total dick. Who knew?

Well, now you do and thankfully so do I. Otherwise there's no way we'd have made it this far. If only somebody had told me all this before we'd moved in together, I'd have spent a lot less time being severely out of breath.

Oh well. *sighs*

Sunday, 12 October 2014

Six reasons to be extraordinarily happy

As my regular readers will know, posts here at Nothing Good tend to come with a heavy portion of cynicism and a side order of "Look at that knob head!" with the knob head in question usually being me.

But today I thought I'd slap on a happy face and talk about what's good in the world. Maybe it's the wedding I went to yesterday that made me cry tears of joy approximately four times, or perhaps it's the Cadbury's Dairy Milk I had on the way back. I don't know, but I'm in the mood to give it a shot.

I've done a fair bit of moaning recently - about being tired and broke and my kitchen refurbishment taking weeks and weeks to finish and blablablabla NOBODY. CARES. But that little nightmare is over now, and with a stomach full of home cooked grub, things don't look so bad after all.

So here it is, six very simple things to be extraordinarily happy about. Let's enjoy it while it lasts.

1. Socks!
If the summer must end, and it must, then at least we can enjoy being back in socks and, even better than that, new socks, straight from the packet onto your feet. And if you really want to maximise the fun, may I recommend popping on a good pair of slippers and perhaps even a pyjama bottom to go with them. The fact that I don't have my own line at Ann Summers remains astonishing to me.

2. Sweets!
I don't care how old you are, sweets exist to make your day better.  My husband gave me a bottle of strawberry mushrooms (above) for my birthday and I reacted like he'd give me keys to a Porsche - I was DELIGHTED. Give me a Porsche filled with sweets and I may explode. You know those programmes called stuff like 'Brits Off Their Bits On Booze Whilst On Holiday And Not Wearing Very Much Which Really Makes The Whole Thing A Lot More Embarrassing"? I don't understand why there has never been an equivalent made about people who have binged on sweets. One too many bags of fried eggs or dusty milk bottles and I'm hysterical with laughter, unable to stay upright and ready to hurl. 'Brits Off Their Faces On Strawberry Laces' is just a phone call away.

3. Friends!
Yes, the programme is indeed something to feel extremely happy about (although the fact that I'm not allowed to own the box set in case it makes me even less inclined to go out than I am already remains a sore point) but this time I'm talking about actual human chums. I consider the fact that I have seriously good, marvellously interesting and funny pals a major achievement. I don't need to join a gym, I just need regular catch ups with my friends. There's enough laughing, gasping for air and flailing my arms about involved (it's for dramatic effect, thanks) to rival any zumba class.

4. Dancing!
It's good to have at least one good dance per day. And you don't have to be at a party to do this (though give yourself a bonus ten 'cool' points if you do happen to go to such an event). Nope, you can be on the train, waiting to pick up something from the printer, or just hanging out in your kitchen, rustling up a marshmallow based snack. Wherever you are, a few swings of the hip are bound to make everything feel better. As to whether other people witnessing this act will feel the same level of joy is hard to guarantee, though if your moves are anything like mine, I'd say it's unlikely.

5. An empty weekend!
Plans and parties and shindigs involving alcohol are great but you know what's also swell? Staying at home and doing absolutely nothing. You can cook, you can clean and - fun fact - you can still have booze, just without the added risk of having to cope with public transport afterwards - brilliant! Hazard warning - to avoid causing too much damage, I do recommend cooking before cracking open any drinks. I understand kitchen refurbs can be quite the undertaking. *twitches*

6. Experimental fruit juice combinations!
Nothing can make me feel more positive about an establishment than the offer of a fresh mixed juice. I know, I know, I need to SLOW DOWN. Perhaps it's the colours, perhaps it's the flavours, or perhaps it's the knowledge that there is actually something in the world that is good for you and delicious (nice try, kale). Whatever it is, that sh*t is good.

So there we are. A little happiness for a Sunday afternoon. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time for me to hit the dance floor. And by dance floor I mean kitchen floor - I think the combination of new socks and new tiles is going to create something my neighbours are really going to enjoy.

Perhaps this post does feature a little touch of knob head after all.