Paris, you total beauty.


Sometimes if I reminisce about living in Paris too much, I actually cry. Like a big old wimpy baby I well up; my bottom lip starts quivering and I full on ball my eyes out. I miss our apartment with its hideous green bathroom/orange kitchen combo, I miss how we had to cook nachos in a slow cooker because we had no oven (takes 1 hour 15 minute for cheese to melt sufficiently if you're wondering), I miss the freezing/scalding kitchen tap that offered no washing up level appropriate heat compromise, I miss losing my shit on Disneyland's Tower of Terror every other weekend, I miss pain aux raisins being my only source of fruit and that being totally okay... Kim K cryface in full flow over here so let's look at some pictures instead, eh?














I had good intentions for this post which were to a) share some of my photographs from when I was gay and happy and living in Parie and b) not cry. Well, I completely and utterly smashed part a but if you'd like to pass me the Kleenex that would be great thanks please.

Have you ever been to Paris? 

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the cutest weekend getaway 1.0


As well as the doctor's dream team of antibiotics, painkillers and flu tablets; I think that every good medicinal handbook should suggest prescribing that fab little herbal drug: a change of scenery every once in a while. Preferably at a dosage of 3 to 4 times per year or, you know, whenever you damn well feel like it (because we all diagnose ourselves via Google anyway). 

Previously, weekend jaunts have taken me and Mikey to the Lake District, Venice and Bruges but sometimes there ain't nothing sweeter than holidaying in your own back yard. And by that I mean in your grandparents caravan about an hour away from home on the east coast of England. 































All pictures taken in the lush little seaside trio of Margate, Ramsgate and Broadstairs. And ain't they just the cutest little babes? If you ever visit I have one sole piece of advice for you: make sure you stuff your face with a GB Pizza Company pizza. You'll be talking about it for days, salivating about it in your sleep and might even consider breaking up with your boyfriend because he had the last slice without consulting you first.

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the agonizing life of a bluebell enthusiast


I always feel like bluebells don't hang around long enough, you know? In the same way that a large glass of wine seems to disappear before you've even drunk it, bluebells seem to burst forth in all this glorious great blue glory and just as you get used to frolicking in fields of blue and wondering why you ever have a reason to be sad again; they bugger off.

Also interesting fact alert (because this blog isn't all about pretty pictures and meaningless rambles, there is a solid 0.1% of it that caters to those budding intellectuals out there, so this ones for you Stevie Hawking, you loyal reader, you): 
half of the entire world's population of bluebells are here in the UK. 









If you find me crying into a dead bluebell field in the coming weeks, please just sympathetically pat me on the back and remind me that the sunflowers will be out soon. Or that Leonardo Di Caprio is still single.  I might stop sobbing and find the strength to carry on.