Welcome to the diary of a self-diagnosed nut! If you're looking for fun, wit, and reality, you've come to the right place. Prepare for a rollercoaster of emotions as we delve into the dating life of a 50-year-old woman. Get ready to laugh, maybe cry, and hopefully, feel a little less alone. Remember to reach out, seek help, and grab a tissue for a good cry.

 The Nutty Diaries (Where the Fun Really Begins)

This blog is my villain origin story.
But not like Marvel villain  more like “woman who’s finally had enough and starts narrating her life like a dark comedy because if she doesn’t laugh she’ll need to be sedated.”

Let’s get one thing clear: I’m not actually crazy.
I’m diet crazy.
Zero-sugar, low-calorie, plant-based crazy.
Crazy with a hint of responsibility.
Crazy that still pays bills on time but also cries at adverts where dogs get reunited with their owners.

I’m what professionals might call “emotionally spicy.”

Honestly? I’ve realised something life-changing:

Being a bit unhinged makes life bearable.

Have you ever tried doing life normally? Making sensible choices? Dating stable men? Resting? Drinking water? Having boundaries?

Absolutely exhausting.
Would not recommend.
One star on TripAdvisor.

So yes  I have embraced my inner Nut.
Capital N.
A whole personality type. 

Before anyone tries diagnosing me for real, just know I’ve already diagnosed myself via:

TikTok

A trauma meme page

A WebMD quiz

A BuzzFeed article titled “Which Overwhelmed Houseplant Are You?”

My own reflection the other day when I said, “Honestly babe, you’re not well.”

I’m chaotic but in a friendly way.

Like, I won’t slash your tyres, but I will overthink a text for 48 hours and then decide you hate me because you used a full stop.

I won’t stalk you, but I will accidentally find your ex’s cousin’s best friend’s dog on Instagram and spiral because the dog looks happier with them than you ever did with me.

I won’t scream in public, but I will rehearse arguments in the shower like I’m performing at the West End.

I’m what scientists would label high-functioning emotional nonsense.

I’m a main character, but not in a glamorous way.

The universe didn’t design me to be one of those pretty, quiet, soft girls with silk pillowcases and men feeding them grapes.
No, I was designed for:

chaos,

comedy

character development that I did not ask for

men who should come with warning labels

and moments that make my friends say, “You cannot be serious right now.”

Some girls attract flowers and poems.
I attract:

Men with unfinished business

Emotionally stunted gym addicts

Walking red flags with pretty eyes

and weird supernatural disasters like a pigeon flying into my head last summer (yes that happened, no I won’t elaborate). My coping mechanisms are elite.

Normal people cope with life using therapy, meditation, and journaling.
I cope with life by:

Narrating my misery like it’s a Netflix documentary

eating snacks I pretend are “treats” but are actually coping mechanisms

talking to myself in the mirror like a delusional coach

Googling spiritual signs such as “What does it mean if the universe is TAKING THE PISS?”

and pretending I’m okay because I used deodorant today and honestly?
It works.
Sometimes.
Okay not really, but let me have this.

The diary begins because… honestly, I need a witness.

Life keeps happening to me like I’m on a hidden camera show.
Every day something new goes wrong:

My phone dies at 1% even though it was on 73% five minutes ago

The universe sends me a man who looks normal until he opens his mouth

My bank account screams when I buy anything over £4

My emotions behave like a toddler full of Skittles

My mascara smudges even when I’m not crying (which is rare)So this diary isn’t just for content.
It’s my alibi.
My evidence.
My emotional black box.

If I ever get interviewed one day and they ask, “What made you like this?” — I will simply hand them this blog and say: page four, paragraph three, sentence two.

And honestly, I think everyone else is hiding their madness.

Have you ever watched someone try to act normal?
It’s terrifying.

We’re all insane.
Some people just use beige Instagram filters to hide it.

But me?
No.
I’m the people’s princess of unfiltered chaos.
The spokesperson for women who need a nap more than they need love.
The ambassador for people who say “I’m fine” in a tone that clearly means “I’m about to go feral.”

Why pretend?
Why act calm?
Why be sensible?

Life is wild.
Dating is illegal.
And being a functioning adult is a scam.

So yes, this is the beginning of The Nutty Diaries — a beautifully deranged journey of self-awareness, self-destruction, and self-deprecating humour.

If life insists on being unhinged, I’m going to match its energy.

And honestly?
I think that makes me the most stable of all.

 

The Sunday Spiral (A Love Story Between Me, My Toothbrush, and My Last Nerve)

Sunday. The universal day of rest, holiness, relaxation, and people pretending they’re better than they actually are. A day for brunches, soft blankets, scented candles, and couples who go for long walks holding hands like they’ve never argued about how loudly the other one chews.

For me? Sunday is more of a psychological endurance test.

I’d like to say I woke up refreshed, glowing, spiritually aligned with the moon and whatever else wellness people talk about. But the reality is: I woke up feeling like I’d been emotionally kicked down three flights of stairs by life itself. My first thought upon opening my eyes wasn’t “Ah, a new day,” it was “Oh. This again.”

The universe really said: Respawn. Good luck.

So there I was, lying in bed like a medieval peasant girl awaiting fate, contemplating life, death, choices, the trauma of dating in the 2020s, and trying to remember the last time I felt mentally stable for more than three consecutive hours.

I tried to sit up. Failed.

Tried again. Succeeded, but only in the same way a newborn foal learns to stand shaky, confused, and mildly offended by gravity.

The Toothbrush Battle

Let’s talk about the most heroic act of the morning: brushing my teeth.

A task that for normal people takes what… thirty seconds? A minute? For me, it felt like training for the Olympics. My reflection in the bathroom mirror did not help. I looked like a woman in a shampoo commercial, except instead of luxurious hair blowing in the wind, I had unbrushed chaos, under-eye bags that could legally be classified as luggage, and the emotional expression of someone who’s just been told their favourite snack has been discontinued.

There’s something incredibly humbling about standing there, toothbrush in hand, staring at yourself like:

“This is the hill I die on today.”

Honestly? It nearly was.

I pushed through. Brushed my teeth. Survived. Barely.

Of course, after surviving the bathroom, I then had to go to work because apparently bills don’t pay themselves and my employer doesn’t accept “I’m having an existential crisis” as time-off justification. Rude.

