Friday, 3 September 2010

Hattie gives up smoking

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, I decided to stop smoking.

Now let me assure you, giving up smoking is no mean feat. Not only does one lose their best friend (any seasoned smoker will attest to the fact that if faced with a year without their best human friend or without cigarettes, they'd spend a lonely 365 days with their fags), but also their street cred. Smoking is undeniably cool, and instantly makes one who partakes cool by proxy. I remember at school, sneaking up for smokes at my favourite spot 'Tree' (which was imaginatively named thus due to the space being by a tree), and someone I may have previously dismissed as a dweeb rocks up and instantly we were then friends and at one with our coolness. It mattered not that I was also a giant dweeb; a fellow smoker is a cherished buddy.

On top of that, there's the boredom. Smoking is something awesome to do when you're bored! Be you waiting at a bus stop, taking 5 minutes at work or sitting at home on the sofa, smoking a fag makes even the most mundane and listless activity bearable. And ultimately, smoking is delicious. Its great, just... great. I was faced with letting go of a lot of advantages that come with smoking, which were only marginally outweighed by the idea of saving money and not dying horribly.

It has been quite a journey thus far, nae, a noble quest. Man had been thinking of quitting as well, and we thought "Hey! Let's quit together! What a great idea, we'll be so healthy and we'll be able to support each other gently with our cravings".

This was the dumbest idea we've ever had as a duo. Two long-term nicotine addicts detoxing simultaneously under the same roof? Over a bank holiday weekend which involved a funeral and family gathering? Fucking stupid. Not even the Dalai fucking Lama could have provided 'gentle support' were he in the same situation.

We soon realised that unless one of us started again, we would most likely kill each other. 17 games of Rock, Paper, Scissor later, I lost out and Man got to return to the sweet clutches of those glorious, wondrous magic wands.

Furthermore, one of the first things I noticed was the remarkable coincidence that as soon as I quit, everyone around me, including (nae, ESPECIALLY) those who had never really bothered me before, cherished friends and loved ones, became intensely irritating and insufferable jerks. The problem was most DEFINITELY with the rest of the world, and not at all with me.

If any of you have ever tried giving up smoking, you will know that you become unreasonable, rageful, and capable of murder. People you adore will instantaneously become the source of all the anger and blame you have ever experienced in your life because they dared to give you a hug when you weren't particularly wanting one. Anything that has ever bugged you in the past will suddenly be RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOUR FACE and it won't matter how totally irrationally you behave, when you are giving up smoking all irrationality becomes totally normal, (its totally normal to consider leaving one's job because someone gave you Earl Gray tea instead of Morning Breakfast), the anger you feel is how you have felt FOREVER and there is no way that there is any goodness in the world and everything you have ever feared is suddenly undoubtedly real, and you might as well alienate everyone you have ever known and start over in your life because THEY are the reason you are so angry and uncomfortable.

Or, from a more objective view, a reformed smoker cannot and should not be taken seriously when they are ranting and raving (or seething silently in a corner), because none of it will actually mean anything when they're over the hump. So special was this time that I have decided to both immortalise and commemorate it through the medium of drawing.

It started out not so bad,

but quickly deteriorated,

until the madness held me in it's vice like grip for longer than I care to remember.

As in any relationship, my ever darling wonderful man was in the enviable position of baring the brunt of my bad mood.

What was once a loving and trusting beacon of solidity and safety had been worn down to the point where man was in a near constant state of alertness, expecting quite reasonably for me to become a raging banshee at any second.

Other advantages I have noticed are I can smell things better (ooh! Flowers! Food! The dew of an Irish meadow!), my skin is no longer pallid and I am saving money to buy sweets and shit. Disadvantages are that I can smell things better (eww! Stinky feet! Poohey loo smell! Other people's body odour!), I am no longer as cool and I get bored even more easily. Its still a close call in my opinion.

I've had a few slips but I've been smoke free for 123 of the last 130 days. Not bad going I say! I hope you enjoyed my drawings.

Happy weekend everyone.

Tuesday, 10 August 2010

I love Peeteer Smith

My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

I have once again been neglectful of you, my loyal followers of 14, and for this I am truly sorry. I have clearly been of a saner and more adult disposition than what is normally expected, thus diminishing the day to day madness and far flung capers which usually act as blog fodder.

But I am under strict orders to write from a certain Mr Peeteer Smith, and write I shall.

'What shall I blog about?' I whinged, half hoping he'd validate my existence with a choice compliment such as, 'Hats, you are a terrific writer. Not only are you beautiful, you are also fiercely intelligent and possessed of a wit and panache that quite frankly I haven't seen since, well, ever. You are the reason the sky is blue, why babies laugh and why everyone everywhere has hope that they can one day have a worthwhile life, because YOU EXIST. Whatever you write will be a gift to us like manna falling from the heavens' or something.

But in real life, his response was 'ME!' Which was shortly followed by 'I just sneezed. It felt so good'. Here's some pretty choice material, so why the hell not?

PEETEER SMITH. Where do I start?

Well, for one, he along with his best friend Esther won my prestigious fort contest back in June. Not only did his photo entries display his unrivalled prowess at fort building, but also his unique and astonishing ability to act. Here he is displaying his acting skill #4, 'pretending to watch TV'. Kids, I am not joking, HE IS NOT WATCHING TV IN THE PICTURE. I know, I can't believe it either!

It beggars belief, doesn't it? This dashing young man will no doubt be winning Oscars before long.

Young Peeteer is also a very talented musician, and you can hear him here playing the lead in the Horn section.

Never have I heard such clarity and hawk like precision in any brass instrument performance.

One of the things I love most about Peeteer is the rich, baritone quality he has to his voice, which makes all conversation with him rather distinguised and high-brow, regardless of whether we are discussing Kant's Categorical Imperativism, sexy parties or funny smells. His deep, throaty laugh is also very becoming. Have a listen for yourself!

But perhaps what I love most about Peeteer are his stalwart attempts at keeping other women at arms length because of his mad love for me by pretending he is gay. His 'love' for all things Tom Daley is but a ploy to keep the female population at bay. This is another of his great acting skills, and SO in character is he that he also pretends that he never fancies any women (including me) and actually pursues men!

Here he is pretending to look gay, when he's actually straight FOR ME

He knows that our time is not yet nigh, but resists all advances from the throngs of fawning females regardless; our love is so pure and true that he is happy to live a chaste life until we can celebrate our love with the world. So committed is he, that he cares not a turd that I am co-habiting with another man who I choose to call 'Man', until I am ready to forsake all others and just be loyal to Peeteer. And in the meantime, he is just SO in love that he will no doubt be dating and sleeping with other men. I am a lucky, lucky girl.

