Hello humans!

Please feel free to sit down. I’m going to sing in a little while. Sort of.

When I first decided to share my thoughts and observations with the world (or as it currently stands, ten people!) I decided that routine and consistency were key, in order to gain a tribe of happy followers.

Tuesday was going to be THE day to post.

Well, today is Wednesday which makes me late and ashamed.

An inner ear infection thought it would take the opportunity to hit me with force just as I was getting into my most recent blog post, which will now be recent next Tuesday, opposed to yesterdays Tuesday.

Are you with me?

Anyway, I have roughly an hour before I have to leave to collect my smallest Plantpot from playgroup, which gives me time to put my hat on and tap away aimlessly and hope that the result increases my chances of forming a cult.

Last night I had a dream that I lived in an apartment block but could never find my way home. According to my dream I had resided there for years but still had no clue where it was.

This is the story of my life. I never really know where I am or how to get to where I am going.

I’m a bit like a tired, hungry sloth with no sense of direction.

Please sing along, in your head to that Adele song that everyone loved where the wind tries to whip the hair from out of her head. Poor girl.

“Hello, It’s me.

I don’t know where I’m going but I really need to sleep.

To close my eyes, for a bit

They say that snoozings supposed to heal ya

But I ain’t done much healing.

Hello, I’m fucking hungry

I wish KFC was open so that I could fill my tummy.

I just love chicken, or any fried meat

I’ve forgotten what it tastes like, even though I had it last week.

There’s such a distance to travel there, and I havent got a map.

Hello from just down the road

I wish I wasn’t so fucking slow

Can someone just come, to help me and things

I promise to share my southern fried wings.”

I lost interest in trying to make things rhyme towards the end there, but I’m not looking for chart success or a record deal, so it’s fine.

I have to go now. There is a fly in my dining room and my inner Jackie Chan is about to show it’s face.

Have a beautiful day.

Good luck and stuff.

Anna x

The Supermarket

What happened to free food samples in the local supermarket?

As a small child, with rather large glasses and ears that my head had to grow into, free snacks were an absolute highlight. Anything impaled with a cocktail stick looks edible, especially if you are 8 years old, and bored.

Rainbow, (I’m not talking Zippy, George and Bungle) once had a mid life crisis and introduced very tiny trollies to keep bored children occupied.

I was a child at the time and my parents buckled under pressure, allowing myself and my sister loose with one. They must of known immediately that terrible things were about to happen.

It was like The Grand Prix, except none of the drivers had a licence, coordination or a thread of spacial awareness. Grown humans were sent flying. Some scaled the shelves for safety.

It was carnage and I’d love to see the CCTV footage.

Children can be a royal pain in the arse even without a small trolly, and as a parent, I often find myself victim to ‘The Eye Rollers’ when one of our little plantpots is having a tantrum next to the teabags.

As a thoughtful person I consider the welfare of other peoples eyeballs, so I usually give in and buy the kinder egg.

The Eye Rollers are on what I like to call ‘The List’ because that is what it is.

So humans, put your hats on, we’re off to have a peek down the aisles.

The Yellow Sticker Sniffer. – With the overwhelming urge to fight for everything they don’t need at the reduced counter, The Yellow Sticker Sniffer is there before you can say ’10p off sushi’ They probably warm up to ‘Eye of the Tiger’ before leaving the house, and would make a pretty good scrum half for the local rugby team.

The Finest Couple. Wearing ‘oudoor’ slippers, they’ve just popped in to Tesco for a few bits and will probably grab a ‘Finest Ready Meal’ for when they get home. The oven has already been set to 180 and they never forget their shopping bags.

The Top Shelfer. I’m not talking boobs. The Top shelfer stands on tip toes and lamely reaches for products out of their reach whilst staring around with feigned distress. I am personally irritated by this character. Not because they are short, but because they should be taller.

The Aisle Huggers – Fran is trying to decide wether to buy baked beans, sauasage and beans or spaghetti hoops. Jenny hates tinned goods, but got lost trying to locate the organic flour. They see eachother at the local playgroup three times a week, but have never had a proper conversation. Midweek, in the local supermarket, seems like the opportune moment to share their life stories and become ‘best friends’

The Tinned Oddbod – A trolly full of Ambrosia and a face like thunder. I like custard, but do you need that much? And if so, why? What have you done? Where is the dead body?

Mr Growbag – I’m probably going to get a lot of shit for this, but plants don’t lie, and there is always someone hanging around the meat free department who smells a bit like a growbag. I am not opposed to the smell of compost, but I tend not to sleep in the greenhouse.