Smiling Through Silent Tears (My New Skillset)

Here’s the thing about emotional breakdowns: they don’t always look like dramatic crying on the floor with dramatic lighting. Sometimes it’s just… walking around doing life with tears forming a cosy little film over your eyeballs. A gentle, subtle, yet persistent sadness sheen.

And the wildest part? No one notices. Not a single soul.

I could’ve walked out the house missing an eyebrow, holding a sign saying “I AM GOING THROUGH IT,” and people would still just smile politely and ask if I’ve “seen the weather.”

So I did what any respectable emotionally unstable person does: I smiled. I nodded. I said “I’m okay!” with the energy of a hostage reading off a cue card. I participated in small talk. I pretended to laugh at someone’s joke that wasn’t remotely funny. I held myself together with caffeine, spite, and the last three cells of hope remaining in my bloodstream.

A round of applause for me, honestly.

The Bus Stop Emotional Summit

Then came the best part of the day. I met my good friend at the bus stop a friend who also has their life in shambles (solidarity queen). The moment we made eye contact, we didn’t even greet each other. No “hello,” no “how are you,” no “what’s happening,” because we already knew the answers:

1. Tired

2. Emotionally dehydrated

3. Mentally unavailable.

We just stared at each other. Silent. Both of us with that face that says:

“If you ask me how I am I will cry so hard the bus driver will have to intervene.”k

We exchanged the tiniest nod. The type of nod that carries paragraphs of meaning:

“You good?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

“We move.”

“Barely.”

A shared vibration of mutual suffering.

And that was it. That was our whole conversation. Honestly? It was the deepest conversation I’ve had all week.

Sometimes friendship isn’t about words it’s about two tired women waiting for public transport, bonded by trauma, caffeine withdrawals, and the knowledge that if one of you breaks down, the other will absolutely follow.

Work: The Sequel No One Asked For

Once I arrived at work, the day somehow got both better and worse. Better, because I was distracted from the emotional avalanche happening inside me. Worse, because customers exist. And customers ruin everything.

I don’t know what it is about Sundays, but people become unhinged.

Sunday customers are a different breed.

They walk in with family drama, hangovers, unspoken resentment, and absolutely no awareness of their tone of voice. The worst are the ones who say:

“Busy day?”

Sir, I’m one delayed coffee order away from crying into the cutlery tray. Read the room.

Then there’s the coworker who’s “always in a good mood,” and by good mood I mean they’ve had nine coffees and are vibrating at a spiritual frequency only dogs can hear. They’re the type that says:

“Smile! It can’t be that bad.”

Sweetheart, if you knew the week I’ve had, you would step back 15 feet and throw chocolate at me like I’m a zoo animal.

My break was the peak of my Sunday breakdown. I sat there with my sad little cup of tea thinking about:

Why life feels like a rotating cycle of chaos

Why men can vanish faster than my motivation

Why I always end up being the strong one even when I’m crumbling

Why mascara is never truly waterproof

Why every horoscope insists I’m “on the verge of a breakthrough” when all I’m on the verge of is a meltdown

I also spent a full five minutes staring into the middle distance like a traumatised war veteran. Someone asked if I was okay. I lied. Again.

The highlight of my break was realising that I somehow, despite all psychological odds, was still functioning. Limping through the day like a woman held together by duct tape and delusion, but functioning nonetheless.

The ‘Why Me’ Spiral

At some point, mid-afternoon, I fell into the classic spiral of:

“Why is life easier for literally everyone else?”

Because sometimes it genuinely feels that way. You see people floating through life, breaking up nicely, staying friends with exes, having families step in to support them, receiving life on a soft little cushion.

Meanwhile, I’m out here doing emotional CrossFit. Pulling strength out my arse, carrying myself through the day, showing up for everyone even when I’m running on fumes. The chosen strong one. The default caretaker. The reliable one. The one who ALWAYS shows up, even when I shouldn’t.

Do I get a prize? Recognition? Cashback?

Hah. No.

Just character development. AGAIN.

The Walk Home: A Cinematic Low-Budget Finale

After surviving work, I walked home, headphones in, music blasting something depressing-but-aesthetic like I’m the main character in a low-budget indie film.

Picture this:

grey skies

a slight drizzle

me in my “I cannot be bothered” face

mascara hanging on like it’s been through World War III

dramatic power-walking

It was giving seasonal depression mixed with “please don’t talk to me or I’ll cry.” Very chic.

I thought about all the things weighing on me right now family stress, work stress, emotional stress, the weekly disappointment of being a human, the exhaustion of being the one who cares too much, the lingering sadness of someone disappearing from your life without explanation.

It all hits at once, doesn’t it?

One bad day becomes a spiral, a spiral becomes a breakdown, a breakdown becomes a story you’ll eventually laugh about but definitely not today.

And Then… the Healing Bit (Because Apparently We Need That)

Here’s the annoying thing about resilience: we all have it, even when we don’t want it. Even when we’re tired. Even when we’re done. Even when brushing our teeth feels like a dangerous sport and bus stop nods are our version of deep communication.

This is the bit no one talks about:

Healing isn’t always pretty. Or inspirational. Or aesthetic.

Sometimes healing is literally just:

Getting out of bed when you don’t want to

Brushing your teeth like it’s a full workout

Doing your shift while hiding tears

Sharing a silent nod with someone who understands

Surviving the day, not thriving in it

Choosing to try again tomorrow

It’s raw.

It’s messy.

It’s not Instagram-friendly.

Sometimes the only sign of progress is that you kept going.

But the thing is… you did keep going.

You still showed up.

You still carried yourself.

You still survived a day you absolutely didn’t want to face.

You still made it through a Sunday that tried to take you out emotionally, spiritually, and cosmetically.

And for that?

You deserve a medal.

Or at least a nap.

Final Thought: Not Every Day Is a Disaster… But Some Are a Masterpiece

Life isn’t all Sundays-from-hell. Some days genuinely are soft, bright, funny, and full of little wins. Some days you actually feel human. Some days you brush your teeth without emotional commentary. Some days you laugh at something stupid and realise you’re still capable of joy but until those days you survive. 

Ive the messy ones. The ugly ones. The quiet-cry ones. The bus-stop-nod ones. The “please don’t ask me anything” ones.

Today wasn’t a good day.

But it was a real day.

And sometimes that’s enough.