Peeteer Smith: Man of awesome, musician, hilarious, and not at all gay.


*Disclaimer: that wasn't actually him playing the lead in the Horn section, even he isn't THAT good.

UPDATE: Peeteer Smith himself has done a narration AudioBoo! So if you want to listen to him reading this marvellous blog entry, click here. Also vote in the comments section if you want this to be a regular feature here at Hattie's Weird and Wonderful World!

Tuesday, 20 July 2010

Hattie's Midnight Madness

It is late at night when the most insane nuggets of my psyche wake up and start to torment those around me.

And the vast majority of the time, it is Man who is privy to these certifiably insane outbursts. We will have done our normal bedtime routine, turned the lights off and then perhaps begun discussing things we are doing the next day, or gently remind each other about some chore which needs attention. We'll kiss each other good night and assume our own favoured positions for a speedy entry into Sleepsville.

However, occasionally, I am still hyperactive and cannot stand the silence, so I decide I need to introduce a riveting topic which will ensure he stays awake to keep me company just a little bit longer.

'Honey, you know trees?'

'I'm vaguely familiar with them'.

'Cool, well, what would it be like if there weren't any trees?'

'What'. (Let me be clear, this is always a statement, not an actual question).

'What would it be li-'

'No, I heard you, I just can't quite believe you're asking me that question'.

'But why? It's an interesting topic'.

'Look up the word interesting'.


'You're 26. Now go to sleep.'

'Your face is 26. YOU go to sleep.'

He rolls onto his back and exhales. 'That makes no sense whatsoever'.

'So's your face'.

'What? That makes even less sense. You were making no sense at all and now by making even less sense, the sense you are making has negative properties'.

'You know what else has negative properties? Electrons. They buzz around the nucleus that is full of protons and Chemistry is so awesome I wish I was a scientist so I could do science all the time. Also I love pipettes and Bunsen Burners so it'd be like having fun all day with dangerous chemicals! I could melt stuff and make things explode and shit. I could win a Nobel Prize and spend all the money on sweets and toys! You know once I got sent to the headmistress's office for writing 'pooh' on the back of a girl's lab coat in chemistry class with distilled water'.


'It really was. You know what else was great?'

'Try not talking'.

My insatiable desire to win and glee at the prospect of acheiving something, no matter how small, will see me not talking with so much energy and excitement that my stiffly inert yet buzzing mass in the bed becomes more annoying than my actual voice.

He gives in. 'I can hear you trying to win'.

Silence. Then a little voice, 'See, I did not talking. I win.'

'Oh God, WHAT have I DONE?!' His anguished voice pierces the still night, and I know with unshakeable certainty that this is one of the unfortunately not rare moments when he begins to seriously question his major life choices, namely sharing his house and his future with a real life infant woman.

I rebut with a whiney 'Whhhaaaaaaaaat?'. It starts at a tone slightly higher than my normal speaking voice, descends slightly then plummets to a much lower resonance, a good octave and a bit below, then begins to slowly climb again. I can draw it out for a good 8 seconds and sounds not unlike a vuvuzela.


I go on. 'Do you still like me?'

He then begins to plea, as if for his very life. 'For the love of everything holy, I am begging you, PLEASE just SHUT the FUCK UP!' The words fall on deaf ears, however, as one of the many weapons in my ever irritating arsenal is my ability to fall asleep in a matter of seconds. I have the last laugh, as he is wide awake and will stay that way long after the echoes of our infuriating conversation have ebbed away, due to a combination of unbridled exasperation and my unconscious habit of chewing ferociously in my sleep.


Wednesday, 14 July 2010

Hattie moves house

Hello everyone!

I have been absent of late because I've been moving house. Well, I've been living with my Man for months now, and have been subletting my flat, but the time has come for me to permanently vacate. I have been drip feeding my new digs with Hattie paraphernalia over the last several weeks and am now fully at home at our house :)

BUT, and this is a big but. So big in fact that Sir Mix-a-Lot would get a bonk on for it; I am a hoarder of the highest degree, which has single-handedly provoked a series of low fat nervous breakdowns.

Let me start from the beginning: Man asks me to move in in January. A couple of months later I have spent enough time alone in my flat smoking cigarettes, playing Nintendo and watching old episodes of Jonathan Creek whilst doing face masks and trying on ludicrous outfits that I am ready to bid a fond farewell to those days of shameless virtual singledom in favour of co-habiting with my man. A few months go by and we decide to make it permanent and cease my tenancy at my old place.

"Sure," I say, "it'll take no time at all. I've just got a couple of boxes of old school reports that I can store at my Dad's place".

This is how I thought things would be:

And this is how things actually were:

I had gravely underestimeated the amount of shit I needed to pack, and I'd been foolhardy enough to grandly presume that I could handle this monumental feat all by myself. Roughly 37 hours of packing and 19 large boxes later, I was still not totally finished and have had 2 or 3 fairly worrying psychological meltdowns. You simply would not believe the crap I have accumulated over the years - it has become patently obvious that I have a pathological inability to throw ANYTHING away. Old cracked pencil without a rubber? Yeah, I might need it one day, even though I haven't used a pencil since I was 7! Dog eared yellowed note pad with only 3 or 4 sheets left? Keep it, it's not good to waste stuff! A bit of frayed packaging string? Do NOT throw that away, you'll need it in a string emergency! And so on with a plethora of other useless dregs that have amassed into a metric fuck ton of a scrap heap that's so intrinsically overwhelming that I found myself in the foetal position, rocking gently and humming to myself on more than one occasion.

How the fuck did I manage to get through 26, almost 27 years of my life without seemingly ever throwing a single thing into the bin? Do I have a secret hatred of bins? Actually I kind of do - when I was 6, I was jumping on the bed having a great time and next thing I know I am plummeting head first into a wooden bin which left me bloodied and permanently scarred after a hasty visit to the emergency room and 3 stitches.

So I have spent a vast majority of the past few weeks throwing my life time of trash into endless heavy duty refuse sacks.

This needs some math! I would say I spend an average of 5 minutes and 23 seconds throwing things away every day.

Putting on man's coffee and emptying old filter into bin - 7 seconds.
Scraping cereal dregs into bin - 11 seconds.
Cleansing face and binning cotton pads/buds - 5 seconds
Sorting through junk amassed in bag from previous day and putting in bin - 2 minutes
Sorting recycling and putting in recycling bin - 2 minutes
General daytime rubbish to be put in bin - approx 1 minute.

