Monthly Archives: September 2012


I’m trying to blast out a blog post in the last 10 minutes of September, because I’m strange and get weird obsessions about how many blog posts one should complete during a month and as far as I’m concerned, the amount I currently have is NOT SUFFICIENT.

This is a cheeky little post I would have made into something bigger, except I don’t have time. SEPTEMBER IS TICKING AWAY PEOPLE. TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.

But, in good news, I think I have identified the reason I’ve been feeling so unmotivated over the past couple of weeks. Its a small thing that may seem insignificant, however, it has great power. Rather like a breath-mint. Or… I don’t know, a bee.

It is the writing of lists.


See, when I first became unemployed (voluntarily), I wrote lists to ensure that my days had some kind of structure and I didn’t sit around in my PJ’s in front of the log fire reading Harry Potter for 12 hours straight (though, to be fair, sometimes my list consisted of: 1) Start Harry Potter 2) Read Harry Potter 3) Eat chocolate and pretend it came from Honeydukes 4) Read Harry Potter 5) Bed). It worked quite well. Usually I didn’t get everything on my list done in a day, but that was good, because that gave me a starting point for the next list and a reason to get dressed and out of bed on the following day.

Then, when my voluntary unemployment began to become involuntary unemployment I continued the lists to give me a sense of purpose and drive.

But around two weeks ago, the list-writing stopped. It was because I was working so hard on a grant application that there was no time to even write: Monday To-Do List. WRITE GRANT APPLICATION. So, I stopped. And there endeth my motivation. Somewhere in the depths of two weeks ago, I stopped feeling motivated to do anything at all and everything that I did have to do (job applications, first drafts, second drafts, arts applications, washing) suddenly seemed so overwhelmingly large and insurmountable that the thought of getting off my arse and away from ‘Top Pet Model’ was so anxiety inducing that by the time I’d gotten a hold of myself again I needed to have another little lie-down.

But never fear! The list is back.

The most important thing with lists is to make your tasks achievable little chunks. So, instead of, say, writing: ‘Monday To-Do List: Become Gary Barlow.’ You’d write, ‘Monday To-Do List: 1) Investigate X-Factor application process 2) Create sellable and/or likeable and/or teeth-gratingly annoying persona 3) Choose X-Factor audition piece 4) Practice X-Factor audition piece with as many slides and trills and high notes as possible 5) Practice crying on cue.’ Now, you might not get all those things done in one day, but each step is an achievable thing, rather than attempting to become Gary Barlow in one day.

So. Tomorrow’s list includes:
1) Hand in CV’s to local Clapham bars

2) Complete 3 job applications

3) re-write Scene 2 of ‘Hello Hello’ (working title….)

4) two development applications

5) write 3 pages of new radio play

4) re-write scene 2 of Summer Cherries.

So! I can’t wait to get up in the morning. My obsessive-compulsive nature seems to equate making little ticks down a page with creating world peace. If there were a Nobel Peace Prize for list-making I would surely win it.

And with that, I sign off. Unfortunately ten minutes late for my September deadline. So, Happy October everyone!


Filed under Introspection, Unemployment

Little Girl Lost

I’ve been meaning to write this post for a while (by the by, how many posts do I start that sentence with?). And, what always happens when I’ve been meaning to write a post for ages is that the sense of it gets changed.

So, if I had sat down a week or two ago, this post would have been all about how, after a good two months in London, I was starting to lose momentum. That, surprisingly enough, even though I was where I had always wanted to be, I was feeling just as lost as I did when I first moved to Ireland. How every conversation I have been having recently seems to involve the question, ‘So, what are you doing in London?’ which inevitably produces a reaction from myself that looks a bit like this:

After which I would either laugh awkwardly and make some smart-arse comment about sitting around on the couch and watching old Friends episodes, or alternatively, I would launch into a detailed description of all of my life goals, dreams, achievements and disappointments over the past 5 – 6 years, including university courses, failed relationships, my time in Ireland  and eventually, after a good thirty minutes of anxious babbling and hand gestures, I’d finally conclude that I really wasn’t at all sure what I was doing in London except for the fact that when I was 15 I developed an obsession with BBC bonnet dramas and I really like Harry Potter.

