My mum had a knack for friendship. A gift, really. I didn't inherit her easy ability to make and keep friends, alas, but I was a beneficiary of it for thirty years so I can't complain.

Friday marked one year since my mum died. (When I mentioned the anniversary of her death would fall on Good Friday, Fin's comment was, "She's in good company." Indeed. Not going to hold my breath for a similar outcome, though.)

This is not the post I ever imagined would follow Wednesday's announcement, but life seems to have little regard for my plans. So does death, for that matter.

On Thursday evening, my wonderful mum, Rosie, died. I am heartbroken.

My mum was so proud of me for writing this blog and loved to read whatever nonsense I'd written. She was the first real-life person, besides Fin, to read it and left so many funny and supportive comments over the years.

Mum was bright, witty and had a fantastic way with words. When I left home, she used to send me constant little letters and notes, which I loved to read (and, thankfully, have kept). She was my inspiration in countless ways, but especially in writing.

Not long after I started this blog, Mother's Day rolled around and I asked if she would like to write something in honour of the occasion. In a strange quirk of fate, or timing, or something else, that post was published exactly three years before she died.

I'm struggling to find words to express everything I'm feeling at this moment, so I'm going to hand over to her. She always knew the right thing to say.

If you're reading this, it means my family has made it to Christmas in one piece. Things were looking pretty hairy for a while there, and the new year feels a million miles away, but for now, for today, we are here. Tidings of joy might be pushing it a bit this year, but comfort will do very nicely.

Thank you to everyone who has been thinking of us and for everything you've given me, be that a beautiful wreath, a surprise package of amazingness, or your kind and thoughtful words. I am very lucky.

Wishing you a day filled with love, naps and booze.


Illustration by the wonderful Eilidh Muldoodles

Dear Santa,

This Christmas, I would like:

1. To get a good night's sleep.

2. To look and feel vaguely presentable, bearing in mind that my definition of "vaguely presentable" has relaxed considerably since the time you brought me those pink GHDs.

3. To accept that I am old and boring and that all I really want to do is curl up with a good book and a packet of biscuits.

To that end, I would not cry if any of the following made their way into my stocking.

This time last year, life was pretty much exactly the same as it is now. I was living in the same flat, walking to the same office, sitting in the same ergonomic chair for eight hours a day. Today, it all feels so settled, so normal, so nothing-to-see-here. Last year, I was reeling. I'd lived in three different flats in the space of a month, my belongings scattered across Edinburgh like shrapnel, and I had just returned to work after three hectic months of moonlighting as an intern for Breast Cancer Care.

My day would start on the 8.37 train to Glasgow. I took the scenic train, the slightly longer one, because it took me directly where I needed to go without having to deal with barriers or lifts or platforms or commuters or tickets. I'm not good in the mornings.

People always say, when they're trying to sell internships, that every day is different. I probably ought to say that, too, but the truth is most days were the same. In many ways, it resembled my job as a lawyer, at least on the face of it. There were differences, of course: the technology wasn't as fancy; the office chairs were pink; I didn't need to record my time every minute of every day (blessed relief); the team meetings all involved cake. I was still sitting at a computer all day, though. I still organised things, recorded information, cajoled and persuaded people. I chatted and joked with the women sitting around me (and they were all women), asked them about their weekends, got to know them and like them and admire them greatly. It felt like any other job. Work is work, whether it's paid or not.

That's one thing that I found interesting about the whole experience, actually. It turns out that salary, or the lack thereof, holds very little interest for me. I was no less motivated as an unpaid intern than I am in my overpaid job as a stuffed shirt. I tried just as hard, cared just as much, took it every bit as seriously (which isn't always very seriously at all). I don't think it was the idea that I was "doing good" that motivated me, either; most of the time, it was difficult to quantify what good I was doing, if any.

To be a good fundraiser, you need to be a person who thrives on targets. You need to see totals inching up on a whiteboard and want nothing more than to smash last year's total, or blow this year's budget out of the water. I am not that kind of person.

