Plodding On In Life To Escape The Doomscrolling

 I don’t know if anyone is out there ? I don’t if anyone is reading this ? But you’re doing great I am doing great, I think of myself as a very much a free spirit and I will talk pretty much to anyone and anything ( cats 🐈‍⬛) . Though I will draw the exception if you look Moomins , I can not explain it but they squishy nothingness doesn’t float my boat.

But there’s always something you don’t like isn’t there, like maybe days with a y in them . I take myself to the gym and there’s one treadmill that is mine and I am lost if someone else uses it . I am a plodder and plodder gets me by just fine .

Recently I restricted my facebook usage to about an hour and it suits me fine, if I try and sneak back on it says like an angry parent “ you have had enough “

I don’t need the validation of the doom scroll. I am just a plodder and plodding keeps me calm.I am calmer than a squishy raspberry.

Hello World, Again (Apparently We’re Doing This the Old-Fashioned Way)

Hello World, Again (Apparently We’re Doing This the Old-Fashioned Way)
Hello world.
Yes, that hello world. The one people used to type when they first launched a blog, back when the internet still felt a little like the Wild West and not a giant shopping mall with fluorescent lights and an algorithm following you around asking if you want to watch another video about productivity hacks.
Anyway.
I’m back up and blogging.
Actual blogging. You know — writing. Words. Sentences. Paragraphs. The ancient ritual of sitting down, thinking about something for more than seven seconds, and then typing it out without a ring light, a jump cut, or a thumbnail of someone making a shocked face.
Once upon a time, this was normal.
Now, apparently, it’s vintage.
Which is funny, because blogging used to be the internet. Before everything turned into scrolling and swiping and refreshing — and doom-refreshing again just in case something dramatic happened in the last four seconds.
Back then you followed people because they had something to say, not because an app decided their content would perform well between two advertisements and a clip of someone power-washing a driveway.
You read posts. Long ones.
You had opinions about them. Sometimes you even left comments, which was basically the digital equivalent of yelling across a pub table — except with worse spelling and a higher probability someone would quote Nietzsche incorrectly.
It was chaotic, messy, occasionally brilliant.
And mostly it was just… writing.
Which brings us to the present moment, where the entire world seems to be operating at a speed that suggests someone leaned on the fast-forward button and then lost the remote.
Everything now is immediate.
Immediate reactions. Immediate takes. Immediate outrage. Immediate applause. Immediate hot takes about the hot takes that were posted three minutes ago.
Now now now now now.
The internet has become a place where people don’t just want information quickly — they want everything quickly. Thoughts. Feelings. Analysis. Conclusions. Preferably condensed into a short video with subtitles and background music so nobody has to endure the horrifying possibility of silence or concentration.
And in the middle of all that noise, here we are.
Blogging.
Just plain old writing.
No trending sound. No viral dance. No mysterious algorithm deciding whether this post deserves to exist. Just a page, some thoughts, and the dangerous idea that maybe — just maybe — someone might read the whole thing.
I know. Wild concept.
In a world that treats attention spans like endangered species, choosing to write something longer than a caption feels slightly ridiculous. Almost pathetic, even. Like showing up to a Formula One race with a bicycle and saying, “Yes hello, I’ll just take the scenic route.”
But here’s the strange thing.
There’s something oddly satisfying about it.
Writing slows things down. It forces a moment of thought before reaction. It asks you to actually sit with an idea for a minute instead of immediately firing it into the endless content cannon that powers the modern internet.
And maybe that’s why blogging feels different now.
Back then it was just what people did.
Now it feels almost rebellious.
Because slowing down — even a little — is practically illegal in the economy of constant attention. Everything is engineered to keep moving, keep refreshing, keep feeding the machine with more opinions, more reactions, more commentary about the commentary.
Meanwhile blogging just sits there quietly in the corner like a slightly eccentric relative who refuses to get a smartphone and insists on writing letters.
And you know what?
That might be exactly why I’m back.
Not because blogging is trendy again. It definitely isn’t. Nobody’s building billion-view empires out of long paragraphs and mild existential observations.
But writing still does something the rest of the internet often forgets how to do.
It makes space.
Space to think. Space to wander through an idea. Space to say something that isn’t designed purely for maximum engagement within the next thirty seconds.
Maybe nobody reads blogs the way they used to.
Maybe they do.
Either way, the act of writing still matters. Even if it’s just for the quiet satisfaction of putting a thought into words and letting it exist somewhere outside the endless scroll.
So here we are again.
Hello world.
The blog is back up.
Vintage internet. Old-school thinking. Plain old writing.
In a world that moves at breakneck speed, it might be the slowest thing left on the internet.
And honestly?
That sounds perfect.

When Tuesday Feels Like A Monday

 When Tuesday Feels Like Monday

Have you ever woken up on a Tuesday and felt absolutely convinced it was still Monday?

Not because you forgot what day it was, but because the feeling of Monday hadn’t quite left you yet.

That was exactly my experience this week. Monday had already been chaotic enough, and somehow the emotional hangover carried straight into Tuesday. Even though the calendar clearly said otherwise, my brain refused to move on.

It all started with something small but frustrating: I couldn’t find my keys.

You know that sinking feeling when you start checking the obvious places — the kitchen counter, the hallway table, your coat pocket — and they’re not there? Then the search expands. Bags get emptied. Drawers get opened. The sense of mild panic slowly builds.

Somehow a tiny object like a set of keys can derail the start of an entire day.

As if that wasn’t enough, there was also an unexpected mystery unfolding outside. Water appeared to be leaking into the garden. Not just a little damp patch, but enough to make me wonder if something had gone seriously wrong. My mind quickly jumped to the worst possibilities: broken pipes, expensive repairs, and a long list of problems I didn’t want to deal with.

So Monday became one of those days where small inconveniences pile up just enough to make everything feel heavier than it should.

Eventually, my husband came home and calmly worked through the chaos that had built up in my head. Within a short time, the situation looked very different.