Obviously it goes a little deeper than that. I’d always wanted to come over here because I was obsessed with British actresses and British theatre. I wanted to come here and try my hand at becoming the next British/Australian star. I at least wanted to come here and audition for places like the Globe, instead of Fantastic Furniture ads and ‘Home and Away’, thinking that being rejected from people I actually admire the work of would somehow make me happier.

But, now that I’m actually here it seems more than a little ridiculous. This place is massive. I’m one little person who nobody knows and who knows nobody. The biographies of the actresses I read at 16 were from a completely different industry, when not everyone wanted to be famous, when reality TV was not the all-consuming monstrosity it is now. The actresses I admired were straight out of acting school and had British accents and seemed to just walk into company jobs at the RSC. I am an Australian actress with very few credits to my name, well out of acting school  no agent and no clear idea of how to go about getting acting jobs or what jobs are even likely for myself in the London industry.

Writing’s not much easier. It seems everyone writing in London has studied, or is studying playwrighting at some sort of college, or is a young writers’ programme at the RSC. I don’t know which theatres to approach, I don’t know where to start self-producing work that might get seen, I have very few people that know anybody that might be able to help me self-produce work.

I know no-one, I know nothing, I have no plan. For most of September, since coming back from Stockholm, I’ve felt increasingly lost and anxious and its not just about the stream of money exiting my bank account without being replaced.

So, yes. This is the post I was going to write. And, I guess I kind of have. But the thing is that despite much mooching about the house and much anxious babbling and many days of sending out innumerable CV’s to unable-to-be-remembered job agencies making you feel like a metaphorical ant in the giant ant-colony that is London (or something), the minute that I manage to get out of the house, strange and wonderful things seem to happen. Things that make you think perhaps you do belong here and you do know people and everything is going to be a-ok.

And without further ado, here is a list of things that make me feel that, despite having no job, no plan, no communicable goals and a rather sad little list of contact numbers in my phone, I may actually be creating some sort of life for myself here and even if I’m not, I’m really having an awesome time anyways.
1) I have a favourite cafe, which serve delicious tea. Ok, so the cafe is in Shoreditch and I live in Clapham Common and it takes me a long tube ride and walk to get there, but it still exists and I go there regularly and I force other people that I know to go there also. And, the last time I was there, another friend of mine, who lives over the other side of the city in Ealing (west, west London), also happened to be there, because its also her favourite cafe and we didn’t plan it at all and it was all like, ‘woah, are we in Shoreditch or freakin’ Newtown?’ But, you know, in a good way. In a way that was like, ‘yeah, I have so many friends in London, I’m just always running into them wherever I go.’ Plus, the name of my favourite tea (‘Masala’) apparently means ‘fairytale’ or something similar in Turkish. That’s right, its fairy tea. Things don’t get much better than fairy tea.

2) I went out to the theatre with one Australian friend who is currently based in Berlin, but she was late, so I was sitting at the Royal Court waiting for her when another Australian friend, who I had hung out with just the night before, happened to wander into the theatre, seeing the show upstairs. We chatted until her show started and then just as she left the other friend turned up. It was like a revolving door of friends. Ok, so they’re both Australians and travelling through London instead of staying here, but it was another, ‘I’ve got so many friends, I’m the Queen of London’ kind of moment (see above).

3) I went along to a play reading night on Wednesday and had a small section of a play read and a director came up to me afterwards and asked to read the rest of the script. Huzzah! I also got free red wine. Free red wine is excellent.

4) I’m beginning to learn the tube map. I’m now confident enough to plan journeys to stations without staring at the gigantic posters in the station for minutes on end with my mouth open and looking like a tourist. I have complex strategies to ensure I get a seat on the tube, favourite stations and, if necessary, am now pretty much able to stand on the tube, whilst reading a book, and not need anything to steady myself. I’m all like, ‘I’m so used to being on the tube, its like I’ve got tube legs.’

5) I know which snacks are available at which chain coffee stores and know which are good and which are only ok. I also now know that its not pronounced ‘Pret a Man – gah’ (rhymes with ‘sanga’) but ‘Pret – a -Man-jer’ (like the first syllable of ‘Jerry’).

6) I was in a 48-hour film with a group of lovely people and even though I had to be the ugly sister in the film, the lovely people fed me brie sandwiches and doritos and even though they don’t really know me, they let me take one of their books on the 2011 Arab revoltions and Occupy movement home with me, because I had started reading it and wasn’t finished by the time shooting was over.