The Tetris Player – Their bags are packed in a specific order, because the bread must always stand upright and dairy products belong together. If the presssure is on, and Linda on the checkout wants to finish her shift, you can see the Tetris Player start to sweat, as tears fill their eyes. As a spectataor I always consider doing a lap of honour, on their behalf, when the last croissant is nestled safely in bag number three.

The Awkward Nodder You both reach for the same trolley and apologise in unison. At that point the universe has decided that you must bump into them down every. single. aisle. By the time you’ve reached the frozen food, every option to awkwardly acknowledge eachother has been exhausted. You bury your head in the McCains, pretend you didnt see them and then feel guilty about it for the rest of your life.

Nosey McNose Face– This is me. Gypsys read tea leaves, I read the contents of trolleys. Trying to work out what someones name is based on the brand of teabags that they buy is a skill. Plus, you never know whether you’ve got it right, so you can’t be wrong.

I could go on forever, but the little people in my belly are banging their drums, so I think I’ll return to The List another day, when I’m not feeling so hungry.

Is it socially acceptable to eat lasagne for breakfast?

Let me know in the comments.

Peace and Carrots

Anna x

Soft play

A six foot, forty-something year old man, wearing sandals, is enthusiasticly attempting to crawl through a bright red pipe, designed and made for a 5 year old.

Two small boys squeal like little piglets, as they follow behind him. “COME ON DADDY!”

The Daddy is genuinely ecstatic and having a great time getting stuck.

The Daddy also happens to be my husband.

We’re at the local soft play area with our little plantpots and Daddy plantpot is having a whale of a time, along with all the other parents who have thrown their inhibitions on the floor, along with their shoes.

Most of the adults here, left their brain cells outside the door.

I settled down with coffee that looks like a squirrel shit it out, and a portion of cheesy chips.

Do squirrels shit?

Adults lose all inhibitions when confronted with the view of big, coloured foam blocks., and a ball pit.

The skinny guy with grey hair and beige shorts who raises his eyebrows at you and says ‘gosh, I’m too old for this!’ appears, quickly grabbing a foam pole before furiously, and affectionately thwacking his grandkids round the head with it.

The echoey atmosphere. concerns me.

In most places, curdling screams would indicate injury or death, but in a soft play area , adults laugh and applaud when a child screams.

Unless they’ve had a poo.

There is always one.

That one child that decides to shit in the corner.

The mother runs, baby on her hip, screaming, ‘GET OUT THE WAY!’

Her motive is clear.

We part like The Red Sea.

(which is not actually red)

Run for the hills ladies… Husbands stuck in red tunnels, will find their way home.

Peace and Carrots.



The overprotective parent.

Laying face down on the grass, I felt my tears seep into the soil as I desperately and silently screamed for it to stop.

At that moment in time, the threats were real and their predictions were loud and clear. 

Something terrible was going to happen.

“Anna” the voice commanded.  “You WILL die if you get back to your feet”

Tickling the pit of my stomach with cold, invisible fingers, this feeling off fear and trepidation had slipped into my conscious, and subconscious mind, since I had opened my eyes.

That morning, I had plans.

But, unfortunately, so did they.

The entire journey was spent trying to suppress  waves of nausea and I sipped water with trembling hands, to try and relieve the sensation of my throat closing up.

Opening my window wide, I closed my eyes tightly and took several deep breaths, trying hard to ignore my shaking legs and tension in my jaw.

It would be fine, I tried to tell myself, over the rising panic. Nothing awful was going to happen.

I wasn’t going to let them ruin my day.

But, they did. 

And the result was me laying on the floor, like a weirdo, in the middle of a forest, convinced that I was about to pop my clogs for no apparent reason.

Mental health issues are no joke, and panic disorder is, what I like to call “The overprotective parents”

They’re there pretty much all the time, as a constant reminder that death or disaster are round the corner, preventing you from going forth and experiencing exciting things, or, to be honest, just living a normal fucking life.

It’s the parent that prevents you from going up a 3 ft slide, when you’re 28 years old, incase you break your neck on the way down.

I didn’t really intend to blog about mental health.  I’m generally not very good at writing  serious things but this blog post called to me while I was on the loo, and I haven’t been able to not write it.

I sat wondering, whilst I was having a wee. WHY did I struggle to meet deadlines and push myself to be creative.

It’s funny that the answer came to me whilst I was on the loo because bodily functions unnerve me.

I was suddenly scared.

I was scared because I am damaged.

Sharing experiences is, in itself supposed to be cathartic for both writer and reader,so let’s hope this post gives some comfort, or at least a bit of a laugh.

Conditions such as depression, anxiety, panic disorder, ptsd (just to name few) are hell to live with and the diagnosis of a mental health issue is a rather funked up concoction of relief and absolute terror.

Any element of fun or to anything diminishes as every, single, terrifying possibility hits you hard in the face.  

