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Eris Day

February 14, 2018 1:40pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 21 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You…

Rather full up from yesterday’s pancake day where you force fed yourself batter and are now suffering from some sort of gluttonous intolerance, and now it’s Ash Wednesday which means you have to repent not only to God but also to your partner because it’s also Valentine’s Day and you got it wrong. Again.

Thank Goodness For Whimsy On A Wednesday!

You’re welcome.

I hope most of you are floating on that newfound fuzzy feeling of lurrrve, be it rekindled or in that heady first flush stage. Make the most of it because my prediction is that 79.9% of you are perhaps a little bit slighted or bewildered as to what went wrong on V Day.

Allow me to enlighten you as practising mentalist of the blogosphere.

Let’s just start with the premise that logic and emotion don’t usually work well together. AKA women are psycho’s and men are indifferent.


First Love

You think you can’t go wrong. Mistake.

You’re likely to go over the top with excessive gifts and now you’ve set a precedent. This means if you stay together that you are bound to fail because if you don’t maintain or surpass the previous year’s show of emotion, you’re toast.

Or…

You purchase a simple card and a bunch of flowers. Nice. Wrong. Whilst she may exude kisses and thanks because she’s in the first throes of romance, her inner psycho bitch is evaluating you for future reference.

*The card could have been a bit more romantic.

*Flowers were nice but full of ‘fillers’ to pad out the not so many roses. Hmm. If this is his first attempt is he really boyfriend material? Doesn’t bode well for the future, does it now.

You are now being assessed like a new dress bought on impulse. It stays in the wardrobe being looked at. It’s nice, she likes it; that’s why she bought it. However, hmmm… there’s something not quite right about it. She can’t quite put her finger on what that is. She will pull it out of the closet and hold it up against herself every now and then. Just to check. One day, in a fit of temper she will toss the dress into a bag and give it to charity without a second thought.

Take heed, guys.

The Bloom Is Off The Rose

You’re together. An item. There’s been peaks and troughs but on the whole, you’re trying to make a go of it. Along comes the day of love.

Inner psycho bitch is already ten steps ahead of the game. For goodness sake don’t mess up, boy.

Worst case scenario? You forget. She has waited all day for some surprise gift and her angst has been building to the point where magma is close to exploding. What you don’t know is that she has had to witness her colleagues in the office turning into prissy little princesses that make her want to vomit as they fawn over their ginormous, delivered bouquets. It doesn’t matter that she knows that Karen’s boyfriend recently had a one night stand with the tart from marketing because she still got flowers.

She awaits your arrival home trying not to be frosty but it’s an inbuilt female defence system, and all she gets is you coming through the door stating that you’re tired and does she fancy a takeaway curry?

Whilst she promised herself she wouldn’t mention it, she can’t help it and the lava spurts out like a torrent of evil.

The worst thing a man can say? “I don’t believe in this commercial crap. I love you every day not just on Valentine’s Day.”

This line does not, repeat NOT, work on women. You see, it is irrelevant that you love her every day because that should be a given. This was the day that you should have proved it by acknowledging the fact regardless of the commercial pressure. Now she doesn’t believe you love her enough and you can shove the curry up your arse because she is going to bed in a full-on chastity fleece pyjama set and the pillows down the middle of the bed. Here she will stay fuming whilst re-reading Fifty Shades of Gray bollocks and believe that other men are just like Christian and you are a pathetic waste of her breathing space.

You will have to console yourself with a Pot Noodle, Star Trek re-runs and a quiet night to yourself.  She thinks this is punishment but this is actually the best night in you’ve had for six weeks.

NB: Even if you are upfront about not celebrating Valentine’s Day before the first one even comes along, don’t be fooled by the female nod of agreement and coy smile. Her inner psycho bitch has already planted the notion that, “If you’re THE ONE he will throw this silly principle to one side and shower you with gifts and affection, obviously…”

Damage Limitation

Does not exist in the Valentine’s scenario. If you think you can make it up to her the next day you are sorely mistaken. It’s too late. Even if you sent the worlds most beautiful bouquet by way of apology she will just want to rip the heads off all the flowers because she hates you. It didn’t help that you slept soundly next to her snoring your head off last night whilst she lay awake plotting ways to kill you.