 

THE MONDIEST MONDAY THAT EVER MONDAY’D

By a woman who simply wanted peace and got cardio instead

Let’s set the scene.

It’s Monday. The kind of Monday that slaps you across the face before you’ve even rolled out of bed, steals your happiness, and whispers, “Good luck, bitch.” I swear the universe pressed shuffle on all my anxieties just to see what noise I’d make.

So I woke up at 4am. On purpose? No. Willingly? Also no. My brain just decided to act like a toddler in a supermarket at opening time. “Mum, mum, MUM — are you awake?!”

 

Suddenly I was wide awake, staring at the ceiling like a Victorian ghost wondering how she died. 

And because I’m apparently an enthusiastic idiot, I thought:

“You know what sane people do?

Go for a walk.”

At 4am.

In winter.

In the dark.

With hair that could house wildlife.

My brain sold it to me like some Pinterest wellness routine:

Fresh air! Movement! Sunrise! Mental clarity! Vitamin D! Romantic main-character energy!

Reality?

I looked like someone doing community service.

Of course, a walk requires preparation. So like the bushcraft queen I clearly am, I made coffee, packed a mini flask, and doodled like some spiritual minimalist. For approximately five minutes. Then I remembered I’m not that girl, so I shoved everything in a bag and hoped for the best.

I dressed myself in every layer I could find. Not because it was cold because I don’t trust the British weather to not sabotage me. The outfit screamed:

“Woman who gave up.”

One trouser leg tucked in, one out. Socks fighting each other. Coat that’s seen more winters than I have joy. Hair in a bun so chaotic it looked like a squirrel Airbnb.

I even paused at the door and genuinely thought:

Do birds hibernate?

Or am I just projecting because I want to sleep until April?

Self-diagnosis: unhinged, but in a relatable way.

Ascending the Hill of Regret

Off I went. Me, my flask, and my misplaced optimism.

Halfway up the hill, I was panting like a labrador in a heatwave, questioning every life choice that led me here. My brain suddenly turned into a fitness instructor from hell:

“You fat cow, why did you think this was a good idea?

Quick someone get the defibrillator!”

My legs were Bambi on ice. My lungs were filing HR complaints. And the worst part? I wasn’t even halfway.

Then the realisation hit me:

If I go down to the beach

I will NEVER make it back up.

I’d be living down there. Eating seaweed. Befriending crabs. Becoming one with the tide. People would visit like:

“Have you seen the beach hermit? She used to live in a flat but cardio defeated her.”

Here’s the thing no one tells you walking doesn’t stop your brain from thinking. It gives it new material.

So while my thighs were screaming, my mind was doing this:

What if I just collapse and die?

Do birds rent out nests?

If I had a Fitbit, it would call an ambulance.

Is this the start of my fitness era? (No.)

Why am I like this?

Should I open a bakery?

Is my destiny to be single forever?

A normal Monday morning, really.

I got home by 7am a time of day that should be illegal and instead of calming down like a normal woman, I went absolutely feral.

My body was buzzing. My mind was vibrating. My soul was somewhere else entirely. So naturally…

I attacked the Christmas decorations.

I didn’t put them up.

I didn’t gently tweak them.

I attacked them.

Like I was fighting off an intruder.

I had Mariah Carey blasting as I put baubles in places they absolutely did not belong. I wrapped tinsel around things that have no business being festive. At one point I stood back and thought:

“Why does my living room look like Santa had a manic episode in here?”

Probably because I did.

Once I reached peak decoration chaos, I then switched to sad songs. Obviously. Because nothing says "mentally unstable" like scrubbing your kitchen to a depressing ballad while contemplating your entire existence.

As if I hadn’t hit emotional bingo hard enough…

I started thinking how tragic it is to be sat alone with no one to share the morning with.

No romantic partner.

No family member.

Not even a cat.

Just me. My thoughts. And the decorations whispering “help us” from across the room.

The Scream Heard Across the Neighbourhood (Or Not Heard, Actually)

So I screamed.

Like, full-bodied primal scream.

Not a cute little “ughh.”

A scream that could summon demons.

You’d think surely someone would check?

No.

My neighbour didn’t even flinch.

He probably sat there thinking:

“Ignore her, she does this.”

Honestly, if I ever get murdered, nobody will help. They’ll just assume I’m practising my aria again.

Cleaning Like a Woman on the Edge

And because screaming released 0.5% of my chaos, I channelled the remaining 99.5% into deep cleaning the bathroom.

I scrubbed that sink so aggressively I’m convinced I removed enamel, grout, and possibly the ghost of tenants past.

By the time I finished, the bathroom was sparkling and I was sweating like a sinner in church.

The To-Do List From Hell

Then came the realisation:

I have a busy week in the kitchen.

Menus to plan. Ingredients to buy. People to feed. Things to organise. My brain became a malfunctioning printer spewing out tasks:

Buy onions

Don’t cry when buying onions

Actually cry, it’s fine

Check stock

Check fridge

Clean fridge

Burn fridge?

Bake things

Don’t burn things

Pretend you’re fine

I was running around like a contestant on a cooking show except there was no prize and I was the only competitor.

By 1pm I’d lived an entire lifetime. By 3pm I’d aged a decade.

I checked the clock 48 times. It was always 3pm. I swear time itself took the piss.

Considering Alcohol & Cake Like Old Lovers

At one point I had a small meeting with myself about drinking again.

“Remember wine, babe? She loved you.”

I even opened a cupboard, stared at a cake mix like we had history.

Honestly, my fat-bird-drinking era was iconic. Chaotic but iconic. I had fun. I lived freely. I didn’t hide behind curtains like a fugitive.

Now?

I live like I’m dodging bounty hunters.

But here’s the thing.

Being home alone does have perks.

No witnesses.

No shame.

No bras.

I’ve saved a fortune on washing because for a good chunk of the day I simply roam the house in absolute ruin, like a Victorian woman with consumption. Or a raccoon. Depends on the lighting.

Then came that late-afternoon slump. The one where you’re staring into space questioning your sanity. Asking yourself:

“Why am I like this? Why does everything feel heavy? Why do I feel empty and wired at the same time? Am I hungry? Thirsty? Overwhelmed? Bored? All of the above?”

The answer is always: yes.

My brain is basically a tab that never closes.

