I feel I’ve got stuck in some almighty, emotionally fuelled dead end. Last week when I was all “Yeah, I’m fucking blogging again!” I really, truly believed it was there but it appears my bravado fizzled out as soon as I stabbed my finger on Publish and sent my post raged by Costa caramel latte out into the ether.

Stuff that’s been going on recently has made me realise I need to pay proper attention to real life rather than uttering a half-arsed “Just a minute…” with my face buried in my phone or laptop when I’m actually more concerned by the fact that my Klout score has gone down by a point or I haven’t replied to an email immediately.

Blogging ain’t as effortless as it may appear. Unfortunately words don’t just simply fall off your fingers and materialise on a screen, perfectly formatted into snappy paragraphs, just bursting with mind-blowing content that will stick to reader’s brains like glue.

Nor do good photos just happen, even sort of alright, passable photos don’t just happen. They rarely, if ever, fall into your lap while you’re sat at your desk, in three day old leggings, furiously just trying to finish this one last post.

And inspiration soon dries up once the caffeine rollercoaster ends, the sugar rush fades and your confidence evaporates along with it. Poof goes the heady, inflated inspiration. In comes the self doubt, the self loathing, the mental self-flagellation. Staring at screens. Typing. Deleting. Typing. Deleting again.

Once you’ve skimmed the surface for subject matter, you soon realise there’s not an awful lot left to choose from underneath. And yeah, you can still write stuff if you force it, but it’s not what you wanna write or what you feel good writing. I could write about taking Noah to the woods at the weekend or the scary psychiatrist at the private hospital – but really, who the fuck cares? If I don’t, how can I expect anyone else to?

While I’m lost in this cul-de-sac, all I’ve got is the same thing following me around. Depression and doubt. I’m completely bored with how I feel so I think it’s fair to say I’ve come up with all the inventive ways there are to say that I feel like shit, that I’m struggling and I’d quite happily not wake up tomorrow. Cos that’s all there is, on constant repeat in my head, again and again like the fucking Tetris theme tune only more soul destroying. Everything I do manage to sort of feel or half-think seems like deja vu.

I’ve been wondering if it’s all worth it for the end result, whether I’m getting what I used to out of it, and the answer is I honestly don’t know. All I do know is that all the medication coursing through my veins has changed something in me, all the drama has changed what’s important and I don’t know when the balance will return.

The thing with having a “break” is, when you think you think you should be all energised and full of stuff to say after a week or two, you kind of realise you enjoy the peace. That no one’s really noticed you’ve gone anyway and the pressure to perform like a monkey on a typewriter abates somewhat.

So yeah, I have no idea what the point of this exercise was, but I’ve said it and maybe now I can find another way out of this dead end.

All the Small Things

My eyeballs are broken. They simply refuse to work without my strong, stupidly obnoxious glasses that seemed like such a fantastic idea at the time of purchase. This affliction is definitely not aided by reading thousands and thousands of tiny pixelated words upon various screens every single day. Usually in the dark. Always when I’m exhausted and forget to wear said glasses. Obvs.

This results in a mighty ball of pain and misery radiating somewhere in my skull behind my right eye.


Whilst attending a blog conference last November, I did what any self respecting Essex girl would do on her first day out sans-child in six months and ended up violently vomming in the loos by the end of the day. Not due to the jolly cocktails expertly shaken by somewhat terrified looking twenty-something men dressed as lifeguards faced with a room full 200 women, heady from the fumes of free booze, freedom and being within close proximity to Richard Bacon.

More to do with staring at a bloody massive projector screen all day, so luminous it was bordering the realms of neon, reading tweets by people I was sitting in a room with. Of course I forgot to take my glasses with me. I tried not to look, honestly I did. I found myself intensely squinting at the panel on the stage, trying to look deep in thought, but my eyes kept being pulled back to the fucking massive glowing elephant in the room and it was Poltergeist all over again. Once I went towards the light all that could bring me back was evacuating my stomach contents and leaning my head against the cool, cubicle partition walls for half an hour.


This seeing thing is right high maintenance, innit?

First you’ve got to have a tracking device on the things at all times, or else they end up in the bread bin or in Alvin and the Chipmunks – The Squeakquel  DVD case. Next, you need to duct tape them to your face. And then, you need to clean them. A lot.