However, if you don’t send flowers by way of apology the next day then you really are sleeping with your secretary.

Either way, you cannot win.

Don’t be surprised to come home to find her dressed to the nines, cooly stating that she’s going out with her friends. This is female code for “Look and weep you total toss pot because somebody out there will pay attention to me if you can’t be bothered to.”

If Love Is Like Wine Then Marriage Is Like Vinegar

You’ve been together for years. Like a pair of comfortable old slippers. The companionship, whilst somewhat staid and predictable, offers a warmth and security. You know where you are; like Groundhog Day.

She wonders what happened to romance and you wonder what happened to that svelte like nymph that used to have you rocking on your heels. If you ever asked her that she would remind you that you killed it.

Valentine’s Day may be celebrated in a passive-aggressive fashion with a sarcastic card or a bunch of flowers from Asda, cunningly purchased the day before when they were half the price. She’ll make a show of putting them in a vase, somewhere in the back of the kitchen where they don’t mess with the decor that you’ve spent your whole life’s wages perfecting in your now perfect house where joy reigns.

She’s given up on expecting any grand show of wild emotion and you’ve given up on naked dancing with benefits. At a push, you might both share a meal out but be back in time for you to watch Wonder Woman and her to stalk her ex-boyfriends on Facebook.

Don’t worry though, it is Ash Wednesday so starving yourself of emotion is a noble sacrifice!

Happy Whimsy!

A Very Hairy Experience

February 7, 2018 2:26pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 30 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

The lady in the post office has a beard and a tash.

Just let me run that by you again.

The lady in the post office has a beard and a tash.

Now I know it doesn’t matter what people look like because looks are transient. I’m a big advocate of this and can prove it by showing you some of the troglodytes I’ve dated in my time. What is important is a person’s mind, heart, and soul.

But….

You Can’t Do Comedy With A Beard

When confronted with a female and her beard it really does test your character. Quite obviously, my character is severely flawed. Far worse than I first thought.

My initial reaction, aside from trying not to stare, was to subconsciously run my hand over my chin. Recognising, a few seconds in, that this was the most stupidly obvious thing I could have done, I began to make over the top full face rubs whilst pulling a quizzical look as if to suggest I might have some sort of dermatological issue and WAS NOT thinking about her beard.

At the very same time, I am being filled with shame and embarrassment at my behaviour which, let me tell you, always renders me imbecilic. I already know at this point that everything is going to go tits up.

I tried to calm myself and stared intently into her eyes like some sort of demonic fruitcake as she asked how she could help me.

Oh dear Lord, where do I start?

I thoroughly hated eBay in the first place but now I’m silently scorning it inside my head because I have 17 parcels of this exchange to get through before I leave.

I placed my first parcel on the weighing machine and felt the beads of perspiration tickle my upper lip from my guilt-ridden hot flush. No. Please no. It tickled insanely but if I go to rub it she will think I’m doing sign language for “Nice tash.”

She asks me for a second time where the parcel is going.

“Australia,” I manage at the same time my eye muscles start to act involuntarily and drift to the long and wavy hairs on her chinny-chin-chin and I marvel at how they dance as she talks.

Damn, she’s talking! What the hell is wrong with me?

“Pardon?”

“Hairmail?” she asks.

No. I didn’t mishear her. I promise. She absolutely said that.

I squirm, nervously on the spot and look into her deep-set eyes. I notice the monobrow. I hate myself. This is secondary to the tash and beard, but still. She may have more of an issue with that, for all I know.

“Yes, H…h…airmail is great.”

As I placed the second parcel on the machine I noticed how hairy her fingers were.

I am being served by a werewolf.