By 5pm I had:

Walked at sunrise

Nearly died on a hill

Decorated badly

Screamed

Cleaned like a maniac

Had three emotional breakdowns

Reorganised the fridge

Planned a cooking week

and contemplated alcoholism

…all before half the country even logged into work.

Suddenly I felt this crushing loneliness.

Like I was living life from the outside. As if I was watching myself through a window, trying to keep going while carrying the weight of everything I don’t talk about.

But instead of crying like a normal human, I ate a biscuit. Because emotional stability is for the rich. 

Around 7pm, after staring at a wall for ten minutes, I decieakdownhave a bath. But not a relaxing, sexy bubble bath. No.

A “wash away today’s sins and sweat” bath.

Then I put on pyjamas that look like they were rejected from a charity shop, shoved my hair into a bun that could have its own postcode, and sighed loudly into the void.

I scrolled through social media until my brain begged for mercy. Watched couples on TikTok do cute things and nearly threw my phone.  Watched cooking reels and considered running away to Italy.

The Final Internal Monologue of the Day

By bedtime I felt:

Exhausted

Restless

Lonely

Wired

Overcaffeinated

Emotionally chewed 

The full menu of madness.

I crawled under the covers, stared at the ceiling again, and thought:

“If tomorrow wakes me up at 4am, I’m unplugging the universe.”

THE ACTUAL POINT (Because Even Chaos Has One)

Some days feel heavy. Some days feel stupid. Some days feel like you’re fighting your own brain in a boxing ring and losing on points.

The truth is:

You survived it.

You cleaned through it.

You decorated through it.

You screamed through it.

You laughed, cried, spiralled, caffeinated, and somehow still made it to bedtime in one piece.

That counts.

You’re not lazy.

You’re not failing.

You’re not broken.

You’re just a woman who feels everything loudly in a world that demands silence.

Honestly?

The chaos is kind of your charm.

 

Tuesday Was Basically Monday With a Fake ID

Tuesday tried to reinvent itself this week. It rocked up pretending to be chilled, balanced, organised… and then within ten minutes it ripped off its mask and revealed Monday in a cheap wig. I should’ve known the moment I opened my eyes at a time I can only describe as “illegal.”

Up Before the Birds (Why Am I Like This?)
There is no good reason a human being should be awake before the birds. Birds wake up early because they don’t pay bills. Birds do not have council tax. Birds do not have to remember passwords or deal with Sandra from work. Birds are stress-free sky rats who just scream and fly about, eating whatever they find.
Me?
I woke up before them and immediately regretted the life choices that got me here.
I wasn’t even woken by something dramatic. Not a nightmare. Not a dog barking. Not a tap dancing burglar.
Just my brain at 4:43am going:
“Get up.”
“Why?”
“Dunno. But get up.”
So I got up. Because apparently my brain is in charge and it hates me.
Working AND Food Delivery Day God Give Me Strength
Now, Tuesday wasn’t just pretending to be Monday… it was also food delivery day. Which means my living room was about to smell like cardboard and regret.
You know it’s bad when your first thought of the day is:
“This is too much responsibility for one woman.”
But work was calling, and because I’m a functioning adult (barely), I threw myself into the day. The customers at work were already moaning before I’d even taken my coat off.
I’m sorry…
How are people THIS unhappy this early?
What happened?
Did they sleep on a bed of sadness?
Did someone steal their will to live?

The workplace today sounded like a Greek chorus of misery.
"it's cold"
“I’m tired.”
“My back hurts.”
“I hate people.”
“Why is the kettle not boiling fast enough?”
Every five minutes another complaint.
It was like being trapped inside a human version of the comments section.
Eventually… I snapped.
Completely snapped.
No warning. No build-up. I just flipped, mentally cartwheeled into oblivion, and stared around like:
“Is this my life? Really? On a TUESDAY?”
Did I actually cartwheel?
Absolutely not.
I’d break into seven separate pieces.
But mentally? Oh, I somersaulted straight into madness.
Small Self-Healing Session: Sponsored by My Girls Who Also Need Therapy
Thankfully, salvation came in the form of my girls popping into work with calendars in hand. Real calendars. Actual paper. The kind that makes you feel forty and responsible.
That can only mean one thing:
They were planning a Night Out.
And not just any night out the kind written in the stars, blessed by chaos, fuelled by cheap eyeliner and even cheaper cocktails. A night out to get absolutely, unapologetically twatted.
Their excitement healed me a little.
You know when someone else is buzzing and you catch it like a good vibe infection?
Yeah, that.

Within minutes we had:

A date

A plan

A theme (chaos)

And a shared understanding that someone, somewhere, was definitely going to cry in a toilet stall that night

Beautiful. Sacred, even.

Once I finally escaped work spiritually exhausted, physically limp, emotionally unstable I decided to bake.
Why?
Possibly a cry for help.
Possibly an attempt at domestic goddess energy.
Possibly because therapy is too expensive and flour is £1.20.
Anyway, I got home, put on some music (which, shockingly, was actually positive… normally I soundtrack my life with “sad playlist for dramatic people”), and jumped into baking like I was on Bake Off.
And oh my god.
Within five minutes my kitchen looked like a cocaine raid.
Flour was EVERYWHERE.
On the counters.
On the floor.
In my hair.
Up my nose.
In places flour has no business being.

Trying to whisk something while the bowl skates across the counter like it’s performing its own ice dancing routine?
Humbling.

And yet… I was vibing.

Whisking like a woman possessed.
Dancing like I’d been electrocuted.
Talking to myself like a lonely medieval witch.

This is rare.
So rare it should be documented by scientists.

But today I laughed.
TWICE.

Not a polite “ha.”
Not a nose exhale.
Not the fake “I’m being social” laugh.
A real laugh.
A laugh from the stomach.
A laugh that accidentally escaped before my trauma could clamp down on it.
And do you know what?
It felt… foreign.
Weird.
Like remembering a language you used to speak fluently but forgot because life went to absolute sh*t.
It wasn’t a big moment.
No fireworks.
No angels singing.
No epiphany with a spotlight from above.
It was small.
Tiny.
Stupid even.
But while baking (and wiping flour off my eyebrows), I suddenly felt a part of me I’d lost for ages.
The part that jokes.
The part that dances.
The part that doesn’t apologise for existing.
The part that isn’t weighed down by every disaster, breakup, disappointment, and stress-filled Tuesday disguised as Monday.