First, the missing keys were found.

Then the mysterious leak was investigated. Thankfully, it wasn’t anything serious at all. It turned out the water was likely coming from a neighbour’s pond rather than a problem on our side. Once that was identified, the issue was quickly sorted.

Just like that, the two things that had been causing stress all day were resolved.

Problem solved.

Except my brain didn’t quite get the memo.

The next morning arrived — Tuesday — but the feeling of Monday lingered. There were no missing keys, no mysterious water, and no actual problems left to fix. Yet mentally, it still felt like the week hadn’t properly restarted.

This is something many people experience without really noticing it. When a day contains several small stressors, your brain can remain stuck in “problem-solving mode.” Even after the problems are resolved, the emotional tension doesn’t immediately disappear.

It’s a bit like a computer running too many tabs in the background. The tasks might be closed, but the system hasn’t fully reset yet.

One small trick that helps is creating a sense of closure. Sometimes it’s as simple as mentally listing the problems and acknowledging they’re finished:

Keys — found.
Leak — investigated and fixed.

It sounds almost too simple, but giving your mind that clear signal of “done” can help it let go.

Another helpful reset is marking the start of the new day with something small and intentional. A cup of tea, a short walk outside, or even just stepping away from your usual routine for a moment can create a mental line between yesterday’s chaos and today’s calm.

Because in reality, Tuesday wasn’t Monday at all.

Monday was the messy day — the one with misplaced keys and mysterious water in the garden.

Tuesday was simply the day after everything had already been sorted out.

And sometimes that’s the best kind of Tuesday you can have.

72 hours in the beautiful city of Florence what should you see ? Florence will truly capture your heart and never let it go , there is something magical about Florence it is such a vibrant city full of art culture food and wine and so very mellow well mellow as an Italian city can get! Florence is known as the birthplace of the Renaissance where there was great wealth and so began a great collection of art between the 14th and 17th century.

It pays to get the Firenze card which allows you to visit as many museums and churches etc as you can mange within the 72 hours . The card is activated as soon as you go on your first visit make sure you get your card from the local tourist information at is 10 Euros cheaper than if you buy it form a museum.

We flew straight into Florence as Mr T wanted to be nearer but there is easy access from Pisa airport and that is where most people fly into. You can get a train direct from Pisa to Florence and the Italian trains are efficient and some even have double - decker carriages.

The Magnificence Of The Medici 

The Medici ruled Florence for 300 years they had a meteoric rise to power and put their money into arts, the churches and monuments and this makes Florence a truly spectacular city.

Make your way to the Palazzo Vecchio which is the main square Piazza della Signoria. Building was started in 1299, the medieval place has a 94 -metre high tower ( which I didn't climb but let my husband and son climb though ). There is a stately room to visit which seats 500 members. The medici used to have their apartments here till the mid -1500s.





Meander then down to the Palazzo Pitti this is where the Medici came to when they had outgrown the Palazzo Vecchio ,The Palazzo Pitti soon doubled from its initial size. From the outside the Palazzo Pitti looks very much like a fortress yet when you're inside this melts away to reveal paintings by Rubens, Raphael Titan and many many more. There are so many fine rooms to see it is a veritable feast upon the eyes and there are often other exhibitions to see when we were there was one on fashion and Italian motor racing.

Right next to the Palazzo Pitti is the Boboli gardens which are fine Italian gardens and they stretch for acres upon acres they are more than just a garden they are an architectural inspiration for Florence.They are the greatest open -air museum there is in the world, they are the gardens they inspired Versailles.





David

You can't come to Florence and not see David and you find this in the Galleria dell' Accademia for almost 370 years this world famous statue stood outside Palazzo Vecchio there is a copy outside there now.




David stands 17 feet tall and weighs in at 6 tonnes and there is a lot more to see around the Galleria dell' Academia too.





Doumo

This is a must and you see tantalising vistas of this almost everywhere you go in Florence we had a view from our hotel L'Orlogia which is not far away.Admire the facade of the Duomo it took them 16  years to complete the famed Dome (in 1436).

 Then go onto the Bargello the oldest building in Florence where you will see works by Michelangelo, Cellini and Donatello’s David. Also here you can see  ceramics ,textiles tapestries and coins also there is an armoury here as well.



This is but a snippet of what you can squeeze in 3 days and if you get the Firenze card which I strongly suggest you do then there is a complete list of all the places you can visit.

Always One Glove Away From a Duel

 I am, at all times, approximately one glove away from issuing a formal duel.

Not for dramatic historical reasons. I have not been insulted in parliament. No one has slandered my family name. Nobody has stolen my horse, my land, or my prized goose.

No.

My duels are reserved for the truly serious offences of modern life.

For example: when I hold a door open for someone and they walk through without saying thank you. Not even a nod. Not even the awkward half-smile people give when they realise they’ve made eye contact with a stranger and now must acknowledge the shared burden of existing.

Just… silence.

They pass through the doorway as if the door opened automatically through the power of advanced architecture.

And in that moment my brain quietly loads the software for 18th-century honour culture.

Internally, I remove a glove.

Very slowly.

The glove is imaginary, obviously, but the intent is very real.

I drop it onto the pavement.

“Sir,” I say in my mind, to the man who has just treated my act of door-holding charity like a natural weather phenomenon, “you have wounded my honour and also slightly my wrist which has now been holding this door for seven full seconds.”

Around us, in my imagination, a small crowd gathers. A pigeon watches with interest. Someone whispers, “Good heavens.”

“Tomorrow at dawn,” I continue, “we meet behind the Tesco Express car park. Pistols at ten paces. Or, if you prefer, a strongly worded conversation about basic manners.”

Queue-related crimes are even more dangerous.

There is something about a queue that feels sacred. It is a quiet social agreement between strangers: we are all suffering together, but we will suffer in the correct order.

When someone casually drifts into the middle of the queue like a confused duck who has wandered into traffic, my brain again reaches for the glove.