Bard Of Beard

Being ever the storyteller I couldn’t  help but invent some tale in my head about this woman. I mean, there’s gotta be one hell of a story behind a lady who stands in the post office publicly serving the people of this working-class town where they call a spade a spade. That can’t be easy.

I fiddled with my iPhone as she stuck labels to my packages and imagined her being the secret flesh-eating demon of the town, and for every kill she makes she grows another hair on her face. I wonder if I could surreptitiously take a sneak pic of her as I wait, to show my pal at the pub later and then berate myself for even considering this atrocious notion. I make deals with God in my head and vow to be a better person.

Perhaps I could interview her? I think. I’ve interviewed lots of people before and maybe her story will release inner turmoil and bleed the hardened hearts of the piss takers. I could call the article “In the Hirsute of Happiness”

“Where to?! She snaps me out of my reverie.

“Oh, sorry. That one first class to hair..to Ha…to Hereford. All of a sudden I am talking like some tosser from “Made In Chelsea.”

I need help. I should be banished from the area. Forever. I deserve it.

In an attempt to control myself I decided to look to the right and focus on some of the shop’s merchandise. My eyes fell instantly on the special, BOGOF tins of WHISKERS cat food.

ARRRRGH! Somebody make it stop!

I am totally cursed.

Talking of curses…

Don’t Take The Coat Off Another Man’s Back

One of my eBay packages was a coat I sold that didn’t belong to me. In all fairness, I didn’t actually steal it.

At the beginning of spring last year I took my winter coats to the dry cleaners. I picked them up a few days later all covered in polythene and shoved them into my wardrobe. When winter arrived in late October, I took them out and unwrapped them only to find I was in the possession of an extra coat that didn’t belong to me. Oops. Well, it wasn’t my fault, it was theirs!

I rang the dry cleaner and told them. They didn’t care and said the person would since have been compensated and I should have told them at the time. I object to that kind of remark and will never use that dry cleaners again. The least they could have done is gifted me with a decent coat and not the one I had which, whilst it was a nice wool blended overcoat, would be better suited to a funeral director.

So, I decided to flog it. On eBay. For the measly sum of £8.00 plus package and posting. Lizzie Dripping purchased it and I sent it off thinking that for once, Karma had smiled on me.

Two days later I get an angry message in my eBay inbox.

“This is a man’s coat and not a woman’s. I wish to return it.”

Personally, I couldn’t tell if it was for a male or female as I studied my pictorial entry in the sold section.

“Well, it’s a size 8,” I replied. “I don’t know many males of that size myself – not one that you’d call a man, anyway. However, I’ve fully refunded you via PayPal. Sorry for your dreadful inconvenience.”

I left it at that. Thanks, Karma. I’m now out of pocket on a bloody coat that wasn’t even mine. That’ll teach me.

A couple of days later I received a message from her saying that she wanted to send it back. Why?

I told her to keep it. A gift from me. Wear it for gardening or give it a friend. Donate it to charity, whatevs.

“I’ll send it back to your local post office,” she threatened.

“NO! NOOOO.. Please no!”

Phew. That was a close shave. Anyone want a coat?

Mozzies, Mouth Play And Motors

January 31, 2018 9:44pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 20 Comments

Mozzies

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

I only went and bloody forgot it was Wednesday! You nearly lucked out there, kiddos’. I don’t have a lot to talk about so I’ll keep it short.

 

If I Were A Meal I’d Be A Taste The Difference Gourmet Dinner

Mosquito cure

In my extensive research into how to irradicate mosquitoes, it has come to my attention that it’s all my fault. Scientists have found that this hateful little insect takes a liking to those with appealing smells. And remembers them. Hmmm. So, despite covering myself with Jungle formula DEET and other nefarious, life-shortening concoctions, my natural sillage seeps through and sends them into a feeding frenzy. Brilliant. The only other action I can take, (viz. the article) is to run around spinning my arms like a whirling dervish. That should add a new kind of flavour to my quirky street cred.