This is pretty much how long I spend each day throwing things away (not including emptying Dex's litter once a week - 5 minutes - and act of emptying rubbish and taking out to garbage cans - about 10 minutes per week).

So that's 5 mins 23 seconds x 7 = 37 mins 41 secs, plus 15 mins = 52 mins 41 secs per week throwing out garbage.

52 mins 41 secs x 52 = 2740 mins per year = 46 hours per year

46x27 = 1,242 HOURS IN MY LIFE SO FAR SPENT THROWING OUT GARBAGE. That's 51 days and 18 hours. 7.4 weeks. Almost two months. All spent throwing out garbage - but of course I haven't been doing that until I moved house. So I have essentially spent the last two solid months throwing out garbage, and not doing anything else.

Of course I haven't actually done that, but I can assure you, that is exactly how it has felt. And that is why I have been so absent of late, and also why I have had a few fairly serious mental breakdowns.

The moral of the story is to always throw things away if you don't use them. Also, never, ever move house without hiring someone to do it for you! May this be a lesson to you all, children.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Tuesday, 22 June 2010

Hattie and the fort: part 3 - The Results

I must apologise for my lateness in publishing these very important results. I have been moving house and, even though I can hear you quite rightly cry 'Forts are more important than having a roof over your head you lazy bitch!', unfortunately the move has taken up a lot of my time and energy. I do apologise, and normal service will resume when I have recovered from this most traumatising ordeal (I smell a different blog post!)

So here are the results as judged by the official board of Fort Architecture and Recreational Tent Structures.

In 3rd place we have Elly King with her superb entry which cleverly uses a strategically positioned crack in the cushions, allowing the fort to be lit with natural light from a nearby window. Inspired.

In 2nd place we have... Joe Chamberlin with his quite frankly astonishing effort which utilises a fan as a climate control device to ensure his fort is always at a balmy 72 degrees. Joe works in interior design, which is evident through his colour coordinated fort drape. His flare for structural engineering is also gestured to with his use of a digeridoo to support the fort's asymmetric roof.

He also deserves a special mention for his Fort attire - note the American Football helmet, chef's trousers and baseball bat. Suitable weaponry is a must have in a Fort, and the selection of a baseball bat alongside full American Football body armour and shoulder pads trumps my spatula hands down.

However, there can only be one winner, and this was a very hard decision. But (drum roll please)....

The winners are Team Mega-Alan: Esther Barratt and Peter Smith with their expertly designed multiple functioning Fort! Not only did their photographs comply with all official contest rules, but they clearly demonstrated the many different activities one can indulge in in a Fort.

Note the clean lines, solid structure and extra warm blanket as they play Wii.

Watching television is easy, comfortable and most importantly awesome in this spacious viewing den. Depth is also a very important variable concerning the enjoyment of a Fort - and their depth is just right.

Eating and drinking is no problem in this solid structure, with a secure roof and expertly positioned cushions for added safety. These action shots show but a few of the myriad ways a Fort can be the source of all fun and righteousness!

So there we have it. Peter and Esther, I salute you. Prize, I hear you say? Well, winning alone should be prize enough, you greedy fucks.

However I might buy you coffee and cake when I next see you :) all hail Team Mega-Alan, Fort builders Extraordinaires!

Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Wednesday, 16 June 2010

Sea falling on us!

When I was little, me and my brothers played a variety of amazing games, the most memorable if them being 'Sea Falling On Us'. The apparatus used was a large (in our young minds) blue exercise mat which we would prop up vertically against the wall, release, and run away from as fast as our little legs would carry us! The aim of the game was to not get twatted in the back of the head by the falling mat and, since it was blue, the game became known as Sea Falling On Us. Hours and hours we'd spend, saving ourselves from the mortal peril that faced us were we to be submerged under the great mat.

It was the most high octane fun I remember having as a child.

Other childhood games included 'Lost Children', when we'd fend for ourselves by foraging in the well stocked larder and return to our Wendy House with feasts of twiglets and other savoury snacks.

I think I was one of those children who's imagination, sense of humour and general manner prompted adults to look at me (and one of my brothers) as either some kind of precocious, misunderstood, avant-garde child genius, or as a genuine ruh-tard. The line between these two states is very fine indeed, and my entire life has been spent treading clumsily between the two. To this day I have no idea if I'm a super genius who is far too intelligent for her own good and for your average human being to understand, or so profoundly retarded that it confuses people and fools them into thinking that I might just be some kind of Einstein. Who knows? But most conversations with my man lead me to the same conclusion that I'm just a vintage fucktard.

How I long for the days when life was so simple that a whole day could disappear, spent in blissful merriment with a blue exercise mat.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Friday, 11 June 2010

Negative Stealth Assassin

At some point in our lives, for some more than others, we are all visited by the ever silent and deadly Negative Stealth Assassin. It is not, as it's name suggests, some kind of covert MI6 super agent who operates mainly out of the Southern Baltics. Oh no, it is far, far worse.

The Negative Stealth Assassin is a veritable sneakster. It's the bile within you that feeds off hatred and things like sick puppies or a sad bee and will not stop until it has DESTROYED SOMETHING! And unfortunately, we all have one. It has a face that is the spawn of yourself and the devil's ball sack, and a body that is made of PURE EVIL!

A Negative Stealth Assassin is determined to rule the world and turn a happy sunshine rainbow existence into a quagmire of dross and misery. It will tell you lies! It will make you hate yourself! It will make you insufferable to all those around you, thus affirming your self hatred and it's validity! At the drop of a hat, the world is suddenly full of shitty weirdos, you will never be happy again and everything you thought was good and true is just a trick. You and those around you are suddenly at the mercy of this silent killer.

You can go from this:

To this:

for no rational reason! Once the beast is awake, all bets are off and all reality is squished. And then - RAGE! You will most likely become an irrational gibbering douche canoe until you realize that the things you are saying and feeling are fucking boring and, more importantly, insane.

But once the Negative Stealth Assassin has you in its claw like grip, it becomes stronger because the sad nonsense you were thinking about is its food. No one nowhere will ever understand the hurt going on your heart, no matter how hard you try to explain. That's the thing about Negative Stealth Assassins, they are tailored to your own individual shortcomings and insecurities, so not even people who love you will truly understand. No Negative Stealth Assassin is the same! They are a deadly breed!

I had a visit last night, but luckily the only thing it destroyed was my calm evening.

So today I feel like I've been bulldozed and know it'll take some time for my Negative Stealth Assassin to become comatose again. I want to kill it with fire! But the only way to kill a Negative Stealth Assassin is to hug kittens and play Wii and sing nice songs. So that's what I'll be doing this weekend. Maybe in a fort.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Tuesday, 8 June 2010

Hattie and the fort: Part 2

I can't quite believe the amount of enthusiasm that was shown in response to my blog post Hattie and the fort Part 1. I feel at once humbled and awesome.