I approach them mentally with calm dignity.

“Excuse me,” I imagine saying, “but I believe you have accidentally committed a queue violation of the highest order.”

The glove falls.

Gasps ripple through the imaginary spectators.

“Dawn,” I announce. “Bring a witness and a basic understanding of fairness.”

Of course, in reality, none of this happens.

In reality I simply stand there like a normal human being, smiling politely in that very British way which roughly translates to:

“🙂 I will remember this forever but do absolutely nothing about it.”

But the duel energy remains.

Because modern society runs almost entirely on tiny acts of politeness. Doors held open. Thank-yous exchanged. Queues respected. Escalators exited without stopping dead at the top like someone who has just discovered gravity for the first time.

These are small things, but they are the duct tape holding civilisation together.

Remove too many and suddenly we’re all wandering around supermarkets like confused goats with shopping baskets.

So I will continue holding doors.

I will continue respecting queues.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, a quiet duelling field behind a Tesco Express will remain permanently reserved for anyone who forgets their manners.

I already have the glove ready.

Just in case.

Jack The Cat The Boss Of The House

 Jack the Cat (Also Known as the Real Boss of the House)

Every household has someone who believes they are in charge. Sometimes it’s the parent with the calendar. Sometimes it’s the person who controls the television remote. In our house, however, the true authority is a cat called Jack.

Jack did not exactly arrive with a formal announcement. There was no ceremony, no grand speech. One day he was simply there, exploring corners, inspecting furniture, and behaving as if the entire house had always been his.

Cats have a remarkable ability to do that.

Within a very short time Jack had identified the most important locations in the house. These included the warmest windowsill, the chair that gets the best afternoon sun, and the precise spot on the sofa that guarantees maximum human attention. It was clear that he had conducted a thorough survey of the property.

Naturally, he now considers these places to be officially his.

Morning in our house usually begins with Jack. Not because we have carefully trained him to wake us up, but because Jack believes breakfast should be served at a very specific time and he is extremely committed to maintaining that schedule.

His first method is staring.

If you have never been woken up by a cat staring at you from very close range, it is quite an experience. You slowly become aware that something is watching you, open your eyes slightly, and discover two very determined cat eyes looking directly into your soul.

If the staring does not work, Jack moves on to Phase Two: gentle paw taps.

These are not aggressive. They are polite, persistent reminders that someone has forgotten an important responsibility. Eventually someone wakes up properly and the day begins with the ceremonial opening of the cat food.

Jack supervises this process carefully.

Once breakfast has been served and eaten, Jack begins his daily inspection of the house. This involves walking through each room as though he is checking that everything is functioning correctly.

If someone is working on a laptop, Jack appears almost instantly. He has a special interest in keyboards and seems convinced that the best place for a cat to sit is directly on the keys you are trying to use.

If you move him, he returns.

If you move him again, he returns again.

This is clearly a battle of patience and Jack is very confident in his abilities.

Books are also one of Jack’s favourite targets. Whenever someone sits down to read, Jack approaches with great interest and carefully settles himself directly on the page. Not next to the book. Not nearby. Directly on the exact sentence you were reading.

He is extremely precise.

Craft activities attract him as well. As soon as paper, scissors, or glue appear on the table, Jack arrives to investigate. This is particularly exciting if there are small objects that can be pushed slowly towards the edge of the table.

Cats, as everyone knows, take great pride in gravity experiments.

The fascinating thing about Jack is that he behaves as though all of these activities are his responsibility. He is not simply wandering through the house. He is supervising. He observes everything with quiet concentration, occasionally offering assistance by sitting on the most important object in the room.

Of course, such important work requires regular rest breaks.

Jack takes his rest very seriously. During the day he can usually be found asleep in a variety of locations, each chosen for maximum comfort and warmth. The windowsill is a favourite when the sun appears, although the sofa is also an excellent option.

Freshly folded laundry is perhaps the ultimate prize.

There is something about a neat pile of warm clothes that attracts cats instantly. You can spend twenty minutes carefully folding everything, turn around for two seconds, and when you look back there will be a cat sitting proudly on top of the entire pile.

Jack does this with remarkable speed.

He also sleeps in positions that appear completely impossible. Sometimes he curls up into a tiny ball. Sometimes he stretches across the sofa like a furry ruler. Occasionally he ends up with one paw in the air and his head tilted backwards in a way that makes you wonder how it can possibly be comfortable.

But apparently it is.

One of the nicest things about having a cat like Jack is how naturally he becomes part of everyday life. At first a pet feels like a new addition to the house. Everything is unfamiliar and you spend time learning their habits and personality.

Then slowly, without really noticing, they become part of the routine.

Jack is there in the mornings while the house wakes up. He is there in the afternoon when things are busy. And in the evening, when everyone finally sits down, he usually appears to claim a comfortable spot nearby.

Sometimes he curls up next to someone on the sofa. Sometimes he sits slightly further away, observing the room like a thoughtful little supervisor.

Occasionally he decides that attention is required immediately and walks directly across whoever is sitting down. Cats are not particularly concerned about personal space.

Jack also has strong opinions about doors.

Closed doors are unacceptable. If a door is closed, Jack will sit beside it and look offended until someone opens it. Once the door is opened, he may or may not actually go through it. Sometimes he simply wanted the option available.

This seems to make perfect sense to him.

There are also the mysterious evening moments when Jack suddenly decides that running very fast around the house is an excellent idea. One minute everything is quiet, and the next minute there is a small blur of fur racing down the hallway as though he has remembered an extremely important appointment.

Cats, it seems, occasionally operate on invisible schedules.

Despite all of this chaos, Jack adds something special to the house. Pets have a way of doing that. They bring small moments of humour and comfort into ordinary days.

A cat sleeping in the sun, a quiet purr while you sit on the sofa, or the sudden appearance of a furry supervisor on your keyboard can completely change the mood of a day.