The problem is, I can’t see or hear the little blighters and have no idea when they are biting me until after the event when I look like a kid’s dot-to-dot book. The one and only time I do hear them is when I turn off the light to go to sleep and their irritating, squeaky buzz alerts me to the fact one or more are in the room. Naturally, when I turn the light on to hunt the little bastard down, it is nowhere to be found. This fun game can go on for hours.

The joy de vivre experienced on my travelling adventures is constantly hampered by me surviving on a medical cocktail of margaritas and Benadryl.

I HATE THEM. If wasn’t so precious about what I put in my mouth I’d eat them.

 

Talking Of The Mouth….

In a coffee shop t’other day I met an old friend of mine that I’d not seen for a few months because I caught the dreadful lurgy from the great unwashed and couldn’t, nor daren’t, go out for several weeks. We sat chatting about this and that and then she said to me,

“Hurgy-burgy-blah-de-blah-de-such-and-such”

“Come again?” I said.

“Hippoptamus-ee-aww-blah-blah-dee-daa.”

“Are you having a stroke? Is the caffeine a little too much? Maybe you’d like a lemonade?”

“Have you not heard of that word?”

“Nope. It’s not a word.”

“Yes, it is. What’s the longest word you know?” she asked.

“You-Are-Really-Irritating-Me-And-We-Can’t-Be-Friends-Anymore.”

“Ha Ha. Seriously, what is it?”

“Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch”, I replied.

She wiped the spit off her face and said, “That’s not a word.”

“Yes, it is. That is a town in Wales, which is all you need to know about the Welsh. It stands for ‘St. Mary’s church in the hollow of the white hazel near to the fierce whirlpool of St Tysilio of the red cave.’

“How the hell do you know that?”

“My mother was Joan Crawford’s sister and found great enjoyment in taking me on trips where I would have to learn something and then go home and write an essay on it. I used to really look forward to those sunny weekends when I’d get a chance to go out with the parental front in an “Oh I could wet myself with joy!’ kind of way. My mother made me learn that town name and spell it when we went there on holiday. I’ve never forgotten it and it comes in useful at parties if I want to get rid of someone.

“Oh..”

“Well, what does your word mean?”

“Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia. It means fear of long words!”

*Crickets. Blank stare. Sigh*

Which bright spark actually thought of that? I don’t know whether to hate them or find them incredibly, cynically genius.

 

Talking Of Genius…

 

Bullet keyring

I made that for my friend’s husband when invited to his surprise birthday bash last weekend.

“You’re the only person who has got one of those in this country,” I said. “That’s spent ammo all the way from America and I could have been seriously violated at Heathrow Airport for bringing that back. You better use it!”

Personally, I feel like sending that picture to Audi and saying, “How about that for a bit of ‘Vorsprung Durch Technik’.

Total class.

Turning Japanese

January 24, 2018 3:54pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 31 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

You want to be thankful I’m here today because I very nearly drowned. It is lashing down with rain so hard that my windscreen wipers cannot swish fast enough. This is not conducive to staying alive on country roads that are fast turning into lakes. All of a sudden I drove over a dodgy grating and a tsunami of brown water enveloped my car. I couldn’t see a bloody thing for ages; not even the ponce in front of me in the Audi R8. It could have ended in tears but just before I went into his rear end, my vision came back. I’m going to have a chat with the local council today because you can bet your life that the speed cameras are still working but the grates are not.

Talking of Manhole Covers…

It is well known amongst this community that I am a fan of taking photographs of doors and manhole covers. It has often seemed strange to many people but I’m not bovvvered. The other day, fellow blogger and Brit pal, Masher sent me an email with a link telling me I needed to hot foot it to Japan with my camera. Masher often takes the piss out of me for photographing manhole covers but I always knew they had a future as objets d’art and now I have a new reason to travel further afield!