Suffice to say, I don’t do any of this. The glasses get re-homed to the bread bin by evil, prankster pixies for weeks at a time. And when I do find them, they’re so filthy I’m worse off than I was without them.

The past week has whispered past me in a blur of punch-drunk, medicated vacancy. I’m floating through everything in a state of nightmarish dreamyness, nothing seemingly real. When I’m desperately trying to concentrate on anything for longer than two minutes, whether I want it to or not, my head just keeps floating along. It’s a bit inconvenient tbh.

And during yet another spell of the headache of doom yesterday, I aggressively polished my glasses on my sleeve, expecting them to be a smeary mess when I stuck them on my head and hurriedly left to pick up the Bean from school without giving them another thought.

As I walked, there was a moment. A brief spell of clarity, the sun came out from behind the blackout blind of thick cloud and suddenly I was thrown into a Hi-Def world and it was fucking amazing for the five minutes it lasted. I mean, yeah, the ground was still sodden from the unrelenting rain and all I could smell was fox piss, but I could see, and I felt like I was actually here for five minutes.

If you’d like to link up your own All the Small Things post, please feel free to add your URL to the thingy below and spread a bit of love around amongst yourselves for me. You can also add the badge below if you fancy it and read what it’s all about here.

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This post was going to come with a trigger warning, but then my head went on a tangent about how using the word trigger as a warning, a safe word if you will, for people who are likely to tread beyond the line of OK stuff to think about, is possibly not very well thought outYa know, a word synonymous with guns and dangerous stuff. A cross on the door, do not pass, suggestive stuff awaits. People who come up with names and words and meanings, try harder, this one definitely needs some work.

So… Yeah. That thing which means this isn’t suitable if you’re a in a bit of low mood. Whether it’s in the mentally ill sense or you’ve just found your washing machine pissing water all over the kitchen floor etc, maybe go to Google and type in funny cats. Or pugs. Pugs are the new funny cats, right?

Anyway, on with what actually got me out of bed to write at 2am.

I’ve been laying low on the old blog front. The social media front – can I just say I hate that term, like, really loathe it? – The typing shit into boxes with 140 characters front, the taking photos of my breakfast / cat / dancing child front. All fronts essentially. It’s been massively, stupidly frustrating. And it’s taken me months, yes actual months to work out what the fuck is up with me. In that sense I mean obvs, I’m still not entirely sure what is generally wrong with me.

Truth is, a year ago when I started pouring out this stuff that’s been polluting my head for so long, I wasn’t speaking to anyone. The world beyond my publish button was nameless and faceless other than some edited, anonymous-ish avatars and alter egos mostly containing the word Mummy in some form or other. I didn’t know anyone, I didn’t think I ever would know anyone from this so I could go about my depressive ways, spout some shit that had been clogging up the main frame and continue and no one would be any the wiser.

I was like a Banksy of blogging, yo.

Only totally unknown. Uber skint. And I’m fairly certain that the smell of spray paint makes me vomitous.

Look, that worked in my head, OK?

Fast forward a little and somehow, almost in spite of myself, I appear to have actually made some friends through this strange life I made on the internet through blind frustration and loneliness. This blog isn’t anonymous anymore, and for fear of making people worry, upsetting someone with speak of ugly depression stuff, the suicidalness and Lord knows what else I can verbally throw up when I’ve overdosed on coffee. Where I’d protect my family from this stuff, I’d run to these blank white pages to get it the fuck out, I’m now kind of in the same position again.

And yes, my head isn’t a pillar of rationality or sense. I appreciate I can be blowing this past the bounds of proportion. And there’s a huge arse positive in amongst this. I do see that. I truly do, it’s way way out of my comprehension to understand it fully, but I know it’s a good thing.

It’s akin to where you’d put on a brave face for the postman, or your neighbour, or fuck it, anyone, the glazed smile, the Oh yeah, I’m fine and the drawn breath, the time standing still as you wish, hope and pray they don’t see what you’re desperately trying to camouflage with teeth and a chirpy tone of voice.

I feel I’ve been doing that online. And if I can’t force it anymore, I’ll shrink away for a day or a week until I can force it a little bit more.

In a meandering, round the houses way, what I’m getting at is, I suppose this is a disclaimer for the stuff I need to start saying again. That I’m fine, that I won’t be putting my head in the oven – scrap that – my oven is totally broken and my head won’t fit in the toaster, I just checked,  so it’s all good seriously.