7) Apparently, my wardrobe and fashion-sense is becoming more London. I bought new pants and new boots, which make me look ‘very London’. Two separate people have told me this, so it must be true.

8) Sometimes people ask me for directions and I know the answer. This is satisfying for two reasons. One, I know enough to be able to give directions. But, more importantly, two, people think I look like I live in London. I can only presume this is down to the subtly changing wardrobe which has been previously mentioned in point no. 7.

9) I’m able to plan days out for people who come and visit me in London. Ok, sure, most of them revolve around Shoreditch High Street, free galleries and Hyde Park, but I haven’t had any complaints so far.

10) I have a nemesis: the horrible old man who hit me with his cane. I see him all the time in Clapham and its only a matter of time until I’m able to wreak my terrible revenge (ok, I’m probably not going to wreak a terrible revenge, but I do like to give him a death stare every time he walks past me, which makes him like satisfyingly confused. When I write it out like that I sound like a horrible human being. But, he hit me first!!!)




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Filed under Introspection, London, Unemployment


An incredibly strange thing happened to me today. In my (seemingly never-ending) quest for a job, I had stopped outside my local pub, having seen a sign about them requiring extra staff. I was getting out my book and pen to write down the details of where to send my CV, when a little old man came round the bend of the corner. I’m quite the fan of little old men. I’m the sentimental type and little old men, for me, conjure up associations with Geppetto, Grandpa Joe from ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’ and that magical guy from ‘Into the Woods’. All of whom have their problems but are, at heart, good and decent human beings with a fondness for riddles, puppets and chocolate.

As I was standing in the street, getting out my notebook, I heard the little old man (who was dressed in a grey suit, wearing a daffodil pin from ‘Daffodil Day’ and walking with a cane – again, as far as I was concerned, just adding to his charm) say something. I heard a familiar Irish cadence and my heart was warmed further. But, it was as I was looking up to smile at him that I tuned into what he was actually saying.

‘That’s a grand place to stand.’

Initially confused and mid-smile, I clocked the tone of his voice and the expression on his face and realised they more accurately expressed his feelings of how he felt about where I was standing. Wiping the smile from my face, I apologised and explained that I was simply writing down the details from the window of the pub in front of us. To which he replied unnecessarily angrily, I felt, considering we had only just started our acquaintance, that I could have written them down from the other side. A slightly strange comment, but I sorted through the sense of it and decided he meant the other side of the notice (I was standing on a diagonal, as opposed to straight in front of it). I should explain at this point, that I was standing next to the traffic lights and the combined effect of me and the traffic light had slimmed down the road somewhat. However, there was still plenty of space to get past me – I had made certain of this when getting my pen and paper out. I’m not a complete douche. However,  as I was already in the process of writing things down and couldn’t move to the other side of the notice as said grumpy old man was now standing precisely where he wanted me to stand, I went back to my paper without doing anything. I thought momentarily that this would be one of those irritating small memories I would feel guilty or stupid about for the rest of the day and then feel slightly grumpy that the old man had made me feel bad about myself, but there was nothing really to be done about it now, as the old man seemed determined to think of me as the worst human being on the face of the earth and nothing I did or said was going to change his mind.

But, the encounter hadn’t ended yet. The little old man walked behind me (thus proving that I had left enough space for someone to get past me and that his comments and grumbling was unnecessary), but before he went on his merry way, he turned around and whacked me on the small of my back with his walking cane.

That’s right, you read correctly, the wrinkly old bastard actually hit me on the back with his walking cane. And I don’t mean he tapped me lightly or attempted to move me on with the end of his stick in the manner of the aristocrats of old attempting to get the riff-raff of the street away from their shiny shoes and creamy pants, I mean he gave me as proper a thump as his wasted old man arms could muster.

I was, of course, furious and turned around to confront the asshole. But, the blood pumping over time to my brain and the surprise pain on the right hand side of my back were making it hard to concentrate. I yelled, ‘Excuse me!’ with as much wounded pride as I could muster. He turned around. I had to continue, but I had nothing. ‘You just hit me with your cane!’ I yelled. Which, you would think the little old man was pretty aware of. He confirmed that he had done so, nodding and looking pretty darn pleased with himself. I told him that was abuse and I could legitimately call the police. To which he laughed and said, ‘go on, go on.’ And walked off down the street with a decided skip in his step.