These people have really got their shit together making elaborate and beautiful manhole covers so their streets have no ugliness.  You can’t poo-poo that!- check it out.

Please do not refer to me as a manholer as it sounds particularly deviant and we all know I’m not.

I’ve always been fascinated by the Japanese. My recent sock drawer phenomenon and tidying up ritual was invented by a Japanese girl. The way this chick folds things up is like a work of art.

They are all so pretty and tiny and neat and tidy like little dolls as opposed to tall, clumsy, and chaotic like me. I’m not jealous or anything.

日本語

Their writing is both mental and beautiful. That’s one of the things I like about the Japanese but here’s some more:

Tipping is offensive. This I like. If my dinner is a tenner then I know where I am. After a full belly of fine fodder, I can’t be arsed to add 15-20% onto my bill and then have to deal with the petulant waiter who has a face like a smacked arse because he was expecting more.

They make drinking tea a special event. Nice. This experience is on my bucket list. I am going to take my Tetley tea bags to the Geisha girls and see if it tastes better when they make it up. This will be my Japanese version of twisted wine tasting.

They have Samurai’s. Nuff said.

Japanese hold very odd parties throughout the year, like Fukusasa and Bonenkairead into that what you will. And let’s not forget bean throwing. Uh huh. This is where Japanese parents deliberately scare the crap out of their kids by wearing scary masks and their offspring throw soybeans at them. They call it bonding.

Bit tired at work? No problem. Public napping is ALLOWED. Get your head down and have a kip, love. I’m a big fan of this idea and have transported two sofas into my office to accommodate this wisdomous work ethic. I think it might catch on.

Shake hands? No.  None of that malarkey with the great unwashed. They prefer to bow to you. Very respectful though I reckon physio’s over there are on a pigs back.

Christmas dinner. Everyone’s favourite, right ? However, turkeys are hard to find in Japan so for them to get a gobbler on at Christmas, the nearest they’ve got to compete is KFC. Off they trudge in their droves to this fried chicken franchise on Christmas Eve to feast merrily on a family bucket. Naturally, KFC are very supportive of this.

 

The Onna Prima-donna

I once had a Japanese student stay at my house for six weeks. Accommodating foreign students can bring a wealth of culture into your home and make for long-lasting friends. Or, sometimes it can be the longest six weeks of your life. I once had a Chinese man boil eggs in my kettle and bring the cops to my door because he was taking pictures of kids at the park. Not in a ‘fiddly Dave’ kind of way but just because the Chinese like children and taking photographs of everything. Despite me telling him several times not to do this he continued and had the local parents burning torches and forming a posse. But that’s another story.

When I was asked by the city’s university if I’d take a very rich and well to do Japanese girl into my care, I jumped at the chance of learning to be a delicate flower and making my feet smaller. I went to fetch her from the airport and found that she came with a chaperone.

‘Blimey, she is well to do,’ I thought – though I wasn’t expecting two for the price of one and got the university on speed dial sharpish. Turns out it was just her mother who had flown all the way to London with her because she was scared of flying. Bless. Mum had to fly back to Japan the very next day.  When mum went to leave, my little student just nodded and walked off.

Well, hold on a minute, petal! This woman is flying all the way round the flippin’ world to accommodate your issues and has no doubt paid thousands of Yen to have you study proper British English in the Land of Hope and Glory!

“Give your mother a kiss and a hug goodbye, missy!” I said.

“No. We don’t do,” she replied stoically.

Well, she was a bundle of warm and cuddly let me tell you. I don’t think I’ve ever met such a cold and miserable person in all my life.  And even though I found being bowed to for six weeks rather fabulous, not gonna lie,  and the fact she had different slippers for every room entertaining, she slurped her dinner down like a starving vagabond in a soup kitchen. I cleverly started giving her money for KFC instead because smacking your lips and dribbling at my dinner table ends in violence.

All fur coat and no knickers, as we say in England.

Cock Robin

January 17, 2018 2:39pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 22 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing you Whimsy On A Wednesday!