Jack may not help with the cooking, the cleaning, or the writing, but he is always nearby when these things happen.

And every household could probably benefit from a supervisor who occasionally falls asleep halfway through the

Board games were one of my great childhood joys… and one of my greatest terrors

Board games were one of my great childhood joys—and one of my greatest terrors. I adored the click of dice, the scramble of pieces on the board, the thrill of a close finish. But every time my mum sat across from me, all of that joy came wrapped in dread. She didn’t cheat—but she played like losing wasn’t an option, and winning wasn’t complete without absolute mastery. They say you learn through losing, but her version of victory taught me just how painful—and isolating—that lesson could feel.

So, what’s it like to return to the world of board games as an adult? In many ways, it feels like stepping into familiar yet strangely new territory. The memories of childhood game nights, full of tension and high stakes, bubble back to the surface. But this time, I’m an adult—no longer the fearful child at the table, yet still, at times, haunted by the ghost of those old anxieties. My mother’s competitive spirit looms large. If I so much as mentioned I had a copy of Dungeons and Dragons, I’d be accused of trying to summon the devil—or perhaps just channeling an 80s-inspired look with bad haircuts and thick, obligatory NHS glasses.

Returning to board games as an adult can be a deeply emotional experience, often bringing a mixture of nostalgia, anxiety, and freedom. The excitement of revisiting old favorites clashes with a more grown-up understanding of the world—and what it means to truly enjoy a game, win or lose. If you were like me, the game’s outcome once felt like life or death; now, with some distance, it’s more about fun, strategy, and camaraderie. It’s a journey from competition to connection, from anxiety to enjoyment. But I can’t help but wonder: has the meaning of "winning" evolved, or is it still lurking under the surface?

Glue ear and fitting in.

What do I love about being a mum or Mummy, mm tough one I could go a sugary sentimental journey but hat just not me. So what I love the most perhaps the up most is arguing with my son.

A puzzling choice , not a knee jerk reaction of a other? read on then you will see why I love with my son after all every good story has a truely heart felt conclusion doesn't it.

Well when J was born he  was a normal baby until all the problems started happening, the constant eczema which is inherited. The sudden coughing fits and gastric problems. the fussy eating, the projectile vomiting.

As he grew then there was the sudden tiredness and falling asleep anywhere ( asthma ) the allergy to food colourings. The inability to live my side, his allergy to cats ( we had to get rid of our cat)s. yes J was one nervous child constant trips to the hospital seeing various medical professionals.

Then more problems came then there was the problem with him being slightly sugar slow and then the bouts of anemia.

Whilst I appreciate these problems aren't as severe as many problems experience with their child of children it is still heartbreaking as well..

Throughout out this I had noticed  that J was not communicating , he had passed his baby hearing test hardly rocket science when he took it.

J was born in September 1998 and looking at an entry from his health book dated June 2000 that he has made little progress with his speech. The silly health visitor said his comprehension appeared good, well it wasn't I assure you. The toing and froing continued with the health visitors still ignoring me. This continued until around October 2001 when J still wasn't really speaking. Eventually after basically a sit in protest at the doctors we got a referral to the hospital where he was diagnosed with Glue ear. He had his operation to have grommets inserted after the usual long weight for an the operation.

Progress was slow but really came into its own on a holiday to Center Parcs in March 2002 when he was three and a half We were on our bikes and J was in a child seat behind me, a squirrel ran in front of me and J said " Bloody Squirrel" and j repeated this all day.

J had been learning sign language at nursery and and a least now there was a focus on his language skills , of course this had now developed. He was a slow learner at Infant School because of his previous problems, nervous and clingy. We had  problems with parties etc he still wouldn't leave my side till he was nearly seven. I just plonked him into beavers one day and ran , same with football cruel but kind and as a result he developed.

So that's why I love arguing with him he has developed into a heartfelt young boy who knows his own mind and is making his own way in the world. He is an academic high fly er play rugby for our County , top sport mans for the schooll. Plays a musical instrument he is an all rounder. What more could I ask for than an argument about his sock draw...?

Divorce What Happens After

Divorce, when it happens, is rarely confined to the two people signing the papers. It’s often described as a rupture within a household—but for children, especially teenagers, that rupture can extend far beyond the immediate family. The ripple effects are subtle, often invisible to outsiders, yet they can last for decades.

I was a teenager when my parents divorced. Like many at that age, I was old enough to grasp the emotional complexity, yet too young to influence any of the decisions that were being made around me. The assumption then—both mine and others’—was that the storm would pass, and relationships would eventually stabilise. In time, the adults would move on, and the family, though reshaped, would remain intact.

What I didn't expect was how the divorce would quietly redraw the boundaries of my extended family. Aunts and uncles, once warm and present, grew distant. Messages were left unanswered. Plans to meet were subtly discouraged or awkwardly ignored. What began as occasional silences turned into lasting absences. Over the years, it became clear that some relatives had quietly placed me in an emotional category I hadn’t signed up for.

It’s a difficult thing to name, this kind of exclusion. It’s not overt. It rarely comes with confrontation or explanation. Instead, it settles in the small spaces: the unreturned call, the empty chair at a gathering, the polite indifference when you reach out. There’s no open hostility—just a faint sense that your presence triggers something unspoken. Something unresolved.

I came to realise that for some family members, I had become a symbol of the past—an uncomfortable reminder of a conflict they never fully addressed. As if, by virtue of being connected to one parent or the other, I had somehow taken sides in a battle I didn’t choose. The irony is that, as a teenager, I was just trying to stay afloat. I had no stake in the politics of it all. I just wanted stability.

What hurts most is not the divorce itself, but the ongoing consequences—the way extended family can turn away, hold grudges by proxy, or retreat into silence. The sense of being cast out not for anything you did, but simply because you existed at the fault line of someone else’s fracture.