Which made me want to grab his cane, break it over his head and then push him into the path of the oncoming double-decker bus.

Of course, I didn’t do this, because I am good and kind person who would never hit someone with a cane just because they had failed to realise that yelling at them was an attempt to get them out of the way (I realised later when the adrenaline had left my system – as you always do – that he had been *trying* to get me to move and that what I should have said was, ‘if you want someone to move out of the way, you need to ask them politely, not resort to violence.’ But, of course, he never actually ever asked me to get out of the way. He just yelled at me, which just kind of confused the whole matter for the both of us).

It takes a lot to make me angry. But I was pretty darn furious at this particular ‘gentleman’. I’ve had a few instances like this in my life – interestingly enough, all involve men – where you’ve been so thoroughly and violently humiliated that there actually is no sufficient verbal retort that will make up for how awful you’ve been made to feel. How do you respond to a man who deliberately throws a full beer in your face? How do you respond to an old man, a stranger, essentially treating you like a 14 year-old schoolgirl circa 1950 in the middle of a busy street? I was particularly furious that, aside from hitting him back, there was pretty much nothing I could do to retaliate. We both knew I wasn’t going to call the police. He was pretty certain I wasn’t going to hit an old, frail man – hence why he felt confident hitting me in the first place. So, what’s a young, healthy woman to do when she’s been abused in the street by an old, frail man, when she’s been made to feel like a piece of dirt, when she’s hurried away trying to fight back tears?

Well, she complains about the pathetic, little dickhead on her blog, of course. And, she resolves that if she does get the pub job and that horrible little Irishman ever comes in to order a drink she will do one of three things. She will:

a) Refuse to serve him

b) Spit in his glass before filling it.

c) Make him the largest, frothiest loveliest looking beer, bring it over to his table, smile sweetly, and then dump it all over his horrible, bald head.

Disclaimer: not ACTUALLY the man who hit me. Just to avoid any liable suits. Found at:


Filed under London, Random

Got a Job… Quit a Job.

So, I had a little celebratory FB post last week. Self-congratulatory to the max. I had a job! After 8 weeks in London (has it really been that long??) I had finally convinced someone to give me a job. I basked in the many thumbs-ups from friends around the world. I was validated as a human being! People would pay me to do things! I was employable! I had a JOB.

Of course, I didn’t let on what the job was. That was quite deliberate. That was because I really, really, really didn’t want to do the job. Because the job was terrible. I knew it was going to be terrible. It was the one job I’ve always said I would never do.

It was… Charity Call-Centre Fundraiser.

Mildly better than being one of the people on the street, I thought. That’s something.

And I was getting kind of bored of sitting on my behind and watching ‘Friends’ repeats on the telly. I was getting bored of sitting around in Clapham Common at various cafes. I was really, really bored of filling out job applications and hearing nothing back.

‘I just need a job! Any job!’ I told people. ‘Its been too long! I just need a job!’ And, when the Royal Court wouldn’t let me interview for an usher position once I had returned from Sweden, I thought my only option was to take up the dreaded call-centre fundraiser position.

Its only temporary, I told myself. You can quit whenever you want, I told myself. You can keep applying for jobs at the same time as doing this job. At least its for charities. You like charities. The people seem really nice, even if they do keep describing this as the worst job ever. If you want to go away again later in the year, you really need to take this job.

I told myself so many things just to convince myself to the job interview. Then I told myself many other things to get myself to the training. Even more things to get to the first briefing and then many, many things to get to my first shift (‘its only 7 hours. It’ll be over soon. You don’t need to go in tomorrow. You’re free ALL of TOMORROW!’). Once I was there, it wasn’t really possible to leave, so that at least made life easier and cleared my brain to actually attempt to make money for the charities.

Last night, however, facing my next shift at the place today, I stayed up until about 1am (‘don’t make it be Friday, don’t make it get to Friday, if I go to sleep I’ll wake up and it’ll be Friday…’), filling out job applications, watching ‘Sex and the City 2’, even though I knew it was shit and eating far too much Indian food even though I was completely and utterly full. Now, if that is not a cry for help, I don’t know what is.