I shall provide a full blog post charting the contest once it closes on 10th June and I have received all the submissions.

But now, without further ado, here is my fort journey:

This was my first, practice, attempt. My team mate, Dexter, is pictured, thus abiding by the official fort contest rules. This was a rather more elegant fort than my official entry, however since this fort was built on the bed without a view of the television, I felt rather strongly that this submission would be cheating if I passed it off as a genuine TV oriented fort. Yes, readers, I care about you that much that I would not want to cheat you.

Here is Dexter's solo attempt in our wardrobe - he is experienced in the building of slap-dash multi pile-on clothes forts.

And here, here is my official fort - TV facing in the sitting room

As I stated earlier, the craftsmanship of this fort is not quite as sophisticated as my first attempt, but it was wonderful nonetheless. And yes, that's a lamp, a MOTHERFUCKING LAMP in my fort. I am also wearing my onesie for extra cool points. It may not look like much, but I assure you that being in my fort felt like this:

I hope you all had as much fun as I did! Contest closes on Thursday, kids. Forts forever!

Thursday, 3 June 2010

Hattie and the fort: Part 1

The other night, I asked my Man if one day we could build a fort in the sitting room and sit in it all day watching movies and eating pizza.

After 17 seconds of silence and his blank stare, I asked again. 'Fort? In the sitting room?'

'Honey, you're 26'.

'I know but forts are amazing and so much fun!'

Silence. 'Honey, you're 26'.

'So? I cannot and will not believe that anyone, regardless of age, does not enjoy a fort'.

Silence. And disbelief.

I went on. 'Seriously, forts are so fun! You can smoosh in and make a roof with blankets and shit and watch stuff on TV and be all comfy and awesome at the same time'.

He'd left the room before I'd reached the end of the word 'seriously'.

I followed him into his office. 'Come on, you know you want to. Of course you enjoy a fort'.

'Sweetheart, I have work to do'.

'I get it. I bet you're thinking of Evangeline Lilly, and thinking that Evangeline Lilly, of Lost fame, would not enjoy a fort. But you know what? I bet she would!'

To clarify - Evangeline Lilly had a valid reason to be included in our conversation. A few months ago, after watching a gazillion back to back episodes of Lost, Man turned to me with a gravely serious look and said 'Hats, please don't laugh at me, but I honestly think I used to date Evangeline Lilly.' A tortured, supressed peep rose from my belly and made my eyes water, but I managed to compose myself enough to squeak 'Go on'. Turns out, 15 years ago, he'd dated a girl called Evan who was American and, apparently, the spit of Evangeline Lilly, of Lost fame. 'See, Evan could be short for Evangeline!' he declared with child-like glee. I made it a whole 3 seconds before I exploded, guffawing in his face.

Now, every time there is some sort of contretemps over something I suggest, I ask 'Oh, did Evangeline Lilly, of Lost fame, not do that?' He can also now use it to punctuate tales from his life, such as 'It reminds me of the time when I used to date Evangeline Lilly, of Lost fame'. Guys, guess what? Claim to fame - my Man used to bang Evangeline Lilly, of Lost fame!

However, a few weeks later he sheepishly admitted, 'actually, I think her surname was _______, but maybe she changed it!' We googled Evan the mystery girlfriend and her picture appeared, and sure enough did she look quite like Evangeline Lilly of Lost fame, enough to get the two mixed up. Its more fun pretending they're the same person though, so his ex girlfriend is still Evangeline Lilly, of Lost fame.

Anyway, I assured him that Evangeline Lilly, of Lost fame, would enjoy a fort. Unfortunately this was not enough to convince him to partake, so my fort assembly will be a solo effort. This is how I imagine my fort will look.

He's actually away on business overnight this Friday, so I shall make my fort, and it will be great. I will post photo updates this weekend.

And in the meantime, I encourage you to all build forts of your own! I am of a school of beliefs which posits that everyone, everwhere, regardless of age, enjoys a fort. Why sanction the joy of forts to schoolchildren up to the age of ten but no older? Its a travesty and one I will challenge to the death. I don't have many readers yet but if you send me pictures I will give a prize to the person/team who builds the best fort!

UPDATE 4/06/10: So there's been quite a bit of interest in the fort contest on twitter! The rules are as follows:

- Teams may be no more than 3 people
- Teams must register their official team names in the comments section of my blog or via DM on twitter (@awoollyhat)
- Photos must include at least one team member sitting in the fort, then sent to for the judging panel to assess
- closing date for contest is 10/06/10 (that's 10th of June to any American readers)


Monday, 31 May 2010

Hattie dreams big

Last night, whilst playing on my iPad (did I mention that I now have an iPad?) me and Man discovered the joy and sheer amazingness of a game called Angry Birds. It involves a fleet of birds which you slingshot with deft precision at a group of green pig faces among meticulously arranged slabs of ice, wood and stone. The aim is to squish the pig to death, either by a direct hit from one of the birds or from a subsequent toppling of their crudely fashioned war forts. There's an assortment of hilarious sound effects, including smug pig snorts when the birds have failed in their mission, giggles when the birds succeed, and excited 'wheeeeee's when the corpulent feathered warriors are flung through the air. It's awesome in it's simplicity, and we played for a good 3 hours, taking turns (at which Man was amazed, as I do not share well. My true colours shone screaming through eventually though when I insisted on 7 or 8 turns in a row to his 1).

Anyone with an iPod Touch, iPhone or iPad (did I mention I have an iPad? No? I have an iPad!) should understand the importance of this purchase if they wish to lead a happy life. Those without Apple products are surely destined to live out the rest of their days in grey boredom due to the lack of Angry Birds.

Exhausted after our perilous and gallant ordeal against the smug green oinkers, of course it was the time to indulge in some deep conversation about our life aims. Man posited his which were all very mature, well thought out and admirable. He said he would also love me to be happy with my lot, and was hoping that before long I would have more colourful ambitions in life than winning all the cups on Mario Kart.

I was understandably outraged that he though this little of me! That he thought these were my only dreams! Obviously Mario Kart is great and accounts for perhaps 30% of all the meaning in my life, but my only aspiration? I was hurt and, after I'd hit him, told him thus. He then gently reminded me that during a recent similar conversation, when he'd asked me what I'd like to have achieved in a year's time, my response had been 'I like to think I'd have won gold cups in all the Mario Kart Grand Prixes'.

Oh. My. God. He was right! My biggest goals in life were linked to success at a video game on the Wii in which only I partake. I need new goals, and I need them fast!

