The word count of my Valentine's Day posts seems to be diminishing every year.

Luckily, the love count is going in the opposite direction.

Happy Valentine's Day, F. I got you a card this time. I also drew you a picture AND wrote you a poem.

No pressure.

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Stunning original artwork by me. I don't know why I have a weirdly long body or why I'm only wearing a skirt or what is going on with my hair. Smidgen looks pretty lifelike, though.

I've decided. I'm going to learn the words of the Marseillaise.

I think this every year, when the Six Nations rolls around and all the other countries are droning out their mirthlesss dirges at the start of each game before being obliterated by the triumphant, bloodthirsty, powerful song of the French. This is the year I will actually do it.

Knowing the words of the Marseillaise is the kind of pointless achievement that appeals to me. It says I'm a glamorous, jetsetting francophile (the same impression I've been trying to cultivate with my swanky new French coat), who also has enough spare time on my hands to sit around and acquire obscure knowledge like the foreign-language lyrics to national anthems of countries that I don't even live in. There are very few occasions where knowing the words of the Marseillaise will be useful, seeing as how I'm unlikely to play rugby for France any time soon, but to be able to whip it out of my pocket at just the right moment, well. Won't I look like a smarty pantalon.

(I should clarify that I'm only aiming for the first verse and the chorus, not the fifteen verses that apparently exist. I might be crazy, but I'm not crazy.)

I've set myself the target of learning the words by the end of this year's Six Nations. I don't actually know when that is, since I don't actually know anything about rugby and usually like to avoid watching Scotland embarrass ourselves at sport if at all possible (it's not always possible), but I should probably get cracking. Da da da da la patriiiiiii-uh da da da da daaaaa, da da da. Yeah, needs more work.


Speaking of watching my fellow countrymen humiliate themselves in internationally-televised sporting events, I'm VERY EXCITED about the Winter Olympics. ALL CAPS EXCITED. Despite the fact that it's basically just one big sliding competition, the Winter Olympics are vastly superior to their summer counterpart. The quirky human interest stories! The ridiculous outfits! The very real risk of severe and permanent injury! I love it.

My love of the Winter Olympics goes way back. In pride of place above my childhood bed, I had a poster of Hidy and Howdy, the official mascots of Calgary 88. In 2002, Fin and I first locked eyes across a crowded bar in which there were not one but two people in fancy dress as gold-medal-winning British curlers (neither of which was us, sadly). I screamed when Alain Baxter won his medal, wept when he lost it again, was flabbergasted when Lindsey Jacobellis did this. Just the other day, my dad emailed me to let me know that a British woman came fourth in the Olympic slalom in 1968, because that's how my family rolls.

Of course, the downside of watching the Winter Olympics as a British person is that we are just so chronically bad at them. Sure, we win the occasional medal in an obscure sport, but where's the downhill gold? Where are the glory days of Torvill and Dean in matching purple chiffon? I suppose you can't blame us for doing badly at the Winter Olympics, since we don't really have much of a winter - or a summer, come to think of it - but it gets depressing after a while.

Maybe I'll support the French instead. At least I'll be able to sing along.

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Images: 1. A French women's rugby team, source untraced 2. Competitors in the Ladies Figure Skating competiton at the Winter Olympics in St. Moritz, Switzerland, February 1928, via Olympic.org

Today is the third anniversary of my first ever post. I had intended to write something funny or profound or at least interesting to mark the occasion, but I couldn't summon the energy. So, instead, here is a spectacularly awesome gif by Laurene Boglio, the queen of spectacularly awesome gifs.

Once, when Fin and I first moved in together, to our tiny little flat with a sloping roof that meant he could only stand upright in 50% of the floor space, I burst into the living room wearing my black, slightly saggy gym swimsuit and, out of nowhere, proceeded to give him the worst rendition of the Single Ladies dance that has ever happened. It was, as you can imagine, hilarious.

That hasn't really got much to do with anything, other than I seem to have misplaced that youthful, exuberant silliness, both in real life and in blogging, and I'm not sure where it went. Might have to send out a search party.

In the meantime, thanks for sticking with this blog for the last three years. That applies to myself, too.

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Goodbye, 2013. You were a real stinker of a year and I am very, very glad to be leaving you behind.

I have no resolutions at all, other than a vague plan to start eating breakfast, but nothing says happy new year like a jogging broccoli.

Happy New Year!

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Illustration by Alyssa Nassner

Full title: Things I've Been Obsessing Over Instead of Worrying About Actual Problems Or Contemplating the Incontrovertible Truth That Everyone I Love Is Going to Be Dead One Day.

Because distraction is the best policy, right?

1. My coat

It's my 30th birthday today (see how I dropped that in there? So subtle), so in honour of the occasion I've decided it's time to treat myself to a grown-up winter coat. This is the third winter for my trusty Topshop duffel coat, and while I still love it with a fiery passion, it doesn't really say "professional person and grown-ass lady." I'm pretty sure a client thought I was a messenger the other day until I spouted off some incredibly boring piece of legalese and they realised, no, I was just a lawyer in students' clothing.

I had initially toyed with the idea of a leather jacket, and was sorely tempted by this handmade one from Etsy, but realistically I wouldn't wear it until spring and that's too long to wait, dammit. Then I thought a classic camel would be a smart choice, but it turns out classic camel coats are difficult to come by. Plus I'm not convinced that camel is my colour. (I have genuinely been obsessing over this, in case you can't tell.)

So we arrive at option 3: a classy but stylish grey overcoat. Simple, chic, goes with everything. After a pinning spree - I mean a serious, weeks-long pinning spree - I concluded that the perfect coat simply does not exist in the UK. To meet my highly specific requirements, I had to cast a wider net. Finally, I've narrowed the choices down to two almost-but-not-quite-identical coats.



The first one has a silky soft leather collar, which gives it a cool edge and satisfies my leather jacket cravings. It's also French, for bonus points. The second one has a more interesting texture and I love the stylised lapels. They're both nice! They're both more expensive than any other coat I've ever bought before! WHICH SHOULD I CHOOSE?

2. My Party

I have no qualms about turning 30, and I'm grateful to be able to spend today with my family, but with my mum's health deteriorating, and some of my dearest friends out of party action for reasons both good and bad, I knew this birthday was never going to be the wild celebration that I might have imagined.

However, in a moment of crippling self-pity, I decided that I was entitled to bit of birthday cheer and I was just going to have to make it happen myself. Which is why, tomorrow, I will find myself entertaining 27 people and 2 children (I suppose the children are technically people too) in our very tiny flat. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

No, it IS a good idea, it just involves slightly more advance planning than I had initially anticipated. Particularly since I spent an embarrassing amount of time devising a Betty-Draper-meets-vintage-Scandinavian-Christmas theme. Did I make a Pinterest board? You're damn right I did. Of course, in reality, the only evidence of this party theme will be inside my own head, since Betty Draper was unavailable and I don't live in Sweden, but that's beside the point. At least my invitations are on message:


Because this gathering is taking place immediately after four days of not being at home, not being able to shop and not being able to fit anything in the fridge, it is proving a bit tricky to cater. Undeterred, I have made several dozen different lists and I'm feeling confident. Ish. As long as there are ample quantities of rum-spiked mulled cider, people won't really care what I feed them, is my theory.

Might need to make a few more lists, just in case.

3. My Man

Five days to go, people. He's coming back.

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Images of the glammy lady: Barefoot Blonde