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Working It. My Life in Paycheques.

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You want a hot body? (well a relatively non-flabby one) You want a Bugatti? (had to Google that, it's a car)
You want a Maserati? (no, I hate driving) You better work b**ch (agreed)
You want a Lamborghini? (no, I repeat, I hate driving) Sippin' martinis? (vodka sodas, but ok)
Look hot in a bikini? (I'd accept not terrible in a bikini) You better work b**ch
You wanna live fancy? (always) Live in a big mansion? (I'm okay with my pretty townhouse, but I get your point)
Party in France? (haven't done that but I have sipped wine in Mexico, Costa Rica, Argentina, Uruguay, the Caribbean, Austin, New York City, Washington DC, Miami, Vancouver, Toronto, Calgary, Winnipeg, Montreal and so on)
You better work b**ch, you better work b**ch
You better work b**ch, you better work b**ch
Now get to work b**ch!

---The every-brilliant Ms Spears

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Vampires & Britney Aren't for You (and that's ok)

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Not everything is for you.

And just because it’s not, doesn’t make it bad or silly or worse than the thing you like

Like, if you don’t like vampires, get over it. Don’t watch VD (Vampire Diaries! Not an out-of-date way of saying STI) … well certainly don’t watch it now because it’s kind of terrible. 

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What You Want Doesn’t Matter

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Everyone’s the star of their own show.

Trust me, every ‘trying to make myself stop thinking about work problems and fall back to sleep at 3am’ daydream scenario involves me – THE STAR – telling hilarious jokes to George Clooney and Brad Pitt as we dine on sushi. At no point does either one of the ACTUAL STARS take over the conversation.

Similarly, although yes, I do care about my colleagues, my professional development meetings and reviews are about ME, ME, ME. I want to talk about the training I hope and dream for, what I need to do better. ME, ME, ME, ME.

Plato, Politics & A Plea for Liberal Arts

As a student of the Foundation Year Programme (FYP) and Journalism school, I spent my days reading and discussing philosophy in small groups, guided by passionate tutors. I handed in papers every 10 days and saw the bulk of my grade come down to how well I could defend my thoughts in front of a group of intimidatingly folk wearing a lot of tweed.  

In theory, I should be jobless … right?

Does This Photo Make My Brain Look Fat?

February 28th, 2016. That's the last time I put any effort at all into this site. If you care ... apologies. If not, you never missed me anyway and you're probably not reading this and if a tree falls and so on and so forth.

But as 2017 is almost upon us, I find myself sucking the last of the dark chocolate off the last chocolate covered almond and making myself all kinds of promises.

I promise to stop eating chocolate covered almonds.

I promise to try one thing I have no natural aptitude for.

I promise to take my dog for longer walks.

I promise to think less about clothes; those I have, those I want and those that once were.

And I promise to write weekly. You'll find these thoughts here, most likely on Wednesdays, because Wednesdays are ridiculous, so let's add to the fray.

From the InstaGrams

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