So readers, here is my new list of goals of what I want to have achieved in a year's time:

- 1,000 subscribers to my blog
- finished recording my album with my band
- be King of Blogworld
- have a decent income from a job I actually care about
- win all the cups in Mario Kart
- win Angry Birds
- have a pet Griffin
- gone up a cup size
- eaten a lot of steak
- have something named after me; perhaps a pub, Polar Bear or missile silo
- been a guest starring patient on an episode of House
- have won the Nobel Prize for Chemistry/Awesomeness
- gone to the moon

There you go, Man. Put that in your pipe and smoke it - Hattie now dreams BIG!

I have to go and play Mario Karts now.

Disclaimer: if I only achieve one of the first 4 goals that'd be ok too.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Sunday, 30 May 2010

I have an iPad

Hi everyone - I have an iPad and I am currently blogging from my blogging app for iPad. I have an iPad because my awesome boyfriend knew I thought iPads were awesome so he bought me an iPad. It's so awesome having an iPad I can't even tell you. I love my iPad. I also love my boyfriend, but mostly I love my iPad.

Will post properly later from my iPad!

Location:My iPad

Wednesday, 26 May 2010

Danger: the antidote to misery!

EDIT: 7/09/2010 You can now listen as you read along with my partner in crime and collaboration, Peeteer Smith, narrating in his special way!

Picture the scene. You've had a pretty crap few days, during which time you've questioned your very purpose on this earth, where your life is going, and panicked about the future to such an extent that never leaving the house again and spending an eternity on the sofa watching Come Dine With Me marathons seems like the only viable option. You look like this:

Then you decide 'Enough of this self-pity! Self-pity, be gone! I have cool things to do like be awesome and play Wii!'

But then, the sneaky good-feelings-killing elves come along and think 'Haha, she's such a dick for feeling better so soon, lets REALLY ruin her day!'

All of a sudden, there are traffic jams where its impossible for traffic jams to form - and you are blocked at the worst of it. People shamelessly pilfer your parking space. Other drivers are fucking crap at driving and stop you from going anywhere in a timely fashion. Everyone everywhere seems to have a vendetta against you, everything becomes personal and suddenly everyone in the world is hell bent on making sure you have the worst driving experience ever in the history of driving.

And that's just in the car! Shop keepers are slow and rude, someone will block you in the street who is the SLOWEST WALKER EVER, so slow indeed that they seem to be going backwards, its impossible to navigate around them and then a bird will most likely shit in your eye. Babies cry at you - not near you, AT you - and you can't find anything you need in your handbag as they seem to have all simultaneously been vapourised, you trip and fall, blood begins to ooze from shop windows and you might as well just give up the fight and take a nap on the pavement.

Before you know it, you are MISERABLE, and nothing can ever drag you out of the pit of despair you find yourself wallowing in.

Self-imposed danger! For when life is so miserable, cheating death is the only thing that will make you feel better! And the best thing is, danger is is always nearby!

Here are a few handy ways to put yourself in danger:

-reckless driving
-walking across the road without looking
-dining at MacDonalds
-shouting 'Pussies!' at the gang of tough looking youths on the street corner and not running away
-not washing your hands after a pooh
-meeting someone off myspace who lists their interests as human taxidermy and cannibalism

Suddenly, the misery is lifted because you are back in control and can dictate the lousy things than happen to you, and you can be all 'Fuck you world, I'm the king of life!'

Danger: the antidote to misery!

Thursday, 20 May 2010

I am a malco - Part 1

EDIT: 6/09/2010 You can now listen along as you read with my partner in crime and collaboration, Peeteer Smith, narrating in his special way!

People sometimes say 'oh, so and so fell from the ugly tree when they were born' which is mean and I don't approve. Some REALLY mean people also say '... and hit every branch on the way down'. What a ridiculous thing to say! People do not fall from trees when they are born. They are squished out of their mum's area, sometimes accompanied by a pooh! Much more dignified!

Anyway, continuing this awfully high-brow topic, I think if such trees existed, I would have fallen from the Malco Tree. For those of you who don't share my awesome vocabulary, 'malco' is short for 'malcoordinated'. Which I have just looked up and apparently ISN'T IN THE DICTIONARY, but never the less was a well known term when I was growing up, used to describe someone who is not very good at coordination. Basically, if you were a malco, you were just crap at movement and holding things.

But it doesn't stop there. There is seemingly no end to the list of things at which I am crap!

Here's a short one:

- eating
- walking
- sitting still
- drinking
- putting (ie putting things on other things, not like crazy golf. I am amazing at crazy golf).
- moving

In short, I'm a walking disaster and you can't really take me anywhere without being hideously embarrassed at the special friend who's accompanying you in public.

I am crap at eating. I'd say a third of the time I miss my mouth. Our cream sofa is no longer cream, its a mottled collection of Thai Sweet Red Chilli Sauce Red, HP Sauce Brown, Pizza Grease Yellow and Chocolate Smidgeon Pooh Smear; a tribute to Jackson Pollock, if you will. Although its not a tribute at all, but a sad reminder to my ever suffering man that the woman with whom he is in a relationship is in fact some retarded lady-child, which I'm sure prompts him on a daily basis to seriously question his life choices and decisions.

I remember being at school and eating some toast at break time. My awesome friend Grace pointed out 'Dude, you've got a crumb there', pointing at my jumper. I looked down expecting to see this:

But actually I looked like this:

It was epic! I'd seemed to have amassed more crumbs on my jumper than constituted the piece of toast in the first place. It was quite a skill! But sadly one I have yet to leave behind in favour of the more adult skill of getting food into my mouth and it staying there *quickly adds 'power to make mass of food increase exponentially through process of botched mastication' to CV*.

The same goes for drinking - I often look like babies do when they teeth, however its not greeted with 'aw's or 'poor thing' or 'give her a thimble of brandy! That'll shut her up!'. Its met with wide eyed sneers of disbelief and sometimes pity, as perhaps I have an unidentified syndrome which means I am incapable of displaying motor skills more advanced than your average foetus.

The sad thing is that there are so many stories of my unrestrained malconess that I fear regaling them all here would be too much of a malco influx to anyone reading it. There was a tale of malco in my blog post 'Hattie's Diagnostic Prowess' if you have yet to read it and want to know more of what I'm prattling on about. I'll save the rest and drip feed you with tales of malco from my malco pez dispenser in due course.

Happy weekend everyone :D

Monday, 17 May 2010

I can ruin someone's life with a single look!

EDIT: 03/092010 You can now listen as you read along with my partner in crime and collaboration, Peeteer Smith, narrating in his special way!