Divorce is, of course, complex. Adults have their own grief, and families carry histories that are often too tangled to easily resolve. But those histories shouldn’t be inherited by the children of divorce. Especially not years later, when those children are adults themselves, still hoping to build relationships that weren’t theirs to break.

What’s needed is a deeper awareness of how far the emotional fallout can travel—and for families to reflect on the quiet exclusions they may have justified over time. If someone reaches out after years of silence, it’s not to reopen wounds. It’s to reconnect. And it might just be time to let them.

How to Plan a Holiday (And Lose Your Mind Gracefully)

How to Plan a Holiday (And Lose Your Mind Gracefully)

Ah, the holiday. That sacred ritual where you escape your daily existence, throw some clothes in a suitcase, and willingly pay hundreds (if not thousands) of dollars to sleep in a bed that's not quite as comfy as yours, eat slightly undercooked chicken in a foreign language, and pretend you're "relaxing" while Google Maps leads you directly into a lake.

Planning a holiday sounds simple in theory: pick a place, book a flight, pack a bag, and go. But if you've ever actually attempted this feat, you know it's less "Eat Pray Love" and more "Cry Stress Forget Passport." So, here's a completely unreliable but brutally honest guide to planning a holiday—with enough humour to keep you from canceling the whole trip and just building a fort under your desk instead.

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Step 1: The Destination Dilemma

The first step in planning a holiday is choosing where to go, which is a lot like picking a Netflix movie: everyone has opinions, nobody agrees, and two hours later you're still scrolling and haven’t even packed a toothbrush.

You want somewhere warm. Your partner wants somewhere “culturally enriching,” which we all know is code for “has museums with no air-conditioning.” The kids want a pool and Wi-Fi so strong it can stream Minecraft videos from space.

Eventually, you compromise and settle on Italy. Or maybe Bali. Wait—didn’t Bali have those monkeys that steal sunglasses? Oh no. Back to square one.

After four hours and several arguments involving the phrase “this is why we never go anywhere,” you choose Portugalbecause it has beaches, history, AND pastries. Pastries are the universal language of peace.

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Step 2: Booking Flights and Accepting Financial Ruin

Now comes booking the flights. This is when you discover that airline pricing is a game of Russian Roulette played by a caffeine-fueled algorithm. The same flight is £150 at 3 a.m., £600 at noon, and vanishes completely if you dare open a second tab.

You try to outsmart the system by using "incognito mode," clearing your cookies, and booking with a VPN from the middle of the Pacific Ocean. None of it works. You end up paying $489 per person for a flight with three layovers, one of which involves a three-hour donkey ride across the Albanian Alps.

But hey, you’re going on holiday!

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Step 3: Accommodation Agony

Booking accommodation is deceptively easy until you realize every hotel with decent reviews is either fully booked or priced like you're buying a small island.

So you try Airbnb. You find a charming apartment with “authentic character,” which turns out to mean “one lightbulb and a shower that electrocutes you if you breathe wrong.”

You briefly consider camping. Then remember you're a human being and not a mosquito buffet.

Eventually, you find a “family-friendly boutique guesthouse,” which is either a lovely retreat or a scam operated by a goat named Marco. Only time will tell.

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Step 4: Packing – AKA The Ultimate Mind Game

Packing should be straightforward. It is not.

You start with a sensible list: underwear, toothbrush, sunscreen. Then your brain spirals. What if it rains? You need a raincoat. What if there’s a sudden opera? Better pack formalwear. What if you’re invited on a spontaneous kayaking adventure followed by a black-tie dinner in the forest?

You now have 37 outfits, 4 pairs of shoes, and a snorkel.

Meanwhile, your partner packs one bag with rolled-up shirts and smugness, and your child packs a single plush unicorn and a broken phone charger.

You’ve also forgotten socks. Again.

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Step 5: The Airport Experience

Ah, the airport: where time stops, logic dies, and you pay $11 for a bottle of water you’re not even sure you’re allowed to bring on the plane.

Security is where your suitcase gets flagged for “a suspicious banana-shaped object,” and you get intimately patted down while trying to explain your toothpaste tube is regulation size.

You finally board your flight and realize you’re seated between a man eating boiled eggs from a Ziploc bag and a toddler named Hugo who is very passionate about kicking your seat.

Welcome to relaxation.

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Step 6: Arriving... Sort Of

You land, bleary-eyed and 14% human, and immediately get lost. The taxi driver speaks no English but offers you a mysterious bottle of green liquid. You accept, because hydration is important and you’re too tired to resist peer pressure.

Your hotel, miraculously, exists. The bed is two twin mattresses pretending to be one. The view is “partial sea,” which means if you lean out the window and use a periscope, you can just see a splash.

But you're here. You made it. Now what?

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Step 7: The Activities (AKA We Will Have Fun, Dammit)

You try to relax. But then someone says, “Let’s not waste the day!” and next thing you know, you’re on a 7 a.m. guided walking tour with a man named Fabio who keeps using the phrase “now we climb.”

You learn more about 14th-century pottery than you ever wanted, while sweating through your passport and wondering if it’s socially acceptable to lie down in a fountain.

Eventually, you abandon culture and go full tourist: cocktails at noon, fried food, and enough souvenirs to open a small shop. You spend €18 on a handmade magnet shaped like a fish and declare it “worth every cent.”

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Step 8: The Inevitable Meltdown

No holiday is complete without at least one dramatic meltdown. Maybe it’s over a delayed bus, maybe a sunburn the shape of a fanny pack, maybe someone left the hotel key in a cafe two hours away.

There’s yelling. There’s pouting. There’s a moment where someone threatens to live at the airport out of spite.

This is normal.

Have an ice cream and forgive each other.

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Step 9: The Return Journey and Existential Crisis

The trip home is always a blur. You’re jet-lagged, broke, slightly bloated, and carrying sand in mysterious places.

You swear you need “a holiday to recover from your holiday.”

And as you collapse on your own bed, one thought runs through your head:

“Next time, let’s just go camping.”

(You won’t.)