I need to drop the façade and take it back to the old skool. Or the erm, ya know, mental health unit.


Number of blog posts published – 226

Number of views – Pffft, we’re above that, ain’t we? Enough, anyway.

Number of times I’ve written the word fuck – infinite.

Number of blog induced wobbles, including the one I’m in the middle of now – 73.

Number of years old my blog is – 1.

Yep, it’s my blog’s birthday today. I seriously didn’t think this day would come, where I could say I’ve been blogging for an entire year. It may not sound much to the more sane or dedicated lot of you, but I have a slight quitting disposition, I flirt with things, I go in all guns blazing and battle cries and then I lose all my fight, before wandering off to try something else.

Believe me, my heads tried to convince me many, many times that this blog isn’t working, that I’m no good at it, that I’m not doing enough of it. Everytime finalists for some blogging award pops up, every month when the TOTs 100 ranks are released, or when one of my posts doesn’t do so well, ya know. All the fucking time actually.

I think I’ve very gradually got to a place where I’m not checking my stats hourly however, ha, who am I kidding, I used to do way more than that, frantically pressing refresh every five minutes, growing more and more fevered and despondent when I don’t see the numbers on the little graph sky rocketing.

Everyone does that, right?


I no longer keep track of the numbers, the followers, the comments or views. Not because I don’t care, I’d totally be lying out of my arse if I said that, just simply because they’re not why I do this. They’re not the reason why I sit down at my dining room table each and every single night as soon as my son is asleep to type hundreds of words at a time until my eyes hurt and become convinced I’ve spelt the word “are” wrong. They’re not the reason that instead of my incessant monotone black dog endlessly narrating from my skull, everything I do , have done or will do, I also have another voice in there too, a happier one, well, normally. One that thinks of things to write, funny ways to say things and comes up with ideas out of nowhere. The numbers aren’t the reason I get comments and emails thanking me for spouting out the contents of my grey matter and being honest about depression. The numbers aren’t the reason why I’ve made so, so many fucking wonderfully epic friends in the last year. Where somehow, for the first time ever I feel accepted and welcome, where it’s OK for me to say I feel like jumping out of a window or that I think Bean has been a bit of an arsehole because he used my Clinique to clean my glasses.

Last year seems like absolutely forever ago, where time usually streaks past and leaves me in its slipstream wondering where the fuck it all went, I’m actually sat here finding it hard to believe that I’ve been blogging for only a year.

The one thing I said from the very beginning was that I’d be totally honest on here, and I’m starting to see that I’m actually more honest with myself as a knock on effect. From tapping out words I can see how my head works more clearly, I can see what tips me over my metaphoric edge and I can see where I need to work on, y’know, stuff.

Anyway, before this shit gets proper ugly and I do a total Gywneth Paltrow in your mildly perplexed faces, I’m just gonna quietly slip away and shove my face in a birthday cake. Yeah, fucking right I got a cake. I will be back from my depression induced sabbatical shortly, once I’ve finished this series of Breaking Bad probably, where I shall no doubt swear beyond the realms of decency, write a load of weird shit, go on about mental illness and throw in some recipes that ought to come with a health warning.

In the meantime, I love you all, have some cake on me and I’ll leave you with a few bloody brilliant bloggers, who have all been there at one point or another when I’ve needed them – Clara Unravelled, Mammasaurus, Five’s a FellowshipCity Girl Gone Coastal, Cheetahs in My Shoes and Little E and Bean.

Here’s to another year of depressive, sometimes funny bollocks!


There’s only so many times I can say, Oh God, I feel terrible. There’s only so many words I can write describing what’s going on in my head, that I can’t say out loud. There’s only so many emotions and suppressed feelings that I can pour out of this mental spout and through my fingertips.

I’m not sure if there’s a point to this blog anymore. I don’t like harping on about the mess in my skull, but it’s coming to a point where it’s tainting everything, and the depression is all that’s left. Everything else is backstage hiding somewhere and I just don’t know where to find it.

I never ever write a single word of here for sympathy. I write in a vain attempt to let it go, and for people to see that it’s OK to be upfront about mental illness, because until a year ago, I truly didn’t think it was. It was something to tread around like dog shit on the pavement, to be ashamed and embarrassed about and to be disgusted by. It was that thing we we’d avert our eyes from and pretend it wasn’t really there.

Every fibre is telling me to run and hide.