I’d forgotten what it felt like to be… me.
Not “I’m fine” me.
Not “holding it together” me.
Not “everyone needs something from me” me.

Just ME.
The one with the stupid humour and messy hair and loud cackle and questionable life choices.

And for a moment a proper, actual, real-life moment she came back.

The Voice Returned

Not the self-doubt voice.
Not the “you’re so behind in life” voice.
Not the “everyone else has their sh*t together except you” voice.
No.
The OTHER voice.
The one that says:

“Actually, babe… you’re doing all right.”
“You are ridiculous but you are STRONG.”
“You don’t need a man; you need a nap and a snack.”
“Look at you baking like a feral Mary Berry.”
THAT voice.
And thank god it came back.
I’ve missed her.
Because Life Has Been A Bit Much Lately
Let’s not sugarcoat it (I’ve used all my sugar in baking anyway).
The past few months have been a lot.
A lot-lot.
Like “I should win a medal for surviving” kinda lot.
Breakdowns.
People disappearing like magicians without talent.
Work being work.
Life feeling heavier than the Tesco value flour bag I threw across the kitchen.
You know how it is you keep going, keep smiling, keep functioning… until suddenly your own laugh sounds like someone you used to know.
So today?
Today mattered.
Tuesday Tried to Be Monday, but I Won.
Even though I woke up too early.
Even though work was a moaning orchestra.
Even though I emotionally cartwheeled.
Even though baking nearly turned into a crime scene.
I laughed.
I planned a night out.
I covered myself in flour.
And I remembered myself.
For a random Tuesday?
That’s practically a spiritual awakening.

Tomorrow might be better.
Tomorrow might be worse.
Tomorrow might be Thursday pretending to be Sunday pretending to be last Christmas who even knows anymore.
But today?
Today I got a tiny piece of myself back.
And she’s loud.
And sarcastic.
And slightly deranged.
And honestly… I’ve missed her.

So here’s to:
Bad mornings
Good friends
Ridiculous baking disasters
And the moments we accidentally heal without meaning to,
because sometimes, all it takes is a Tuesday dressed as Monday to remind you you’re still in there.

Wednesday: The Day That Pretended to Be Chill

Wednesday wasn’t actually hump day. No, Wednesday strutted in like a smug little impostor wearing a “Hi, I’m easygoing!” badge while plotting chaos behind my back. And honestly? I fell for it. I woke up thinking: today might actually be alright. Which is usually the first sign that the universe is about to smack me with something stupid.
Rolled out of bed at 5:48am like a wounded animal. These days I moan so loud I’m surprised the neighbours don’t think I’ve snuck a man in and I’m having hot, sweaty, curtains-twitching sex. Imagine their disappointment when all they’d see is me wrestling with my duvet, hair shaped like an electrocuted troll, wearing pyjamas that fully qualify as psychological warfare. Honestly, if MI5 ever want to interrogate someone, just show them my morning face. They’ll crack in four minutes, max.
My alarm, which I aggressively snoozed four times, finally got yeeted across the room. I swear it enjoys bullying me. It doesn’t ring oh no it screams like a toddler denied an iPad and every morning, without fail, I growl, stretch, sigh, and make sounds no human should make. These noises escape my body uninvited, like it’s my soul trying to escape through grunts. If the neighbours ever complain, I’ll simply say: Sorry, love, that was just my right knee trying to function.
But something strange happened today. I stood upright… eventually… and I didn’t immediately hate everything. Suspicious. Very suspicious.
I shuffled to the bathroom, glared at my reflection, and whispered: “We go again.” Because you have to encourage yourself when you look like a soggy potato. Toothpaste went on the brush first try a miracle. Shower pressure was a gentle trickle rather than a spiteful dribble. Even the hot water behaved. I took that personally. The universe was up to something.
I got ready for work humming like someone who had eight hours’ sleep instead of the usual two hours plus anxiety nightmares. Threw my hair up, slapped on tinted moisturiser to pretend I had skin, and stepped outside ready to face the day.
And get this WORK WASN’T EVEN A CHORE.
I know. I’m shocked too.
Maybe it was because I’d mentally prepared myself for war. Maybe I’d finally snapped past the point of caring. Or maybe, just maybe, today was going to be “moderately acceptable.” That's the best I ever hope for.
The morning started with the usual cast of characters: Moaning Myrtle complaining it's cold sounds “too wintery”, Brian who sighs for sport, and Janet who narrates her entire life like she’s filming a documentary no one asked for.
But today?
Today I smiled.
Actually giggled.
Do you know how rare it is for me to giggle at work? I barely manage to exhale loudly most days.
I even snapped at the moaners in a cheerful tone. Like:
“Sweetheart, if I hear one more sigh from you I’m calling an exorcist.”
Sassy but loving. Growth or insanity who knows?
I made myself a coffee. No spluttering, no sad little dribble. A full cup. I’m starting to think Wednesday was attempting redemption.
By 10am, I’d handled emails, sorted deliveries, and even managed not to punch the air when someone said “urgent” about something that wasn’t remotely urgent. I simply blinked and said, “Bless your heart.” Which is basically a polite way of saying, “Shut up, Sharon.”
Lunch was a highlight. Usually I just inhale food like a depressed vacuum cleaner, but today I actually tasted things. I sat outside for 3 minutes of fresh air before remembering I hate fresh air and returned inside. But the point stands: I attempted wellness.
Someone cracked a joke about the weather being colder than their ex’s heart, and I laughed out loud. HONESTLY laughed. The kind where someone looks at you like, “Are you okay? Blink twice if you're being held hostage.”
It shocked everyone.
I shocked myself.
Normally by Wednesday I look like a drained Victorian child haunting a coal mine. But today… I looked a bit more like me. The me who used to find things funny, who used to have a spark, who used to giggle at stupid things, and didn’t always feel like I’m one mildly inconvenient email away from a full breakdown.
Honestly, I think I floated through the afternoon. Even when someone asked me for something last minute, I sarcastically said, “Sure, let me just grow an extra arm,” but I said it with a smile. A whole smile. Without grinding my teeth. That’s progress.
The day even had the audacity to get better.
At 3pm, I found out I’d misread the rota and didn’t actually have to stay late. I LEGITIMATELY experienced joy. Pure joy. Like someone had handed me a puppy and a tax refund at the same time.
I left on time ON TIME and didn’t have that desperate limp I usually develop by the end of the day. Walking to the bustop, I realised something wild: I wasn’t dragging my feet like a Victorian chimney sweep. I wasn’t muttering under my breath. I wasn’t half-considering faking my own disappearance to escape responsibilities.
I actually felt… okay.
Suspicious still, but okay.
Got home, tossed my bag down like I was reenacting a dramatic soap scene, and immediately decided to bake. Because nothing screams “mental reset” like covering your entire kitchen in white powder that looks suspiciously illegal if someone walked in at the wrong moment.
Baking always gives me the illusion I’ve got my life together, even though I most certainly do not. Today’s baking session included:
A bowl that tried to escape the counter
Flour in my eyebrows
Butter that wouldn’t soften
A whisk that attacked me
Music blasting loud enough to scare pigeons off the roof