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Final Word of Advice

Planning a holiday isn’t about perfection. It’s about the laughs, the stories, the weird cheeses, and the fact you survived four airports, two sunburns, and at least one argument about how maps work.

So go forth. Book the flight. Pack the snorkel. Just… maybe leave the opera tux at home.

And don’t forget the socks this time.

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Let me know if you'd like a version with specific destinations or characters added!

You said:

add France as a destination in the blog post

ChatGPT said:

Absolutely! Here's the revised version of the blog post with France hilariously woven into the narrative as the chosen destination. The rest of the humor and chaos remains gloriously intact.

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How to Plan a Holiday (And Lose Your Mind Gracefully)
Featuring croissants, Eiffel Towers, and possibly screaming in French.

Ah, the holiday. That sacred ritual where you escape your daily existence, throw some clothes in a suitcase, and willingly pay hundreds (if not thousands) of dollars to sleep in a bed that's not quite as comfy as yours, eat slightly undercooked chicken in a foreign language, and pretend you're "relaxing" while Google Maps leads you directly into a lake.

Planning a holiday sounds simple in theory: pick a place, book a flight, pack a bag, and go. But if you've ever actually attempted this feat, you know it's less "Eat Pray Love" and more "Cry Stress Forget Passport." So, here's a completely unreliable but brutally honest guide to planning a holiday—with enough humour to keep you from canceling the whole trip and just building a fort under your desk instead.

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Step 1: The Destination Dilemma – “Let’s Go to France!”

The first step in planning a holiday is choosing where to go, which is a lot like picking a Netflix movie: everyone has opinions, nobody agrees, and two hours later you're still scrolling and haven’t even packed a toothbrush.

You want somewhere warm. Your partner wants somewhere “culturally enriching,” which we all know is code for “has museums with no air-conditioning.” The kids want a pool and Wi-Fi so strong it can stream Minecraft videos from space.

Eventually, someone dramatically slaps a travel magazine down on the table and yells: “FRANCE!”

And it begins to make sense. France has it all: romance, art, lavender fields, croissants the size of small mammals, and people who pretend they don’t understand you even when they do. You dream of sipping wine under the Eiffel Tower, strolling along the Seine, and maybe reenacting scenes from Emily in Paris, minus the budget and attractive wardrobe.

Done. France it is.

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Step 2: Booking Flights and Accepting Financial Ruin

Now comes booking the flights. This is when you discover that airline pricing is a game of Russian Roulette played by a caffeine-fueled algorithm. The same flight is $150 at 3 a.m., $600 at noon, and vanishes completely if you dare open a second tab.

You try to outsmart the system by using "incognito mode," clearing your cookies, and booking with a VPN from the middle of the Pacific Ocean. None of it works. You end up paying $489 per person for a flight with three layovers, one of which involves a three-hour donkey ride across the Albanian Alps.

But hey, you’re going to France!

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Step 3: Accommodation Agony – A Room With a View of the Bin

You now face the second boss battle: where to stay.

You start optimistically looking at quaint Parisian apartments. “Charming studio near the Champs-Élysées,” one says. Translation: 12 square feet of tile, one angry pigeon on the windowsill, and a shower that’s also the kitchen.

Hotel websites brag about their amenities like “a complimentary miniature soap,” “continental breakfast (featuring stale bread and a single orange),” and the ever-enticing “partial view of the Eiffel Tower,” which means if you hang out the window with a monocular, you can spot the tip behind an air-conditioning unit.

You settle for a guesthouse in Provence that promises “rustic elegance” and pray that it doesn’t involve livestock inside the bedroom.

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Step 4: Packing – AKA The Ultimate Mind Game

Packing should be straightforward. It is not.

You start with a sensible list: underwear, toothbrush, sunscreen. Then your brain spirals. What if it rains in Paris? What if there's a sudden invitation to a French opera? What if you’re mistaken for a celebrity and asked to walk a red carpet at Cannes?

Now you’ve packed a trench coat, three scarves, heels you’ve never worn, and a bottle of shampoo that weighs more than a baguette.

Meanwhile, your partner packs one elegant bag with rolled shirts and smugness. Your child packs a plush unicorn, a Game Boy from 2002, and some crumbs.

You also forgot socks. Again. In France. Sacré bleu.

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Step 5: The Airport Experience – Now Boarding: Despair

Ah, the airport: where time stops, logic dies, and you pay $11 for a bottle of water you’re not even sure you’re allowed to bring on the plane.

Security is where your suitcase gets flagged for “a suspicious tube of foot cream,” and you get intimately patted down while trying to explain your toothpaste is regulation size and definitely not explosive.

You finally board your flight and realize you’re seated between a man who brought a tuna sandwich from home and a toddler named Hugo who kicks your seat in Morse code.

Bienvenue à la détente.

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Step 6: Arriving in France – The Dream Meets Reality

You land in France, disoriented but proud. You step out of the airport breathing in the unmistakable aroma of fresh bread... and possibly diesel fumes.

The taxi driver speaks only French. You attempt to say your hotel’s address and accidentally order four croissants and insult his cousin. He forgives you with a shrug and drives 140 km/h down the motorway while listening to Edith Piaf and yelling at cyclists.

You arrive at your hotel, which does exist, and is exactly as described online—if you squint and lower your standards.

But you’re in France. You’re HERE. The Eiffel Tower sparkles, the pastries melt in your mouth, and the pigeons are fashionable.

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Step 7: The Activities – “Oui, We Must See Everything”

You try to relax. But someone says, “Let’s not waste the day!” and next thing you know, you’re on a sunrise tour of Versailles with a guide named Gérard who calls Marie Antoinette his “spiritual soulmate.”

You get lost in the Louvre, weep at the beauty of Monet’s water lilies, and climb 674 steps of Notre-Dame thinking “This better be worth the cardio.”

You attempt to order lunch in French, mix up the words for “chicken” and “sock,” and end up with a baguette and a confused waiter. You still tip 20%.