If I learned anything from the experience, it's that fundraising does not and never will come naturally to me, and that's ok. I have other talents. I can find the best place to bulk-order pink heart-shaped sunglasses and feather boas. I can write letters to law firms, highlighting an obscure provision in the solicitors' accounts rules that lets them give stranded cash to charity and suggesting they might like to give it to us. I can work an event for 19 hours straight, directing and setting up and taking down and generally getting shit done, and I can do it with a horrible infection and a smile on my face. I'm a doer, not a blagger, and I'm glad I had the chance to find that out.

While "doing good" wasn't a daily motivation for me, it was, of course, a huge part of the reason I took up the internship in the first place. I've written before about Breast Cancer Care and the work they've done in raising awareness of, and supporting people living with, secondary breast cancer. They're still leading the way on it (this handy guide on what not to say to someone whose cancer has spread is just perfect). They've also, somewhat controversially, changed their primary colour from pink to orange. Given my ambivalence towards pink, naturally I'm completely on board. It's a fantastic organisation, run by wonderful, talented people, and it was a privilege to give them my time.

Of course, my interest wasn't just charitable. It was personal. I applied for the internship the day after I found out my mum's cancer had spread further. An unsurprising reaction, if an extreme one. It was an attempt to counteract my helplessness and take control of an overwhelming situation.

One year on, how do I feel? Helpless. Overwhelmed. Out of control. Some things, you simply cannot change.

My day would end back on the train, nestled in a corner, more often than not with a book in my lap, more often than not asleep as the train jostled through the countryside. Commuting is hard. Shaking collection buckets is hard. Making ends meet when you've given up getting paid for three months is hard.

Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.

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Image: Christina Winkelmann for ban.do

When I was a teenager, I kept a diary. I haven't looked at it in years, firstly because I'm not 100% sure where it is (a situation with extreme awkwardness potential, given that my brother now sleeps in my former teenage bedroom) and secondly because I know the first page contains some godawful emotive ramblings inspired by a visit to Culloden and I don't think I could cope with the crippling embarrassment of reading it.

If I could overcome these hurdles, though, I don't know that re-reading my diary would paint a particularly accurate picture of those years. My diary-keeping habits followed a set pattern. When I was wallowing in some overblown friend-related drama, or filled with unrequited yearning for the wise-cracking boy in my physics class, I would churn out pages and pages of painfully unselfconscious warblings. When, on the other hand, I was calm and happy - which was most of the time, because my friends were mostly lovely and physics boy quickly succumbed to my charms - I had no interest in writing. I was too busy doing.

Lately, with blogging, the pattern seems to have reversed.  2013 has been a profoundly crap year for me with one thing and another, and the month of October wins a gold star for being the Crappest of Them All. But instead of spilling my guts, I clam up. This is a public space, and I prefer to keep my dirty washing in the huge untended pile in the middle of my bedroom, where it belongs. And since all my washing is dirty at the moment (this is no longer just a metaphor; I really need to do some washing), I blogged precisely nothing in the entire month of October. Not one word. I think that might be a personal record (of lameness).


I am the queen of procrastination. I can put off anything, anytime. This blog is just one of many aspects of my life that have been put on the back burner while I deal with some Hard Stuff. But the time has finally come, my friends, for this to stop. Or rather, for me to start. Start writing, start thinking, start pulling myself out of the slump in which I've been wallowing.

To that end, I am going to attempt to drag this blog back to life with my bare and bloody hands, by going from one extreme to another.

This November, I am going to attempt to publish a blog post every day.

EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.

This harebrained scheme was inspired by a few bloggers I know who are participating in the Blog Every Day In November challenge. There's a prompt for each day, which I'm going to use as a vague guide, but I can tell you right now I have fuck all to say on the subject of "National Stress Awareness Day" (6th November), among others, so I will probably go off-piste a few times.

In all honesty, I'm not expecting to manage every single day. Fate may well intervene - work is extra busy just now, my mum hasn't been doing that well of late, and the end of November might as well be the end of the century if my ability to predict what might happen is anything to go by. All I can do is try. So here we go.

Wish me luck.


(Those of you who subscribe by email, I apologise for what I am about to do to your inbox. If it's any consolation, you're my favourites.)