Don't you hate it when you settle in to do your situps in the gym and the situp space is free so you are able to contort your body into embarrassing positions without feeling like a dick, but just as you start your moves and you look not unlike a jungle animal presenting and ready to be mounted, a large sweaty man comes and plonks himself next to you? Its not right and its not ok!

This happened to me yesterday (among an ever growing amount of other days) but yesterday was spectacularly and disturbingly different. Rotund man in tiny shorts and sweaty t-shirt lumbered over and splodged onto the mat next to me. I tried in vain to pick up the pace so that I could escape from the what had now become very smelly mat area. He had begun his routine which included yoga, which I'm sorry but is just UNACCEPTABLE in a communal gym area. Yoga requires the removal of shoes and socks, and in gyms this means, more often than not, sweaty pongy foots.

Foots are disgusting at the best of times, but this is pretty criminal. I don't want random people's fetid foot juice on mats where I may well be prostrate doing my floor routine before they've been sterilised. Not to mention the kind of foot boogers that could come into contact with my skin at any moment. Its vom inducing.

Anyway so this beast begins honking and snorting as the situps begin and I'm doing double time and nearly giving myself an aneurysm (one of the rare times when its not a tumour) in order to get out of there as quickly as possible. For some unknown reason that shall no doubt haunt me for years to come, I stole a sideways glance and noticed his silky smooth hair free legs. GROSS. I like my men to have hair where they are meant to have hair. Not saying that I would have liked this dude if he had hairy legs, but men are supposed to have hairy legs and men who don't have hairy legs are weird.

But it was then that, completely horrified, I realised this great hulking brick shithouse of a man was a woman.

You know when you're walking down the street minding your own business glancing here and there and all of a sudden your glance falls on someone with a really unfortunate and obvious growth on their face, and you really were just glancing randomly but then it looks like you're staring at their growth and you think 'FUUUUUCK they think I'm staring at their growth and that I think their growth is disgusting and therefore I'm a disgusting human being for not being more open-minded about growths' so you smile over-enthusiastically to make up for your faux-pas, only your over-enthusiasm makes your smile really creepy and then they're looking at you as if you're some kind of growth-fetishist and they just want to get the hell away from you because you're clearly mentally unhinged and weird? That's kind of how I felt when I saw that gross foot yoga man was actually a woman.

Only it was worse because at least growths are undoubtedly unusual. This lady was just broader, musclier and stockier than your average lady, and I'd been so narrow-minded as to assume that such a hulky constitution equalled man parts. So on this occasion I thought 'FUUUUUCK she can see the shock on my face and she knows that I thought she was a man and now my facial expression of obvious surprise has given the game away and prompted her to live the rest of her life as a bag of neuroses and low self-esteem, all because some bitch in the gym looked at her in a way that obviously meant that she was a disgusting gross foot yoga man but actually a woman and she'll need years of therapy for the incident when someone looked at her with an indeterminable yet undeniable look of surprise and she'll probably never leave the house again because of ME and I've DESTROYED HER LIFE and she knows all this!'

I'm pretty sure that's what she was thinking. And that's how I'm pretty sure I've managed to ruin someone's life with an innocent, yet unwittingly dangerous, look.

20/05/10 UPDATE: I just saw gross foot yoga woman who I thought was man - she's back! I haven't ruined her life! Yet...

Friday, 14 May 2010

Hattie's diagnostic prowess

EDIT: 03/092010 You can now listen as you read along with my partner in crime and collaboration, Peeteer Smith, narrating in his special way!

I woke up with a little pain in my rib cage. Its probably a tumour.

I should really point out that Diagnosis: Tumour is my default setting for when I am afflicted with even the slightest ailment. Headache? Its probably a tumour. Sprained ankle? Tumour. Itchy arm? Its a tumour. Woke up earlier than normal? You get the idea.

I have now said the word tumour too many times in rapid succession and it has lost all meaning. Hold on while I go google.

define: tumour - an abnormal mass of new tissue that serves no purpose

Well, that doesn't sound nearly as life-threatening as the plight with which I am faced with on a daily basis, sometimes 3 or 4 times in one day! Let me clarify, when I say tumour, I mean violent cancerous growth that will most likely make me dead in a matter of hours.

Luckily, this morning I avoided certain death by remembering that the pain in my ribcage was the consequence of me colliding with the door frame at great speed with an obtuse downward trajectory. Its tricky to stab oneself in the ribs (in fact I'm pretty sure it was a section of intercostal muscle that was damaged) but I assure you its possible with the grace and concentrated aplomb I demonstrate by being a complete malco. I would be embarrassed that this happened while I was attempting to navigate my way through a doorway (as normal people do every day) but similar events take place on such a regular basis that all capacity for humiliation has been exhausted.

I've had many close shaves when it comes to tumours. There was that time that I did 7 poohs in one day (yes! 7!) and I was of unshakeable certainty that I had developed Tumour Of The Intestine. Turns out I'd just eaten a lot of vegetables and one bowl of All Bran too many. God bless that branny goodness for saving me from my intestine tumour!

There was also the time when I had a drunken fall and twatted my hip so badly that I had a welt the size of a small melon protruding from my left leg. It took a long time to heal, which of course meant that the knock had prompted the rapid growth of a humongous super tumour that was bleeding technicolour into my skin (that was one hell of a bruise). But yay! Bruises take time to go away! The tumour is no more!

Diagnosis: Tumour means I escape death at least once a day! Which also means I am AMAZING and I win at life. And also if I have an actual tumour one day I will win because I'll get to the doctors far quicker than people who don't have a pathological obsession with tumours and they'll come in and shake their heads gravely and I'll whimper 'Diagnosis: tumour?' and they'll nod their heads in awe at my skills as an amateur diagnostician and respect for my bravery and then I'll jump up and yell 'I've had a million of these and its always been fine!' and they'll slap their legs in unison with cacophonous laughter and assure me that it will be fine and then they will give me an ice lolly as a prize for guessing the diagnosis. Also the doctors will be House and Wilson. And then they'll zap the tumour away with their special tumour destroying guns and I will be all better, all because of my life long ability to simultaneously diagnose and vanquish tumours.

In short - I am awesome.
NB: for home treatment of tumours - ointment usually works.

Wednesday, 12 May 2010

Why its not a good idea to eat a vat of yoghurt before bed

EDIT: 18/08/2010 You can now listen along as you read with my partner in crime and collaboration, Peeteer Smith, narrating in his special way!

I love yoghurt. Its awesome.