It was chaotic, but it was my kind of chaotic
and somehow, between singing into a wooden spoon like I was headlining Glastonbury and nearly dropping an entire tray, I started laughing. Proper laughing. The kind that shakes your shoulders and makes you remember you’re still human under all the stress.
It felt like someone had plugged me back into the charger of life one of those dodgy Poundland chargers, but still, it worked.
For the first time in ages, my house didn’t feel like a cave of exhaustion. It felt warm. Stupidly messy, but warm.
I even sat down with a cup of tea, looked at my little disaster of a kitchen, and felt… proud? Content? Some emotion that wasn’t “I hate everything”? Hard to tell, honestly, I don’t recognise them anymore.

It’s weird how one day can feel like a small shift. Not a miracle. Not a transformation. Just… a nudge back towards yourself.
Lately I’ve felt like a blurry version of who I used to be. A bit faded round the edges. A bit lost. A bit fed up of constantly being strong when I’d quite like to collapse dramatically into a stranger’s arms at Tesco and whisper “just hold me.”
But today not perfect, not groundbreaking just reminded me that I’m somewhere. The me who laughs. The me who doesn’t dread every interaction. The me who isn’t drowning in stress soup.
And honestly, that tiny flicker? I’ll take it.
Because not every day has to be magnificent. Some days just have to be “not awful.”
Some days just have to remind you that you can still smile without forcing it.
Some days just have to offer one good coffee, a few giggles, and a kitchen covered in flour.
Today was one of those days.
A comfortable plod.
A little breath of air.
The smallest spark of myself peeking back through the fog.
Maybe Wednesday wasn’t hump day…
But it wasn’t hell day either.
It was just a day that quietly whispered,
“You’re getting there, babe.”
And honestly?
That’s enough for now.

Thursday: The Day I Became Santa, Cinderella, and a Forklift Truck All in One

Thursday. You can always tell when it’s nearly Christmas because suddenly the world goes silent at ridiculous hours. And not “peaceful silent,” oh no eerie silent. The kind that makes you question whether you’ve slept through the apocalypse.
There I was at 4:30am, wide awake like some sort of nocturnal woodland creature. Not a creature was stirring… not even a mouse. Which is a concern, really, because last winter I definitely had a mouse and he was a noisy little bastard. Clearly, even he’s taken annual leave.
The whole world was fast asleep, tucked in warm beds, dreaming of mince pies and men who text back, while I sat up like a deranged Christmas elf thinking, “Right then. Another day. Let’s absolutely ruin my spine.”
The morning wasn’t just busy it was biblical. I had a buffet for 50 to do by 11am. Fifty human beings expecting food, trays, cutlery, the whole shebang. I don’t know who I think I am sometimes… Gordon Ramsay’s secret understudy? A contestant on The Great British Burnout?
Let me tell you now: I was sweating but not swearing which honestly should earn me some sort of medal or a tax break. If hell exists, it probably resembles me in a kitchen at 6:30am, simultaneously rolling sausage rolls, icing cakes, and questioning every life choice that led me here.
Then came the humping of glasses up and down two flights of stairs. And I don't mean a couple of dainty flutes. No, no. These were full crates of glassware, heavy enough to break a spirit, a rib, and possibly a knee. By 9am my body wasn’t even broken it had fully resigned. My back sent me an official letter: “We regret to inform you that we will no longer be participating in these activities. Kind regards, your spine.”
Meanwhile, the clock ticked faster than my patience. But somehow don’t ask how by the time 11am appeared, the buffet was done, the food was out, the tables looked respectable, and nobody died. Not even me. Christmas miracle.
Naturally, people were chatty. So chatty but I was operating on three hours’ sleep, fumes, and a prayer, so I went into that robotic nodding mode. The type where you’re smiling but behind your eyes you’re thinking:
“If one more person asks if I’m ‘all ready for Christmas,’ I will professionally combust.”
Spoiler: someone did ask.
Spoiler two: I did not combust, but I did laugh loud enough that they backed away slowly and probably reconsidered asking anyone anything ever again.
Lunch? Never Heard of Her
Lunch did not happen. Lunch was a myth, a legend, a folklore tale told to children to give them hope. I existed purely on coffee and whatever sweet buttery fumes were floating around the kitchen.
By noon, I felt my soul leave my body at least twice. It probably went off to find a Bahamas holiday deal.
Once the buffet chaos was finally done, you’d think I’d get to sit, breathe, maybe reflect on the fragility of human existence. But no. Because Thursdays are rude like that.
I had shopping to do. Actual shopping. Food shopping, ingredient shopping, “don’t forget the things you forgot yesterday” shopping. So I marched around the supermarket like a woman possessed, chucking flour, butter, sugar, and obscure items into the trolley like I was on Supermarket Sweep but with absolutely no enthusiasm.
At one point I stared at a shelf for six whole minutes trying to remember what I came in for. Six minutes. A whole crime documentary could’ve started by the time I remembered it was eggs. Always bloody eggs.