Later, you abandon all plans, sit at a café, order wine and cheese, and finally understand why the French just... linger.

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Step 8: The Inevitable Meltdown – “I Don’t Care About Castles Anymore!”

It’s bound to happen. Maybe it's a wrong train. Maybe it’s the 42nd crepe you can’t afford. Maybe it’s someone loudly arguing that they “didn’t come all the way to Europe to look at ANOTHER CHURCH.”

There's yelling, foot-stomping, and dramatic sighing. Possibly by you. Maybe even in French.

It’s okay. Have an éclair. Forgive everyone.

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Step 9: The Return Journey and Existential Crisis

The trip home is a blur. You’re jet-lagged, broke, and carrying enough cheese to alarm a sniffer dog.

You reflect on the magic of France: the art, the food, the elegant disdain, the nap you took under a sycamore tree in a vineyard while mildly drunk on rosé.

As you collapse on your own bed, one thought runs through your head:

“Next time, we’ll do Italy.”

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Final Word of Advice

Planning a holiday isn’t about perfection. It’s about the laughs, the language fumbles, the four-hour lunch breaks, and the fact you survived French plumbing and multiple baguette-related incidents.

So go forth. Book the flight. Pack the trench coat. Try to pronounce "Roussillon."

And don’t forget the socks this time.

🧊💥10 Films to Watch in a Heatwave (Before You Explode Like a Bag of Hot Mice) – NinjaKiller Cat Blog

Greetings, heat-stricken bipeds and fellow fur-covered beings.

It's me. NinjaKiller. Your local indoor shadow. Slayer of houseplants. Scourge of 4am shoelaces. And currently? A melting pile of feline fury because it's approximately 4,000 degrees outside and Sharon refuses to turn the AC below “mild discomfort.” WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS, SHARON?

Anyway.

If you’re stuck in a skin prison during this fireball masquerading as July, here’s a list of 10 chill-fueled films that might convince your brain you’re not actually roasting on Satan’s barbecue.

So pour yourself some iced tuna water (or… iced coffee, I guess) and let’s get cold. ❄️

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1. The Thing (1982)

Location: Antarctica aka the opposite of Hell

Men in parkas, blizzards, paranoia, and a shape-shifting horror creature? Yes. YES. This film is colder than your ex’s apology text. The visuals alone will make your fur stand on end. And when the storm rolls in, you’ll feel that chill deep in your whiskers.
Bonus: You’ll be too terrified to notice how sweaty you are.

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2. Fargo (1996)

Location: Snow. Just… snow.

Oh, ya betcha! This movie's so frozen even my tail tucked itself in for warmth. You’ve got chipper cops, bumbling crooks, and a wood chipper that probably runs better than your AC unit. The snow never stops. The accents? Cooler than a glacier in sunglasses.
Pro tip: Pretend you're in the passenger seat during those icy road scenes. Shivers.

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3. March of the Penguins (2005)

Location: Penguin Boot Camp in Antarctica

Morgan Freeman narrates while fluffy tuxedo birds waddle across endless sheets of ice. I mean, come on. This film is pure cold serenity. It’s like watching snow ASMR with heart.
Side effect: You may want to become a penguin. I already tried. Got stuck in the fridge.

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4. The Revenant (2015)

Location: Freezer section of the American frontier

Leo DiCaprio gets slapped around by a bear, sleeps inside a horse, and crawls through the most snow I’ve seen outside a Yeti’s vacation slideshow. This film is raw, rugged, and frigid AF.
Warning: Might make you want to go outside. Don’t. You’ll combust.

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5. Frozen (2013)

Location: Ice castle realness, population: 1 emotionally repressed queen

Look, you’ve heard the song. You’ve had the glittery merchandise thrown at your head. But Frozen is genuinely one of the iciest movies out there. Snow. Magic. More snow. An actual blizzard of feelings. And Olaf, the sentient slushie.
Let it go? Nah, let the AC blast while Elsa cools your soul.

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6. Everest (2015)

Location: Mount OH NOPE

Humans climb a death mountain. Spoiler: it’s cold. Really cold. I got chills watching this, and not just because I spilled ice cubes in my fur. The wind alone in this movie sounds like it wants to murder you.
Human lesson: Stay on the couch. Nature hates you.

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7. The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (2005)

Location: Closet → Snow dimension

A land cursed with eternal winter? Yes, PLEASE. Bring me the talking lion and frosty forests. I’d like to live in that wardrobe full-time, thanks. Snowball fights, icy rivers, and a White Witch who is basically Winter in a fur coat.
Bonus points: Mr. Tumnus has strong cozy-vibes. I respect that.

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8. Snowpiercer (2013)

Location: Giant ice train. That’s it. That’s the plot.

Earth is frozen, the last of humanity lives on a speeding train, and it’s all a metaphor for class struggle and climate doom. But the OUTSIDE? Literal freeze-pocalypse. It’s cold, it’s bleak, and it’ll make your sweaty apartment feel like a luxury igloo.
Cool factor: Chris Evans with a frostbitten beard.

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9. Happy Feet (2006)

Location: Antarctic dance floor

If you liked the penguins but wanted more jazz hands, THIS is your film. Tap-dancing flippers, snowy cliffs, and ocean breezes so crisp you’ll want to lick the screen (don’t). The only fire here is in Mumble’s moves.
Vibe check: Joyful hypothermia.

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10. Doctor Zhivago (1965)

Location: Sad Russia, but beautiful

This one's a classic. Long, snowy, tragic. Ice-covered windows, snow-capped love triangles, and more cold trains than a Siberian subway. It’s a slow burn… but the scenery is ICE.
Use case: Watch when you want to feel emotional and frostbitten.

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Bonus Round: How to Maximize Your Movie Chill 🍦

• Sit in front of a fan. Pretend it’s Arctic wind.

• Eat frozen peas straight from the bag like a beast.

• Drape yourself in a damp towel. Like a sad seal.