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Images:1. Globo by Daniela Dahf Henriquez 2. Friedrich Kunath, Untitled, 2009

Things have been a bit, well, shit. My mum is having more treatment, again, which means she'll soon be bald, again. My body has been behaving traitorously in numerous ways, most recently by puffing my tonsils up like popcorn. Our neighbourhood went on fire. Twice. And some other things. And a few more things. And, and, and. Bla, bla, bla.

While life has been stabbing me and my tonsils with the pricks of a thousand tiny needles, I've been wrapping myself in every soft thing I can find. I pull my words close like a blanket. Writing candidly feels like nakedness, writing fluff feels like a cop-out. So I write nothing. I read nothing. I feel nothing, or so I like to tell myself.

In the end, the simple pleasures are what save me. Bright colours on a sunny day. Friends from afar, bearing Pop-Tarts and penises (don't worry, they were free range). Skipping and shrieking into the North Sea, with only two dogs and handful of bewildered tourists for company. The final countdown to a dear friend's wedding. And did I mention the Pop-Tarts?

I'm still choosing my words carefully, weighing up which ones I can spare. Writing means thinking, and my thoughts have been otherwise occupied lately. Occupied with very important things, of course; like imagining ways to surf Pinterest for a living, and setting up Smidgen's Instagram account because apparently I'm now that level of crazy. (Seriously though, you should follow her. She's very photogenic.)

Other, less ridiculous thoughts are jostling their way to the surface. The words will follow. I'm almost sure of it. Stick around, won't you?


Failed Opportunities print by JenniPenni

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I have to apologise. I realised last week, when I wrote about my mum having chemo many years ago, that I haven’t been keeping you in the loop. In fact, I haven’t really given you any update at all since we had bad news last April. So in return for all of your kindness about the new blog design, here is, erm, a nice depressing post about cancer. My thank you notes really leave something to be desired, don't they? Sorry. At least the pictures are pretty.





Last year came and went. There was treatment, there were scans. My mum lost her hair for the third time in her life. I sought some meaning and purpose in all this mess by swapping work for volunteering for a while. Slowly, very slowly, the hair grew back. The scans proved hopeful. We breathed out.

Then on Christmas Eve, of all days, I got a call to tell me she was in hospital with the same symptoms that had us worried last time. Thankfully she wasn't kept overnight into Christmas Day, and it turns out the side effects of steroids (eating constantly, putting on weight) are exactly the same as the side effects of Christmas, so no problems there.


The new year came, and with it a new treatment plan. More chemo. Hurrah. In an exciting new twist, this stuff doesn't make you bald, but it does leave your mouth bubbling with blisters and your feet in perpetual cramping agony, which is quite enough to be getting on with thank you very much.

And here we are still. Chemo, blisters, waiting, caring, hoping.


It’s funny how it gets both easier and harder to deal with bad news. Easier, because you've been through it before and know roughly what to expect. Harder, for the same reasons.

This time around, I've decided to cope by burying myself in creative projects. As well as the blog makeover, I designed and styled a display for my friend Lauren at the Glasgow Wedding Collective fair a couple of weeks ago, and in return she took these beautiful pictures of me with my mum and aunt. I can't thank her enough.

(Pictures of her stand in all its woody, scrabbly, flowery glory coming soon, because I know you're waiting with baited breath.)





And even more exciting than blog makeovers and pretty flowers, Fin and I are going on holiday tomorrow. TOMORROW. I can't wait. It's been a hard start to 2013 in many ways, not just because of the crap that my mum's going through. I'm still building up to telling you about all of it. But in the meantime, I plan on doing nothing in the next week but skiing, sleeping, drinking wine, reading actual printed books, and eating my body weight in unpasteurised cheese. (In case you can't tell from that description, we're going to France, a country where they store their cheese in the basement instead of the fridge. Bring it on.)

So that's where we are. I don't know why I've taken so long to get round to writing about this. You've always been so kind and supportive whenever I've talked about what we're going through, and hitting publish on posts like this always feels like a sigh of relief. Thank you for that.