Then it was home, briefly, before the oven demanded my loyalty. Straight on, apron on, hair up, let’s bake. Honestly, I must have been a baker in a past life, except in that life I assume I was well-rested and financially stable.
I don’t know what it is about December, but suddenly everyone and their nan wants cake. Victoria Sponge? Yes. Cupcakes? Yes. Cookies and cream? Yes. Salted caramel filled with caramel because apparently caramel alone isn’t caramel enough? Double yes.
Don’t get me wrong, I love baking. It’s therapy. It’s chaos. It’s trauma with sugar. But today? Today I was dancing the fine line between “domestic goddess” and “woman who needs a nap on the floor.”
Here’s the wild part: today was so busy I didn’t have time for upset or stress. Not a moment. Not one. Which says a lot considering my life is basically a revolving door of “What now?” and “Oh for fuck’s sake.”
There’s something liberating about that, though. When your feet are moving, your hands are full, and your brain is occupied with remembering whether you’ve over-baked the brownies or forgotten the buttercream, personal issues fall out of your head like loose change.
No time to overthink who ghosted you.
No time to spiral about life choices.
No time to replay awkward moments from 2003.
No time to feel sad. No time to cry. No time to wonder if you’re good enough.
Just… go.
Bake.
Work.
Lift.
Laugh when you can.
Survive always.
In a weird, twisted, festive way it felt good. Like a chaotic emotional detox.
By late afternoon I was surrounded by cake tins, cooling racks, piping bags, and enough icing sugar to be legally questionable. My kitchen looked like a bomb went off in the Bake Off Tent,
but the orders kept coming, and for once I didn’t feel overwhelmed. I felt capable. Tired, but capable. Stressed, but productive. Broken, but still standing,and honestly, isn’t that the most accurate summary of adulthood?
Eventually and I mean EVENTUALLY I sat down. My legs nearly buckled in shock. The sofa actually groaned under the weight of the entire day sitting on my shoulders.
I took a moment to breathe, which was nice, because I’d definitely forgotten to do that for several hours.
Then I had that classic end-of-day reflection:
“How on earth did I actually do all that today?”
Answer:
I don’t know.
Magic?
Adrenaline?
The fear of letting 50 hungry people down?
A Christmas miracle?
Sheer stubbornness?
All of the above?
Probably.
There’s something solid about days like these. They’re draining, chaotic, and push you right to the edge but they remind you that you’re strong. Capable. Borderline superhuman when necessary.
Sure, my back may never recover. Sure, I’ll wake up tomorrow aching in places I didn’t know existed. Sure, the oven probably hates me, my feet are swollen, and my brain is basically mashed potato.
But there’s pride too.
Because today, Thursday, nearly-Christmas Thursday…
I did it all.
I got through it.
I didn’t crumble.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t let stress win.
I baked, I lifted, I created, I survived.
And I didn’t even swear much.

Well… I swore in my head. But that doesn’t count. Santa can’t hear internal profanity.
And Tomorrow?
Tomorrow will probably be just as chaotic. More buffets, more cakes, more running around like a festive lunatic with a to-do list longer than my patience.
But tonight?
Tonight I can rest.
Tonight I can breathe.
Tonight I can proudly say:
“Thursday didn’t break me… but it definitely tried.”
And Christmas is coming whether I’m ready or not. So bring it on.
I’m already awake at 4:30am might as well get ahead of the madness.

Friday. Oh Friday.

The day that, in theory, comes wrapped in glitter and promise a day off, a lie-in, a slow morning with birds singing and the sun peeking through the curtains like some soft-focus Instagram reel.
Reality?
Absolutely not.
My Friday did not show up in a robe, holding a coffee and whispering “take your time, babe.” No. My Friday kicked the bedroom door in like a debt collector and announced itself at stupid o’clock. You know that moment where you wake up and think, Is this a joke? That was me. Eyes open before my alarm. Before the birds. Before human civilisation had the audacity to start functioning. I looked around my room and thought, Who exactly do I think I am, waking up this early on a day off?
But alas. Duty called.
And by duty, I mean cakes.
Cakes galore.
Cakes everywhere.
Cakes multiplying like rabbits who’d eaten a family-size bag of sugar.
There is something deeply offensive about having a day off and immediately standing in your kitchen like a contestant on Bake Off who forgot every skill they’ve ever had. At 6am. With hair that resembled a tumbleweed with depression.
Music on low and I mean low because not even the birds were awake. Even Mariah Carey herself wouldn’t dare attempt a whistle note at that hour. If she had, I’d have thrown caster sugar at her.
So there I was, piping buttercream, sticking my finger in bowls “for quality control” (translation: emotional support sugar), and whispering to myself, You’re doing amazing sweetie, even though the only thing amazing was how fast the kitchen descended into a flour-dust crime scene.
Cakes cooling on every surface. Cupcakes sitting there like entitled toddlers. Me, spinning around the kitchen trying to remember if I added eggs to batch three or if that was the moment I zoned out thinking about whether I should fake my own death and move to a remote island with no fondant.
By noon, though miracle of miracles I was finished. Done. Wrapped up. Kitchen looked like a bakery had exploded, but I was free. A rare victory.

I messaged my friend the international sign for “I need living, breathing human contact before I turn into a Victorian housewife.”
We met for “a catch-up,” which is code for “therapy with booze.”
And oh, did we hydrate.
Alcohol?
We drank like we were being sponsored.
Every problem I’d had all week? Gone. Every annoyance? Evaporated. Every negative thought? Drowned.
It was one of those catch-ups where you start off pretending you’re sophisticated “shall we just have one?” and by the third drink you’re both planning summer holidays you’ll never go on and discussing deep life questions like:

Why are men so confusing?

Why does Prosecco taste better when you pretend you’re rich?

Why do carbs betray us?

Why is adulthood 95% exhaustion and 5% pretending you’ve got your life together?

We laughed so hard the table shook. And honestly? It was needed. The type of laughter that resets your brain chemistry. The kind that makes you temporarily forget bills, stress, and any emotional breakdown you pencilled in for the evening.
Now, here’s the thing about inviting people back to yours: it sounds adorable in your head. Reality? Less adorable, more “Why does my house suddenly look like a soft play centre?”
Invites back to mine turned into spontaneous sleepover plans kids running around, everyone shouting over each other, snacks demolished within 4.3 seconds. One child singing. Another pretending to be a cat. Someone asking where the toilet is even though they’ve been nine times before.
Adults trying to have a conversation over the noise like we’re in a nightclub.
Me standing in the doorway thinking How did this escalate? I just wanted chips and a quiet drink.
Naturally, the house went from “lived in” to “post-apocalyptic” before anyone even took their shoes off.
Cushions everywhere.
Blankets on the floor.
Half a packet of crisps in a corner for reasons unknown.
A shoe in the hallway that does not belong to anyone who lives here.
A cup someone used and placed on the floor like a savage.
But you know what?
It was fun.
Loud, messy, unpredictable but fun.
The best part?
No tears.
A Friday miracle.
Not one emotional wobble.
Not one dramatic spiral into overthinking.
Just laughter, chatter, and the kind of comfort only familiar chaos can bring.