People say that the best form of defence for your home is a dog. Mans faithful friend is the first to raise the alarm when something is awry. They’re loyal, protective and wouldn’t think twice about taking a chunk out of an intruder. A few weeks ago I would have agreed with this but not anymore.

After placing a bird table and seed feeder in my garden to combat the hysteria in the wisteria last year, I have now created a flocking lot of trouble. All sorts of birds come to my pad to fill themselves up on a variety of “taste the difference” seeds. I have gone to the trouble of making dining at mine a bit of a gastronomic affair. I offer a variety of seeds and nuts which I layer in my feeder like a Rothko painting in order that the birds won’t get bored eating the same thing; it also looks pretty – like the seed version of a mocha chocca latte.

The result is a testament to my ingenuity, bringing along a myriad of beautiful birds to feast at my five-star garden restaurant.

Right up until my new pet arrived…

Robin And His Merry Malice

Allow me to introduce you to my new guard bird – Little Robin Redbreast:

Isn’t he adorable? No. No, he’s not. In fact, he’s proper nasty.

I’m assuming his territorial behaviour is due to wanting to breed somewhere in my garden. This is somewhat alarming as I recently read that robins will nest almost anywhere. Recorded nest sites include plant pots, a pigeonhole in a desk, the engine of a WWII plane, and in the body of a dead cat. Charming.

At first sight, my little red-breasted friend looks like a picture-perfect specimen: he sits in my tree at the back of the garden singing his little head off from dawn till dusk. How beautiful. Nature at its finest.

However, what’s really happening is he’s surveying the garden like a predator. What you think is melodic birdsong is actually thuggish and aggressive cursing in bird lingo threatening other feathered friends of his intent should they put a feather wrong.

If some other bird dares to come and feast or stop for a break on his cherry tree, he has ‘em. I’ve seen him dive out from his branch and chase them off.  He will dart like an arrow across the garden and slam them into the clematis whilst screeching like a banshee at the same time. My robin is so fast that he nearly had my eye out last week when he went after a blue tit.

See this harmless little sparrow having a chance feed? That was a mistake. He now has a skull cavity and a bald patch.

 

Witness this serene, female blackbird pausing for a bit of a drink. She now has missing tail feathers and has never been seen again. Probably can’t fly due to losing her tail fin and likely falls to the ground like a dart.

Reap What You Sew

I haven’t managed to get any tit photos (don’t even go there) because they are on and off the bird feeder faster than the speed of light, they’re so petrified. And the now grown up baby pigeon that started all this malarkey wanders around oblivious to all this and still feeds on the floor like the village idiot of birds. All because of last summers pigeon fiasco I have to contend with a gladiatorial aviary in my garden.

In order to create balance and harmony in the ghetto, I decided to buy more bird feeders. My logic being that if there was plenty to go around, my ferocious little robin might calm down and learn to share. I hung them in various places all over the garden as he watched from his tree. I even made him some butter and suet seed balls *Plat du jour* and put them on his bird table, because naturally he’s laid claim to that, and he swooped down and ate them. I felt sure that peace would reign.

Fail.

Now he just darts around the garden like a bloody bullet covering each and every feeding station and I’m going to have to buy a crash helmet if I want to remain intact.

My advice? Don’t feed the birds.

Knock Your Socks Off!

January 10, 2018 12:05am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 26 Comments

Missing Sock

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

So, how’s your New Year going? Are you washed clean of your vices? Is dry January a revelation? Are you a better person than you were a week ago? Yeah…same here.

Read Your Way To A Better You

I got bought a couple of surprise books for Christmas. Proper books with paper pages and everything. I have a Kindle now but these people saw fit to buy me real books. I liked that. I found it interesting to see what my gift givers thought I should be learning. I wonder what made them think, “I must buy that for Jules!” as the title shouted out to them from the bookshelf.

English - Ben Fogle

English – By Ben Fogle – A Story Of Marmite, Queuing And Weather.