What should be excitement, adrenaline, and fire transpires into a intense and paralysing fear.

And this  applies to every single damn element of your life

During panic I feel like I’m sporadically being pushed, in the small of my back as I balance, precariously on the edge of the Grand Canyon, without a safety harness or anyone to save me.

This force?

 It’s ‘The overprotective parent’

Except, this voice, this presence, this THING, is not of a Mum or a Dad.

It’s invisible, but it’s all you can see when your eyes are shut.

It’s voice is a whisper, but it screams in your head.


Does your nose click when you’re laying in bed?

It’s always the left nostril and it makes a ticking sound, everytime I breathe in.  Sometimes, if I’m bored and can’t get to sleep I breathe in and out really quickly, whilst imagining that I’m sending morse code out to sea. 

I’ve asked several people, including family members, if they have experienced clicky nose syndrome but every single one of them have looked at me as if I’m plantpot crazy, and shook their head.

The invisible survey, therefore, currently indicates that I am the only nose clicker alive, but I’m hopeful this will all change as I reach out on a blogging platform, and plead with other nocturnal nose clickers to come forward.

Don’t be nervous humans.  You’re not alone.

In fact, if there are enough of us ,we could create a ‘Morce nose’ Facebook page, or even a band. I’ve always wanted to live on a bus.

Some would say that we’d be #livingourbestlife which is a phrase that I, personally can’t fucking stand.

It makes my brain itch.

I mean, how many other lives are you living?

And why are you using that hashtag alongside a photo of a scone with jam on?

If this is your best life, what’s going in your worst life? Soggy chicken skin?

Words are beautiful things but there are,without doubt, a fair few that make me want to furiously slap my eyeballs before I say them out loud, or fall into a hole as they come out of my mouth.

Let’s take flan as an example.

Whoever decided to call it a flan clearly wanted their guests and hosts to feel, momentarily awkward.

I don’t make or buy them due to the effect it has on my emotional stability.

The word, flan, said out loud, sounds like a sexually transmitted disease.

If I did make one, at some point, somebody is going to enquire as to what it is, and then I’m going to have to ask them if they’d like an sti to accompany their coleslaw.

Quiche, on the other hand, makes me wink.

It’s a sexy word for an eggy flan.

I can’t offer a piece of Morrisons ham and mushroom quiche, without giving the recipient a cheeky wink.

What food makes you wink?

And what are your thoughts on kippers?

I’m off to bite the ends off a KitKat now.

Have a hippy day.

Stay safe humans.

Peace and Carrots.



Eating your feelings

According to an article in Blackpool Gazette (November 2020) Walkers cheese and onion are THE favourite flavour crisp, for the majority of Brits.

I tend to agree. I can’t eat less than two packets at a time, and that’s mainly because they are half empty.

Looking into a crisp packet nowadays is like staring into voldemorts soul. Non existent.

*Note to all the “half cup, full cup” theorists… I’m not a pessimist, I just don’t like wasted space, especially if it could be filled with food.

I just wish it didn’t stick to me like the theme tune to Waffle the Wonder dog

I blame washing detergents for me having to squeeze into my jeans every morning.

“I’m not a porker”  I hiss to myself  through gritted teeth “They just shrunk in the wash.  It must be the new ariel acti tabs that I’ve only been using for the past 6 months.  They’ll stretch and fit if I hop around for a bit and then hold my breath for the rest of the day”

I pray to the food gods every night that tomorrow will bestow me with some self control, or a world wide crisp shortage combined with miraculous weight loss.

I’d probably sell my story to a well known arsewipe of a newspaper and buy some southern fried chicken to celebrate.

It will be fucking biblical mate. (Peaky Blinders fans, please stand up)

Don’t get me wrong, the determination to steer away from snacks and towards the health foods is pretty intense, but apparently my hands and mouth work independently of my brain, like when Will gets stoned in the Inbetweeners.

Except I’m not high, I’m hungry.

Eating a handful of unsalted nuts leaves me sorely disappointed when Gillian McKeith doesn’t  appear with a prepared speech and a certificate.

Reaching a new target on my phones stepometer the other day was exciting.  I forgot to mention to my husband that our 3 year old had been running around with my phone all afternoon and shamelessly and disgracefully convinced him that i had, indeed nearly completed an entire marathon. (Sorry Rob) 

Hormones are also a wonderful excuse to hit morrisons bakery with true intent.  Put your hands in the air if you blame much of your bad eating habits on mother nature.

Hormones are a helpful excuse for just about anything.

This is the first blog post that I am planning on publishing, and the food elf assures me that if don’t have hot chocolate and a doughnut to feed my creativity, then I won’t press ‘THE BUTTON”

So I am going to push the publish button.

After I’ve had some breakfast.

Peace and Carrots