While we're on this topic, forgive me if I take a moment to plug Breast Cancer Care's Big Pink Bucket Shake. They're holding collections all over the UK around Mother's Day (the UK version, which falls on 10th March this year) and need volunteers who are willing to shake buckets and exude cheer for an hour or two. If you live in the UK, I'd encourage you to check out the collections in your area and sign up if you can, or even organise your own. Pink wigs optional, smiles welcome.

See you on the other side.


Images: Lauren McGlynn Photography, taken in the Palm Court at the Balmoral Hotel, because we're posh.

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I have two phobias.

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. It's easy to be dismissive of the pink fog that descends over everything this month, but behind all the pink froth and nonsense are real people affected by breast cancer. People like my mum.

In honour of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, Breast Cancer Care have launched their Pink Fridays campaign and are asking as many people as possible to turn their Friday pink. You could hold a pink day at work, have your friends over for pink cake (or pink cocktails for that matter), do a sponsored pink hair dye - it doesn't matter what you do, as long as it's pink, it's fun and it raises money for Breast Cancer Care.

Some of my ace blogging friends have started the ball rolling by turning their blogs pink for the day - a full list will appear here as their posts go up throughout the day, but for now you can find a very special Any Other Photo from me over on Any Other Woman, some simply lovely pink pictures on What Kristen Saw, and a post you can't afford to miss from style guru by night, GP by day Rebecca of Florence Finds.

So what can you do to turn your Friday pink and help people affected by breast cancer this October?

1. Sign up now for your free Pink Fridays fundraising pack and pick a Friday to turn pink. Or a Sunday. Or a Tuesday. We're not fussy.

2. Help spread the word about Pink Fridays by telling friends, colleagues, random strangers in the pub, your mum... and don't forget to tweet about #pinkfridays.

3. Check back here throughout the day to find out who else has been turning their blog pink.

That's it. And if you do throw a Pink Friday, you can be damn sure I'll want photos.


SIGN UP NOW to receive your free Pink Fridays fundraising kit and help make 2012 the best year yet!

If you would like to support Breast Cancer Care but can't throw a Pink Friday of your own, you can donate here.

But of course, I'm being simplistic too. When it comes to breast cancer, pink is more than just a colour. It's not like someone's colour-coded all of the cancers so we can easily find them in a great big cancer filing cabinet. "Testicular cancer? Try the bottom drawer, blue folder, labelled NO GIRLZ ALOWED". Hardly.

No, pink is not just a colour. For starters, it's a shorthand; a silent expression of support and solidarity. It removes the need for questions and explanations. It can shout to the rooftops, "I'm going through something really shit!" It can whisper, "Me, too."

Pink is a banner around which the troops can rally. Under which they can charge forwards towards greater awareness, improved standards of care and a strengthened community of support and understanding. Pink means business.

It's also a way for the rest of us to show our support. I might not be able to offer a cure, but I can offer to bake a dozen pink cupcakes and charge my co-workers for the privilege of eating them. I can put on a pink t-shirt and slog my guts out in the rain to raise a few hundred pounds. I can turn up to a secondary breast cancer awareness event as my mum's date wearing a fabulous fuchsia pencil dress.

Sure, pink sometimes stinks. But it can also be something wonderful.


These musings on pink aren't entirely unprompted. Remember that interesting news I mentioned the other day? Well, it has something to do with the colour pink. No, I'm not going to be Miss Piggy's stunt double. More's the pity. What I am doing is taking three months off my day job as a lawyer (unpaid! eek!) to take up a Community Fundraising Internship with Breast Cancer Care (unpaid! eek!).

Am I crazy? Maybe. I really hope not. After my mum's last setback, I was suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to do something, anything, to help. I can't make her magically well again, but I can contribute my time and talents to a charity that has been a constant spark in even the darkest moments of the past three years.

I'm still not entirely sure what my role will involve, but I do know that a big part of it will be promoting and coordinating BCC's Pink Fridays campaign in Scotland. Time to reconcile myself with pink, then. In general, I think - I hope - that there will be plenty of opportunity to work creatively and take myself outside of the little lawyer-shaped box I've spent the last six years building. We shall see.