And apparently, its good for you! So on the days when I'm feeling marginally good about myself and think 'well, my body is my temple, man, it deserves healthy nourishings' I will eat yoghurt instead of stuffing my face with chocolate in front of the TV.

My favourite is Activia Plain yoghurt. Here is a picture so you can recognise it at Sainsbury's. Its delicious and nutritious and won't turn you into a whale if you eat a lot of it, which is nice as most of my favourite foods come with a severe health/obesity warning.

So one of my latest favourite things is to eat my dinner, nom nom nom, wait an hour or so and then eat my yoggy in bed watching Frasier with my man and my cat. I used to drink decaf coffee or tea at this time, but this led to regular nocturnal loo journies that interrupted my slumber and made me super grumpy in the morning.

There was a time when I was filled with dread that I would have to start wearing adult nappies before I hit 30. Why was my bladder going all geriatric on me in the middle of the night? Thankfully, because I'm not a complete moron, I accepted reluctantly that my pots of tea and coffee would have to go (or at least be finished before 9pm in order to get the regimed 2 and a half wees out before bed).

I was antsy, frustrated, orally fixated (yay! rhyme) and became shifty around this time when I knew I couldn't shovel anything more into my gob (I've also given up smoking - more on that special time later). Unless... is that yoghurt I spy? Not liquid but enough to stop me screaming inside for some sort of sustenance that isn't a second dinner? And hurrah - with that, a new night time treat is born.

But alas, my joy was short lived, as my problems returned. Recently I've been waking up in the middle of the night dying for a fucking piss again, my little belly distended with the ghost urine that had invaded my bladder through no means of my own.

I'd return to bed baffled - I had been vigilant with my imbibing! Is my bladder getting worse? Is my future to be punctuated with dashes to the store for a box of Tena Lady? I have tossed and turned many a night, weeping with self-pity into my pillow about the days ahead when I'm sure to never have an uninterrupted night's sleep again, seeing as my kidneys and bladder are convinced I'm some octogenarian with a catheter. But this morning - inspiration struck.

Its the fucking yoghurt.

With a renewed hope for a life without absorbant pants, I sprang from the bed and flung myself at the computer. After a good 3 or 4 minutes research, I had discovered what I needed to know - yoghurt is milk with added bacteria. Milk is 87 % water. So while I'd been smugly inhaling my nightly vat of yoghurt with an 'Oh I'm so healthy and I also won't need the loo in the night!' smirk on my face, I've actually been ingesting almost a 3rd of how much water I'm meant to drink during a 24 hour period.

Half an hour before I go to sleep.

And that is why its not a good idea to eat a vat of yoghurt before bed.

21/05/10 UPDATE: I have discovered 'Perle de Lait' - they come in handy little tubs so I don't overdo the yog. I haven't woken up in the night for 4 days now! Also its got more fat in which equals tastier and better.

Monday, 10 May 2010

Hattie's first steak (in 9 years)

EDIT: 17/08/2010 You can now listen as you read along with my partner in crime and collaboration, Peeteer Smith, narrating in his special way!

I was vegetarian for 9 years. 'What a fucking moron!' I can hear you all chime. Well, I had a boyfriend when I was 16 who fancied himself as a real punk ass motherfucker. Part of his whole image was being vegetarian, which was weird as being a punk he was also violently opinionated and he and his punk friends were amongst the angriest people I've ever met in my life. I'm talking spitting bile and green piss and vinegar - quite the opposite demeanour you would expect from someone who cared so much about animals.

They were the kind of people who'd rather be right than happy, projectile vomiting their views on to anyone and everyone. They'd have a boner for any sort of disagreement so they could do battle with their trusty sword of self-righteousness and be fed by nurtured hatred for anyone who's opinions differed slightly from their own. Don't get me wrong, they were lovely and very caring good people, but the anger was strong in these ones, as was the insatiable need for attention in any form. I fitted right in!

Of course being 16, insecure and a total outsider, this was exciting and I soon became a punk too, telling all the cool kids to fuck off and being so damn different that I didn't give a shit that no one liked me because I was all cool with my misery and anger and self harm. I totally rocked the vegetarian thing and felt a swell of pride at being better than everyone else who still ate meat, secretly denying my body's cries for bacon and vitamins.

A few years on, the punk and his minions took it to the next level (veganism) and pledged for ever more that they'd never have a bank account and that all they'd ever need would be kept in a box under their bed. By then I'd manage to surgically remove my head from my ass to the extent that I had an actual bank account, but I still kind of liked being special and different. The punk thing had gotten old and I decided that I missed washing and didn't really like looking like a lesbian (not that there's anything wrong with that, but its hard to chat to boys when you look like a lesbian). So, resolutely, I stayed veggie.


Looking back I think I really did enjoy the feeling of pseudo-superiority it gave me. It gave me an edge, and made me better than everyone else. I love being paid attention! For those of you who wonder - ALL vegetarians think they're better than you on some level.

Anyway, blah blah blah I finally decided the time had come to return to the dark side. My man had been tantalising me for months by cooking more bacon than is humanly possible to want to eat and wafting it salaciously in my direction. Bacon is the vegetarian's arch nemesis - you do NOT want to be veggie, drunk, and within a square mile of bacon cookin g, as you will most likely lose your resolve.

I had decided the sacred moment had arrived, and we went for dinner at the most rocking amazing restaurant ever - Pizza Express. I was still a little nervous, and ordered a veggie pizza. He offered me one of his pieces of peperoni. Good god, could I really go through wit h this? I stared excited yet nervously at this tiny disc of cured porky delight. It looked incredible.

I gingerly took the meaty talisman which was to kick start my foray into carnivorousness, and cut it carefully into four pieces (those of you who know Pizza Express will vouch for me on just how pathetically small their peperonis are) and daintily snaffled each piece with delight. This is amazing! How could I have been so stupid as to not eat meat for nine fucking years?! Who the fuck knows - all that mattered was that my eyes had been opened and I had returned to the source of all righteousness. And tomorrow, we w ere to dine on steak of amazing!

Man had booked a table at one of London's best steak houses - a fourth storey penthouse restaurant overlooking the Smithfield meat market. Basically, fresh dead cow was sold at 5am in the morning but metres away, taken up to the restaurant, most likely not even refrigerated, and then cooked to perfection that same day. This was not your average steak.

We ordered a 32oz medium rare monster to share and, blood lust in my eyes and mandibles, I demolished a good 24 ounces of it. I shit you n ot, I later entered an acute state of steak induced delirium at the hands of the meat bomb that had exploded into my very being and, sweating profusely, ordered my man to run me a bath at 2am and to 'get me some steak, I must eat STEAK in the BATH!'.

Best night ever.