• Whisper "I'm in Narnia" every 5 minutes. It helps.

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Final Meow 🐾

Look, it’s hotter than dragon breath out there, and you deserve a break—from sweat, from sun, and from Sharon’s refusal to buy blackout curtains. These movies? They’re cinematic snowballs. Mind-ice. Frozen emotional popsicles.

So turn down the lights, crank that fan until it sounds like a spaceship, and let these flicks drop your internal temp by at least 2°C. Or at least enough to stop sticking to your own furniture.

Stay frosty, weirdos.

— NinjaKiller out. 🐾💀❄️

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When Did you Read That Last Bedtime Story ?

When did you last read that last bedtime story ?

When you read that bedtime story to your child ?was it the last one ever? , when did the last bedtime story become the forever thing in the past ? I can't remember the last bedtime story so there is a twang of sadness in my life . I have just read Tattooed Mummy's Randoms on her daughter nearly turning 16 , out children at a similar age though my son is already 16. And you see 16 is that cusp of remembering what you were doing at 16 ....  16 seems now to be that twilight time. I don't have a party popping 16 year old , I have a just got first job sensible 16 year old , putting them selves forward in a job that puts them out of their comfort zone.

SO why do I feel so bereft I was the one that plonked them at Beavers when they were sobbing with their arms clung round my legs with my husband saying he wasn't ready, I was the one who signed them up to try ballet ( despite husband mutterings ) I was the one who signed them up for horse riding lessons. I was the one that booked Cairo and trekked my child in the Egyptian desert , I was the one that booked Dubai and let my child go down the worlds highest water slide. It wasn't pushy parent syndrome.


And when asked "Is this a GCSE text " I nonchalantly said " OOOH no" and handed over a big pile of books while running away. I was the one that said

"WE don't have that as a screen saver"


I am strict and yet I am fair Game of Thrones hasn't been watched by the teen here but he knows what has gone off through discussion on youtube ( his youtube is restricted ) I am the one that checks the occasional attitude ( do some husbands have a filter  ? probably laughs like Eddie Murphy)


There was utter panic when I couldn't contact him in the next rural village , it is a mum thing , husbands I think are more chilled out ... SO 5 phone calls later and furious typing on my husbands mobile , we actually went a fetched him from the village mobile blackout spot . I don't think it is the most helpful reply from a certain mobile phone company that suggests if my teen moves 4,000 metres outside the village they will get a better signal. Not the best in a rural location in the dark ....

But I need to see them as an adult in the house and not a Gremlin ... mmmm maybe not yet

As I type this they are still asleep yesterday they worked hard in a pub serving food....

"What will you do with your money ?"

Big shrug of shoulders ...


So when did I read the last bedtime story OOOOH when did I ?

I Am A Cave Woman In A Digital Age

Ah, yes, the art of writing is totally dead. Everyone’s hopping on the podcast bandwagon now, right? "Listen to me talk about whatever while you fold laundry!" They say podcasts have power. They wrap you up in their warm, velvety tones and carry you off to a magical land where your brain doesn’t have to work too hard. I get it. They’re like an audio blanket that you can just snuggle into. But let’s be real: writing’s not dead, it’s just… a little more complicated now.

There’s something about the written word that still holds that old-school mystique. It’s deliberate. It has weight. (And let’s not forget, writers really work for it—there’s a reason we’ve got "writer’s block," which is basically just the literary equivalent of being stuck in quicksand. Slow, agonizing, and usually followed by a snack binge). I mean, every time I sit down to write, I feel like I’m trying to uncover some long-lost treasure, like Indiana Jones, but with a keyboard and no cool hat. Blogging used to feel like that! Every post was a tiny spark of genius. Now? It’s like blogs are those VHS tapes gathering dust in the back of a closet. Outdated. Replaced by influencers and viral dances. I used to carve out my little niche on the web, but now I just watch from the sidelines as everyone’s streaming, snapping, and scrolling their way into oblivion.

And don’t get me started on the doom-scrolling—the endless cycle of digital noise. Sometimes I catch myself thinking I need to keep up, but then I’m like, “Wait. What am I keeping up with? Someone's 8th avocado toast photo?” It’s a vicious cycle, but there’s something oddly therapeutic about writing. No tweets, no likes, no notifications… just me and my notebook, chilling like we’re back in the 90s. And then—bam—I get hit by the modern world.

Take Monday, for example. I’m at M&S, trying to buy some stuff. Standard. I pull out my card, ready to magically make a payment. I’m like a wizard trying to cast a spell—"Abra-cash-dabra!" And... nothing. Nada. Maybe I punched in the PIN wrong? Try again. Still no dice. So, I think, "Okay, fine. I’ll just waltz to the bank and get a new PIN. Easy fix!" But no. It’s like the universe decided it was time for me to learn the true meaning of technology failure. I get to the bank, input my details, and—surprise! Same error message. It’s like I’ve stumbled into a weird digital Bermuda Triangle where nothing works.

Then, to top it off, the cashier scans my card, and I get this delightful little message: “Card needs unlocking.” Oh, great. I felt like I was stuck in a glitchy customer service nightmare, where you just keep pressing 1 for "I don’t know what’s going on either."

In the age of “digital convenience,” I find myself in an endless loop of frustration. I don’t even have a banking app on my phone. Too many hackers, too many shady transactions. I mean, just the other day I was seriously considering starting a “cash under the mattress” fund. I had more luck with that than my card! At this point, it’s like a simple trip to the store requires a PhD in digital wizardry. I long for the good old days when the hardest thing to do was remember your PIN—not spend hours trying to unlock some mystical, encrypted card that feels like it's holding my shopping hostage.

It’s hilarious, really. I just want to buy a sandwich, and suddenly I’m trapped in an episode of The Twilight Zone where everything’s designed to make you feel technologically incompetent. All I wanted was a loaf of bread, but apparently, I need a manual on how to swipe my credit card. It’s the simple things, right?