Every atom is telling me that everything I previously enjoyed isn’t worth it. It sucks the joy out of every last thing I hold close. That it’s laughable and pointless, and that I’m a joke for trying to beat it with words on a screen that’ll be read by a few hundred people.

I don’t know what the point of writing this is, I just knew I had to write something and putting words together to sound kind of melancholy to begin with but a bit badass and all FUCK YOU DEPRESSION in the closing paragraph, just doesn’t seem possible right now. Words just don’t seem to be enough anymore.

How To Have Writer’s Block

Firstly, you need the writer’s block uniform, you have to look the part.

  • Dressing gown. Yes, even in this weather.
  • Sans bra.
  • Optional – jogging bottoms or pyjamas, topped off with mystery stains.
  • Out of shape, greying T-shirt, I like to go with a freebie kind of ensemble, or better yet a touristy type thang. Ya know, something with meaning. My favourite is one with a TERRIFYING rabbit emblazoned on the front, complete with red eyes, the thinking behind it, I assume, is to SCARE THE LITERAL BEJESUS out of you, before you even THINK about using products that are tested on animals.
  • Unbrushed hair, get some food, cigarette butts or suchlike stuck in it for extra visual excitement. Backcomb the living fuck out of it into scary peaks. Imagine yourself as a wild animal that can’t be tamed. You are a creative-less husk of a beast. Roar. ROAR!
  • Make up: panda eyes are absolutely essential, leave your base (i.e, your erm, face) bare, perhaps to show you’ve made some effort but not so much you look like you’re really trying, draw on some comedy eyebrows to make you look interesting and elusive.
  • Scent: go for something that is a hybrid of late night jazz bar, musty old book shop and a sweaty unmade bed that you’ve been doing the old horizontal Twister in for three days. To achieve this, splash on a mix of lager, whisky, smoke a pack of ten and then go for a quick jog around the block. Done.
  • Accessories: Half empty bottle of red wine swinging in one hand, a distant look of discontent, bloodshot eyes, some scribbles up your arm in biro and a couple of tear streaks down your face and you are good.

Next, we’ll need the writer’s block mindset, the unhinged behaviour, walk the walk, blah blah blah.

  • No speaking is allowed whatsoever. You are concentrating too much of your energy on berating yourself for not being able to string a single sentence together.
  • Gaze distantly out of windows without actually seeing anything.
  • Grunt and mumble under your breath, occasionally bursting out laughing for no reason.
  • Cry uncontrollably while watching the news report that what’s his face, plays for somewhere or other football player has just got a book deal.
  • Play with fire.
  • Make a voodoo doll of yourself, and stick pins in it to kill the bad non-writing demons.
  • Learn how to clog dance / knit / make amazing Yorkshire puddings. Get those creative juices flowing.
  • Drink.
  • Drink some more.
  • Regret the tattoo on your arm that simply says “Think”.
  • Consider taking up poetry.
  • Stare at your empty computer screen for hours. on. end.
  • Sob.
  • Practise meditation.
  • Get bored.
  • Decide writing is dead to you. No one reads anymore anyways. Pah! It’s all about the pictures innit.
  • Realise you can’t take photos either.
  • Discover your world has officially ended.
  • Cry some more.
  • Find therapy in chocolate ice cream.

Annnnnd repeat, forever and ever. Until you metaphorically slap yourself around the face and get an actual grip. Or better yet, totally steal another writer’s idea. That’s what they all do anyway innit?

You’re welcome!

BritMums Live in Bullet Points

I have put off writing this post, simply because writing it means that it’s really over, it’s finished, it’s in the past and that in turn makes me feel really fucking sad tbh. There was just so much excitement and build up bounding off the walls, dripping from everyone’s tongues and limitless nervous energy vibrating through social media – OH MY GODZ I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR – I DON’T HAVE A HOTEL ROOM – WHERE IS THE FUCKING BREWERY ANYWAY – SQUEEEEEE I’M SO EX.CIT.ED times a gazillion.

Now, nothing, just a massive come down, a decimated goody bag and the delicious urge to sneak a look at the calender and count down the days to BritMums Live 2014.

With a bag brimming full of low self-esteem, a new (bad) haircut and my heart doing a very enthusiastic  Macarena somewhere in my throat and my tongue pretty much lodged deep in my stomach, I rocked up to a bar just a quick skip and jump down the road from the BritMums Live venue with a vacant look in my eyes and a vague idea that there would be some bloggers inside.