So, that's my news. Have any of you ever done something like this? Voluntarily abandoned a nice, comfy, well-paid position in favour of financial ruin and moral superiority? Am I completely insane? (Actually, don't answer that last one.)


I feel compelled to mention that any views expressed on this blog, whether about cancer or pink or dogs wearing clothes, are my own and not those of Breast Cancer Care (or, for that matter, those of my "real" employer). But you knew that already, right? Right.


Images: 1. Antigoni Chryssanthopoulou 2. Ben Giles, both via Society6, with which I am currently obsessed. Can a girl ever have too many iPhone cases?

So, I'm back from Mull, and I have to tell you: it was SENSATIONAL. I take back every bad thought I ever had and every snarky comment I ever made about spending my precious week of summer holiday in a cottage on an island in rain-sodden Scotland. The sun shone, the birds sang, the cows gave Smidgen the stink-eye; it was perfect.

So perfect, in fact, that I couldn't possibly bring myself to tarnish the experience by doing something as sweaty and unpleasant as running. I was on holiday.  I think we can all agree that holidays are not for running. Holidays are for eating. And drinking.

But time and athletic pursuits wait for no man, so on Sunday I duly donned my pink t-shirt and ran my race. That's right: RAN IT. It wasn't exactly a fast time by international standards, but given the lack of training and week of holiday excess that directly preceded it, it wasn't bad. As I crossed the finish line, I was beaming. Who needs training?

Ha. Ha ha ha.

Believe me, I'm not smiling now. I'm hobbling. Every time I stand up, my muscles pop and shriek. I keep letting out inappropriate moans in the office. It's getting awkward. I'm shuffling around the place like the only single man at the seniors' disco. So apparently training isn't such a terrible idea after all. Who knew?

When I've recovered full use of my limbs, I'll be back with a thrilling rundown of our holiday (in short: eat, shower, eat, spectacular scenery, eat, drink, eat, drink, sleep, repeat). Until then, I just want to say a heartfelt thank you to all of you who supported me, sponsored me, shouted at me (Ellie and Penny, I'm sorry I didn't listen to you) and generally reminded me the world is full of good people.

Thank you. From me, from my mum, and from all of us affected by cancer.

Well, this is awkward. I don't blog more than ten words in over a week, and now I'm asking you a favour? Who the hell do I think I am? Don't I know you're busy people?

I know. But the thing is, I need you. At least, I'm hoping it's you I need, because you're my final hope. Something needs to get me off my couch and into a pair of trainers, and if the prospect of raising money for charity won't do it, if Penny's excellent running advice won't do it, if the sight of this weekend's sunshine glinting off my pale, wobbly thighs won't do it, then some good, honest public humiliation had better do it.

Otherwise I'll be dragging myself round this 5k on my hands and knees, and it won't be pretty.

I'm running the Race for Life in less than three weeks. The last time I engaged in one of these half-arsed athletic endeavours, I kept you fully informed of my progress. Every worry, every blister, every illicit pizza fantasy.

You might be wondering, then, why I didn't mention this year's race earlier. Why haven't I been updating you on my training? Where is the thrilling blow-by-blow account of my ongoing issues with my sports bra? Well, I think we can all guess the answer: I've done bugger all training. And the first third of the run is almost entirely uphill. And did I mention it's in less than three weeks? Aarrgghhh.

So I'm putting it out there - I'm doing a run. This run. And the favour I'm asking of you is this: if you happen to see me anywhere on the internet moaning or lounging or whining or eating pizza instead of trying to run up and down some hills without throwing up, I need you to give me a virtual slap in the face. I mean it. Okay? Thanks, folks. I'm counting on you.


(If you really want to up the guilt levels, you could sponsor me. It's for Cancer Research UK, so, you know. Every penny, etc. No pressure, of course. Right now, I'd rather have your encouragement than your cash. And by "encouragement", I mean VIRTUAL SLAPS IN THE FACE.)


{Pink couch by Gabe Aceves via Ruffled}

Top image: collage by Nathalie Boutté via Journal du Design via Anna's Pinterest. Thanks to Trisha and Kayce for the xkcd links.