Hattie's first love

EDIT: 13/08/2010 You can now listen as you read along with my partner in crime and collaboration, Peeteer Smith, narrating in his special way!

Have you ever experienced that unique, special moment when you first lay eyes on the person you are going to spend the rest of your life with? That intoxicating, overwhelming, important moment of utter convincedness when you realise 'this is it. This is the person I'm going to marry'?

I was 6. And he was Harrison Ford. Needless to say I didn't grow up to marry him (although there's still time, I guess, however he is married to that McNeal character), but more about that later. I knew, in my very heart of hearts I knew, that this was the love of my life and that I would love him forever and ever and marry him and have his Ford babies etc etc (don't tell my man, he'll be mortally wounded if he finds out that I am in fact lying when I tell him he's the love of my life - Harrison Ford pipped him to the post by 20 years). I was head over heels in love, and I proclaimed my love to my parents in the way only a six year old girl can - I asked them if they'd write to his parents and invite him round for tea. When they told me it may not be possible, I strategically announced that I would in that case become an actress, and then I could invite him round for tea myself. He was my future husband, of course. It had to happen.

The following week poor old Harrison had been tossed aside in favour of Patrick Swayze (or 'Swayzer' as I thought it was until my friend Phil told me otherwise) - and so it went on ad infinitum until the age of about 17 when my hormones stopped raging and I wasn't flitting like an insatiable love gnat from movie star to rock star to movie star in the blink of an eye.

Patrick actually graduated from love interest to imaginary friend. I remember very distinctly coming home after school to Pat, reclined on my bed waiting for me in that Burgundy shirt and black trouser get up he sported throughout the movie Ghost (why the fuck I was allowed to watch Ghost at that age is beyond me - I'd also seen Child's Play by the age of 7. And a life time of therapy and behavioural problems is explained in a tiny, corrupt nutshell). Anyway, he'd be on my bed and I'd tell him about my day (what he got up to when I was gone is anybody's guess, I'm fairly sure he wasn't a paedo as he never showed up at my school gates, or indeed in the changing rooms, and he seemed genuinely interested in just being friends. Although my feelings were more than that). My mum would come in and tell me to do chores and I'd roll my eyes at him, embarrassed that my mum had made me look so uncool in front of my famous friend!

My ludicrously fantastical imagination was but a burgeoning bud of delusion at this point. There was then the time I was so convinced that Michael J Fox was about to burst through my 2nd storey window after having skillfully scaled the side of our block of flats, that I asked my mum to teach me how to 'write in American' (she's Canadian - close enough. More on my imagined language barrier later). After 15 or 16 attempts, I succeeded in proudly scrawling 'hello Michael J Fox' IN JOINED UP WRITING on a piece of paper in smudgey orange felt tip, fingers poised, ready to hold it up smugly when his arm flung itself over the window sill and he hauled his face and upper body towards me. I clearly didn't have the foresight to think that, being a mere three feet away from said window, I could have easily said 'hello Michael J Fox' using my mouth, but kids, hey? They're fucking stupid. Here's a list of my other loves:

- The Prince of Balance (a tightrope walker at the circus - I wrote him a letter asking him for tea (of course) and the post script was a gripping footnote about how I owned a small china rabbit with a leaf in its mouth).

- Rick Moranis (don't judge - he seemed romantic in Little Shop of Horrors)

- Pee Wee Herman (what the fuck?)

- All of the Ghostbusters

- Hugh Laurie, Stephen Fry, Rowan Atkinson and Tim McInnerny from Blackadder - incidentally I remember singing along to the Abba song 'One man One woman' and replacing the first phrase with 'Four Men' - I was a right slut when I was 9! But I also had superior taste in comedy, evidently. Its kind of ok to be a slut if you have a good sense of humour.
- The Tramp from Lady and the Tramp
- My cousin Thobey (this was really more of a 'he's so cool crush' but incest is not cool in any form, people)
I'd like to say my love list gets less embarrassing, but alas I am one metric fuck ton of walking humiliation, so maybe it'd be a good idea to stop here. That's enough crazy for one day.

Or is it?...

Probably, yeah. I couldn't be bothered to draw pictures so here's a photo of a bear.

Have a nice evening one and all!

Hattie's second blog

I thought that maybe it'd be nice if introduced myself.

I am Hattie. I am 26 and a half. I live in London with my Man and my cat, Dexter. They are my best boys. I like to play Wii. I like singing. My favourite flavour of yoghurt is plain and I sometimes don't wash my hair for 3 days (extra gross considering I'm blonde and its long so more prone to greasy crack addict adhesion to scalp).

Those are the most important things you need to know I guess.

Why did I decide to write a blog? I don't know. I'm not particularly interesting I don't think - at least not in the conventional way. I do however seem to have a somewhat unique view of the world, delighting and marvelling at things others find totally mundane. If you think its interesting spending time wondering how and why the person who discovered how to make white sauce got that idea, then this is probably the blog for you.

Also, people seem to find me funny. Not in the 'I have such a staggering intellect and my funny comments are shot through with such wit that I am fucking intimidating and should probably write for Frasier' funny, but a 'let's all point and laugh at her' funny. I seem to be funny without the slightest bit of effort - I am going about minding my own business and commenting on the world the way I see it and people are laughing. Out of nervousness, out of pity, who knows? Is it the inflection in my voice or my seeming inability to define my dipthongs where appropriate and adding them in where not? Or the mere subject matter I discuss with wanton abandon? (yes, I said wanton. I also love wontons). But it seems that being a certifiable lunatic is enough to garner a titter or guffaw nearly everywhere I go.

My man often laughs at me because I am so lame, yet I seem to bring a certain degree of joy to his life. That's an understatement; I am so inherently awesome that his life was but a mere husk of deprivation and misery until I came along. Anyway, I'll address my self-loathing narcissistic complex later. My point is that if he can find me so entertaining, perhaps there are other weirdos out there who will enjoy my worldview just as much, if not more!

So, without further ado, (actually rather a lot of to do as I am as yet unsure as to what my first story will be) please indulge your childish innernesses and enjoy my sometimes banal, sometimes crass but always utterly pointless tales of Hattie's Weird and Wonderful World.


Hattie's first blog


I am new to this world of blog, and I can't think of something funny/informative/amazing to say to grab your attention, so instead I have decided to draw a picture of a griffin.

I think we can all agree that griffins are pretty fucking awesome, so hopefully this will have been enough to start ingratiating myself with the rest of blog world.

I will be back with weird and wonderful tales of the world according to Hattie, including gems such as my most recent caper 'The dishwasher won't thoroughly rinse our glasses... but why?'

See you soon!