All morning I attempted to gee myself up. I told myself I could go and buy a beautiful vintage dress I’d seen yesterday if I would just go to work. I told myself I had the whole weekend free after today and it really wasn’t that long, all things considered. I told myself many things, none of which worked. And then I talked to my housemate, who was fully behind my decision not to go to work and then I thought about it and realised that as long as I didn’t take any more holidays (like the ones in August) I really didn’t need a job for another 2 – 3 months.

So, I decided not to go to work. Now, just to make this clear for you, I lasted A SINGLE DAY at my new work. And, just to make things even more ridiculous, I went and bought the vintage dress anyway (though, I did then attempt to walk home from Shoreditch in some bizarre attempt at cost-savings: buy a 38 pound dress, but save a pound or two on the tube because ‘I’m not working and I need to try and be frugal’. That makes sense, right?)


Don’t have a job. Do have a dress!

The young me, the 20-something who is attempting to figure out what to do with her life and make her days meaningful, is fully behind this decision to quit the job. She thinks, well done on having enough self-awareness to know you couldn’t stick it out! Well done on correctly identifying the overwhelming emotion (anxiety) that was filling your throat whilst you tried to sleep last night, realising its source and fixing the situation! Well done on putting your mental health before money and not feeling like you HAD to get a job just because that’s what people expect after you’ve been in a place a certain amount of time.

But, the problem is there is a crotchey old man voice in my head too. I’m not entirely sure how he got there, actually. But, he’s grumpy and bent over and has a big chin and a walking stick and he thinks that 20-something Jenny has just had it far too good for far too long and she should just suck it up and take whatever comes her way. There may be references to ‘his generation’ and the Great Depression and making the best of your lot; grouchy sentences stating that work isn’t about dreams its about reality and mutterings about determination, struggles, stoicism, grit and various other noble words.

On some level, I do think the crotchey old man is right. I do sometimes worry about my generation and its seeming inability to concentrate or commit to anything for any longer than… I don’t know, the ad breaks in between episodes of the Simpsons (thank you Year 8 Maths teacher for that particular insult). I do worry that we’ve been sold some sort of impossible dream by our parents and Hollywood and afternoon TV about work being some kind of vocation and that if you don’t love it with all your heart, if you don’t find exactly what is your special skill and unique contribution to the world then you need to figure out exactly what it is quick smart and do that instead. In some ways I think we’ve all been far too privileged (and when I say ‘we’, I mean ‘me’, though do feel free to let me know if you feel the same way): we’ve been given so many opportunities at school and outside of school, we’ve lived through seemingly endless economic boom times that are only just going bust as we get to adulthood. We lived through this kind of golden age for youth and adolescence where we were all mollycoddled and now we don’t know how to function in the real world.

I believe at this point that if I were a fan of Lena Dunham’s “Girls” there would be an uncomfortably similar moment or quote that I could relate to this whole incident and then feel like a terrible human being because I was similar to Lena Dunham (not that I think she’s a terrible human being, but, just… well, she does kind of portray herself as a terrible human being on that show).

The one thing I have realised at least is that if I’m able to buy a vintage dress and still quit my job then I’m really not at the end of my tether just yet and I am allowed to relax and try and enjoy my unemployment for a little bit longer. So, the question now when I complain about money should always be, ‘Well, yes, but, are you poor enough to go work at a call centre yet?’ Hopefully the answer will never be ‘yes’. Hopefully I’ll get a good-ish job before it ever gets to that point that I would have to answer ‘yes’ to that question. Because, no matter what the crotchey old man thinks, I just don’t think I could possibly stick it out at the call centre. And if I forced myself to stick it out I can only envision further vintage clothing shopping sprees, late nights depressed in front of Sex and the City and hours of anxiety eating.

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Filed under Unemployment

(in)elegant Jenny

I’m not sure if its because there are so many elegant, well-dressed, lovely women around London with which to compare myself, or if I have just become extra pathetic since moving here, but I do seem to be getting myself into a ridiculous number of the sort of scrapes that typically form the ‘before’ montage of the sad, mousy heroine in a 90’s rom-com before our hero’s love sets her inner-beauty, self-confidence and natural poise free. Examples:

1) Clapham Common tube station doesn’t seem to like my short, flirty skirts. Or, conversely, Clapham Common LOVES my short, flirty skirts. Loves them so much, in fact, that it can’t help shooting strong, continuous gusts of air towards me as I walk down the stairs, sending my skirts flying sky-high and making me look like an umbrella turned inside out in a small snow-storm. Of course, there is something quite sexy about a long skirt floating prettily upwards and allowing teasing glances of the legs underneath, as we all know from that picture of Marilyn. Let me assure you there is nothing at all sexy about your entire skirt flying straight up revealing the top of your stockings, your flabby belly and granny underpants from all sides, all at once. Too much information, as they would say. Furthermore, there is nothing sexy about the girl in that dress who, instead of giggling coquettishly a la Marilyn and delicately pressing down the front of her skirt, starts emitting short, painful panicked shrieks and begins some sort of manic dance, attempting to push down all the sides of the skirt at once, flailing about and hitting innocent passerbys in the process.

2) Dust and/or Pollen and/or Pollution. There’s something in the air in London. Well, presumably there’s a lot in the air in London and it seems to be constantly shooting up my nose, tickling it, making it itch and generally making a nuisance of itself. If I’m not about to sneeze, mid-sneeze or recovering from a sneeze, I’m attempting to scratch my nose without touching it with my fingers (because then people might think I’m picking it) by moving my lips in a circular motion and creating all sorts of fabulous faces in the process. Eventually, I’ll give up and think that scratching the itch and getting some relief is worth the strangers on the tube thinking I’m picking my nose. This will result in approximately 45 secs of relief before the whole process starts again.

3) Walking. I do love a good walk. But, apparently I’ve lost the ability to walk since moving to London. Well, actually, somewhere along the way, I lost the ability to walk except in completely flat shoes. It doesn’t matter what speed I’m going at, or the relative bumpiness or flatness of the ground I am walking along, at some point during my walk, one or other of my ankles (or sometimes both at the same time!!) will suddenly collapse in on themselves. To begin with, this kind of hurt. Over time, my ankles seem to have gotten used to the violent movement and it no longer bothers them. It no longer bothers me, either, except for a slight gritting of the teeth and a rueful shake of the head. The only people it seems to worry are the poor passerbys who have to witness my strange jerking and bopping walk, or, in some cases, the person I’m walking with who will be shocked to find me momentarily 5 cm shorter than I was previously and then suddenly restored to my old height.

4) Bags. When I left Dublin I spontaneously decided that handbags were a completely unnecessary frivolity that I did not have the space in my suitcase for. I threw out my handbags with gay abandon (and, when I say, ‘threw out’, I mean, give to a charity shop)! I had backpacks! Many backpacks! I had so many things for carrying things! I needed not these so-called ‘handbags’! Of course, now that I’m in London I’m extremely self-conscious about my lack of handbag (all the elegant London ladies have handbags!) and am constantly using a single weak little canvas bag because it is the closest thing I have to a handbag. For some unfathomable reason, however, this canvas bag seems unable to rub up against my clothes without pulling them up. Last week, walking through Waterloo Station, a British woman came up to me and said, ‘I think your bag has caught your skirt a little.’ She was displaying the Brits’ excellent ability for understatement, for when I looked down, I saw that one entire butt cheek was hanging out of my dress, which had somehow managed to loop itself up and over the canvas bag. I know not how. But, I also do not know how to solve the canvas bag/handbag dilemma. Except for, of course, buying a handbag… which I am oddly reluctant to do.

5) Complete and Utter Clumsiness about the House. My poor housemate, Dan, is constantly coming out his room and sighing, ‘Are you ok?’ in response to little yelps or screams on my behalf. My comments are always along the lines of, ‘Oh, yes, I just… got caught in the door,’ or ‘Oh, yes, its just I kicked that bit of wood in with my toe and then my toe got caught between the two bits of wood and…they pinched me.’ I think he’s just worried now because the second week I was here, before he knew me very well, I was attempting to fill up a hot water bottle and I managed to drop the boiling water all over my hand, the kitchen bench, the floor and my toes. He had to set me up on the couch with a bucket of ice water for my hand, a tray of ice water for my toe, clean up the kitchen and then get me my hot water bottle and Nurofen Plus. I mean, really. Could I have been more pathetic? I think he believes I’m simply incapable of existing in the modern world without assistance now.

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Filed under London

New Website, Same Jenny

Moving over from the ol’ blogspot, which is really starting to look dated these days.

You’ll find all the old posts here, so do go exploring. And…


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