I can see why this was purchased for yours truly. Anything with Marmite in works for me. I also hate queuing and rain as mentioned in my bio. I can see that this book is meant to be in my hands. Not so sure about Ben Fogle as he’s a bit of a pretentious fop, but being a polite and proud Englishman and writing about mad English stuff gives him a pass right now. Besides, there’s something in this book about the existence of Marmite historians which I can fascinate you with in the future.

I also received this:

The Life Changing Magic Of...

The Life-Changing Magic Of Not Giving A F**K – By Sarah Knight

I’m pretty sure I should have written this rather than be reading it but, turns out, that a lot of the time we DO give a F…when we shouldn’t. There’s only so many F’s one can give in our F budget and these have to be used wisely. The time and energy freed up by not giving a flying F is worth it.

In this book, the author mentions another book called “The Life-Changing Magic Of Tidying Up,”( that’s right – roll on the back of the wagon of success achieved by another) and how this best selling book changed her life. And, everyone else who has read it hence it being a best seller.Changed it. And her husband’s. How?  By simply sorting out one’s sock drawer.  Who knew?

Forget New Year’s resolutions and just buy this book. Apparently, sorting out your socks is intrinsic to self-realisation and can drastically enhance your future possibilities. I immediately downloaded this book on my friend ‘The Kindle’ because anyone who can become rich by writing about something we all know how to do both irritates and fascinates me. It makes me realise that I simply must write a snarky and realistic self-help book as this stuff is the new medicine.

The Day I Became A Feng Shui-ist

This is a story all on its own because my journey on this road was so out of my comfort zone it’s hilarious. However, once upon a time, I decided to learn the Chinese art of Feng Shui because it had just started to get attention. Since I wrote about interiors for a magazine I thought it would be a nice addition. Plus, I recognised this esoterica had £££ written all over it.

Off I went to Feng Shui school every weekend for a year studying the I Ching, the elements, the compass, the Bagua, the Phoenix and Dragon and harnessing beneficial chi. I pretty much scorned everybody on the course because they were freaky, tree-hugging hippies that ate bean stew and scared me. I made one lifelong friend out of it though who only came to talk to me because I had such a fabulous resting bitch face.

Turns out I was right about this furniture moving phenomenon and at the time (the short time it became insanely popular and died just as quickly) ended up making a lot of money advising rich people, hotel chains and businesses on how to improve their health, wealth and happiness. I even ended up becoming an FS guru for a local rag answering questions like a new age agony aunt. Furthermore, I was asked to run a weekly, evening college course on the subject where great academics would come and listen to me spouting off about the benefits of a blue coloured, north facing office. Having economics lecturers from the local University furiously writing down my wisdomous advice was a sight to behold.

The Ripple Effect Of A Gifted Book

Receiving these surprise books has taken me on a magical short journey to enlightenment.

English peculiarity has always been of interest to people, it still fascinates me and I live here! Ben Fogle’s book has made me realise I should not take this gift for granted.

The book about not giving a F**k  has driven me to be more precious about my time and energy and in turn, led me to another best seller on tidying up. The art of clearing one’s space reminded me of how I became momentarily wealthy making others wealthy through the art of free moving, healthy chi.

See how this all connected? Mystical…

I have ended up at my Eureka moment in just the second week of January and here is my conclusion: People always have and always will buy into arcane and self-help methodology and what with this seemingly increasingly anxiety-ridden world, it would be rude of me not to be of assistance. I have the accidental life coach experience, a modicum of talent, the strength to support my fellow man, the courage to tell it how it is, and the narcissistic self-belief that I am simply the best person around to write the only self-help help book people will ever need.

And all because I got a couple of books for Christmas? Wrong! It’s all because I cleaned my sock drawer.

P.S: Please send me socks as I don’t have many left. Not kidding. If you have my address send them now, if not, inbox me and I will furnish you with my details.

Now is not the time for cold feet.

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