And there, before my eyes, were bloggers, a whole table of them. There. Actually there. I recall poking Laura in the arm and whimpering, “Hiiii, I’m Cas…” Everyone was lovely, and I cannot thank Mary enough for calling me over to her and giving me a big, welcoming hug and being my supportive anchor in the sea of women I sort of recognised from stalking them on my phone when I can’t sleep.

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It’d be a barefaced lie to say I remember much more than that. This is where bullet points are needed. We like bullet points. They’re totally easy for me to write (read – lazy) and satisfying for you to read innit.

  • I have a major, major girl crush on Annie. She held my hand, gave me a pep talk in the loos, plied me with booze, poked my boobs (affectionately, I think) and really forced my pelvic floor to really work from making me laugh so much.
  • Helen and Steph left me a bit starstruck.
  • I still don’t like Kirstie Allsopp. Soz.
  • Gin goes surprisingly well with cherryade. Good call Alice.
  • There is something utterly bizarre, terrifying and so, so wonderful about someone recognising you and telling you how much they love what you write and urging you to write more. Thank you to every single person that was ridiculously kind to me and my little blog.
  • Falling up the stairs while schmoozing with a PR isn’t exactly ideal.
  • I didn’t win the award and I don’t actually care. Honestly. I know I’m wandering into epic cliché territory by claiming that it’s enough to be nominated, and sat in that huge, noisy room whooping and clapping furiously until my hands felt as if they’d been whipped all while watching good friends collect their own awards, but seriously, that was more than enough.
  • Donna saved my actual life with her bizarre little phone charger gadget thing from the future. Thank you!
  • Jen storming up to me and demanding POKE MY FACE, POKE MY FACE made my night.
  • Drinking more wine than I have in erm, years, could have been most definitely was a mistake.
  • And pre-ordering the healthy option from Pizza Express a few days before, thinking I was being all fucking smug was a big, huge mistake and was of no more help at soaking up all the alcohol consumed than chucking a bit of budget kitchen roll at the river bloody Thames. There was nothing else for it but to guiltily eat stolen cupcakes on the floor of my hotel room in my pyjamas.
  • Never, ever kid yourself that you’ll wake up at a reasonable time naturally without a small child dive bombing your face for the first time in four years. Always call reception the night before for a wake up call and a shit tonne of coffee ready to be administered by IV.
  • There is possibly nothing more satisfying than getting your name printed on a bottle of Coke right before your eyes.

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  • Biscuits for coffee exist. And they are good.
  • Giant penguins from Madagascar are somewhat shit your pants scary.
  • Sitting next to Katy Hill, actual Katy Hill owner of perfect teeth is surreal to the max, actual Katy Hill.
  • Having a massive brain fart and not being able to form proper, formed sentences while you’re trying to create a good impression, only makes you look scared / sad / worried / vacant. Honestly I was a bajillion miles from it.
  • Finally meeting Amanda, after all I knew it took to get her there, was shamazeballs.
  • Special mentions for Hannah, Jo, Sonya, Rachel, Emily and Lewis for being so bloody lovely.
  • You can get goody bag shoulder, it’s a bit like tennis elbow, but much, much worse. #Fact.
  • Not being able to say goodbye properly to everyone as I had to get home earlier than I’d hoped was a bit shit, but a huge hug from Mummy Barrow seemed like a good way to go.
  • Getting on the train, watching the towering grey blocks of London roll past to eventually turn to endless green fields gave me butterflies to be home.


  • And pulling up outside my house, to find Bean with his beautiful face squashed against the window waiting for me, running to the car before I’d even managed to collect my signed books and squashy dinosaur, hit me like a ton of bricks at the realisation of just how much I’d bloody missed him.

BritMums Live was incredible. It was real life Twitter, to laugh, to cry, to SQUEEEEE, to meet so many fabulous people who were only pictures on my screen only a few hours before and turn them into real individuals that I admire so much. It was overwhelming, it was too much and not enough and somewhere in the middle all at the same time. I finally felt worthy to be called a blogger and as if I was a small part of something huge.

And I had a fucking blast.

Ginormous apologies if I’ve forgotten anyone, but please know that each and every one of you that I spoke to, SQUEEEED with and made me feel welcome made my weekend. And a massive THANK YOU to Hillarys for sponsoring me and making it all happen.

Over and OUT.

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