It’s funny how the Fridays I imagine never happen.
The quiet ones.
The restful ones.
The ones where I sit with a blanket, tea, maybe a candle, and do absolutely nothing.
Nope.
The universe says, “No relaxation for you, darling. Have some chaos instead.”
But this Friday?
It was the good kind of chaos.
Not the “I want to launch myself into the sun” kind.
The warm one.
The messy, cosy, friends-and-kids-and-no-tears kind.
The kind that reminds you that life isn’t always polished and peaceful.
Sometimes it’s flour explosions, sticky counters, hangover-pending afternoons, random children shouting “LOOK WHAT I CAN DO!!” while nearly injuring themselves, and your friend laughing so loudly you worry the neighbours will complain.
And sometimes, SOMETIMES, that’s exactly what you need.
Because in between the mess and madness, there were moments that made me feel… human. Present. A bit more me. Not the robot who wakes up at ungodly hours and shuffles around the kitchen muttering at sponge cakes. Not the exhausted version of me that cries on Tuesdays for absolutely no reason.
Just the me that enjoys being around people I love.
The me that laughs without thinking about who’s watching.
The me that deserves a Friday free of stress, tears, or any emotional plot twist.
And Then… The Aftermath
Of course, once everyone leaves, you’re left standing in your living room looking at the war zone that used to be your house.
It’s always the same thoughts:

Where do I start?
Why does my back hurt?
Why is there glitter on my stairs?
How did a biscuit crumble under the sofa?
Why is there a sock on my kettle?
Should I clean or just move?
But then you remind yourself:
Cleaning can wait.
The house can stay feral for one night.
You’ve earned your collapse.
You’ve earned your can-barely-move slouch on the sofa.
You’ve earned the right to lie there like a Victorian woman fainting dramatically.
And honestly?
The mess is proof that the day happened.
That you lived it.
That it wasn’t wasted.
As Fridays go, this one surprised me.
It walked in disguised as a stressful, exhausting, why-am-I-awake-so-early disaster…
and turned into something good.
Something full of laughter.
Something full of warmth.
Something full of noise but absolutely no negativity.
A rare combination.
A needed one.
So here’s to:
Early mornings
Cake chaos
Friends who drink like pirates
Kids who turn your house into a circus
and Fridays that don’t break you.
I didn’t get my lie-in.
I didn’t get peace.
I didn’t get quiet
but I got a good Friday a real one and honestly? I’ll take that.

The day that, in theory, comes wrapped in glitter and promise a day off, a lie-in, a slow morning with birds singing and the sun peeking through the curtains like some soft-focus Instagram reel.
Reality?
Absolutely not.
My Friday did not show up in a robe, holding a coffee and whispering “take your time, babe.” No. My Friday kicked the bedroom door in like a debt collector and announced itself at stupid o’clock. You know that moment where you wake up and think, Is this a joke? That was me. Eyes open before my alarm. Before the birds. Before human civilisation had the audacity to start functioning. I looked around my room and thought, Who exactly do I think I am, waking up this early on a day off?
But alas. Duty called.
And by duty, I mean cakes.
Cakes galore.
Cakes everywhere.
Cakes multiplying like rabbits who’d eaten a family-size bag of sugar.
There is something deeply offensive about having a day off and immediately standing in your kitchen like a contestant on Bake Off who forgot every skill they’ve ever had. At 6am. With hair that resembled a tumbleweed with depression.
Music on low and I mean low because not even the birds were awake. Even Mariah Carey herself wouldn’t dare attempt a whistle note at that hour. If she had, I’d have thrown caster sugar at her.
So there I was, piping buttercream, sticking my finger in bowls “for quality control” (translation: emotional support sugar), and whispering to myself, You’re doing amazing sweetie, even though the only thing amazing was how fast the kitchen descended into a flour-dust crime scene.
Cakes cooling on every surface. Cupcakes sitting there like entitled toddlers. Me, spinning around the kitchen trying to remember if I added eggs to batch three or if that was the moment I zoned out thinking about whether I should fake my own death and move to a remote island with no fondant.
By noon, though miracle of miracles I was finished. Done. Wrapped up. Kitchen looked like a bakery had exploded, but I was free. A rare victory.

I messaged my friend the international sign for “I need living, breathing human contact before I turn into a Victorian housewife.”
We met for “a catch-up,” which is code for “therapy with booze.”
And oh, did we hydrate.
Alcohol?
We drank like we were being sponsored.
Every problem I’d had all week? Gone. Every annoyance? Evaporated. Every negative thought? Drowned.
It was one of those catch-ups where you start off pretending you’re sophisticated “shall we just have one?” and by the third drink you’re both planning summer holidays you’ll never go on and discussing deep life questions like:

Why are men so confusing?

Why does Prosecco taste better when you pretend you’re rich?

Why do carbs betray us?

Why is adulthood 95% exhaustion and 5% pretending you’ve got your life together?

We laughed so hard the table shook. And honestly? It was needed. The type of laughter that resets your brain chemistry. The kind that makes you temporarily forget bills, stress, and any emotional breakdown you pencilled in for the evening.
Now, here’s the thing about inviting people back to yours: it sounds adorable in your head. Reality? Less adorable, more “Why does my house suddenly look like a soft play centre?”
Invites back to mine turned into spontaneous sleepover plans kids running around, everyone shouting over each other, snacks demolished within 4.3 seconds. One child singing. Another pretending to be a cat. Someone asking where the toilet is even though they’ve been nine times before.
Adults trying to have a conversation over the noise like we’re in a nightclub.
Me standing in the doorway thinking How did this escalate? I just wanted chips and a quiet drink.
Naturally, the house went from “lived in” to “post-apocalyptic” before anyone even took their shoes off.
Cushions everywhere.
Blankets on the floor.
Half a packet of crisps in a corner for reasons unknown.
A shoe in the hallway that does not belong to anyone who lives here.
A cup someone used and placed on the floor like a savage.
But you know what?
It was fun.
Loud, messy, unpredictable but fun.
The best part?
No tears.
A Friday miracle.
Not one emotional wobble.
Not one dramatic spiral into overthinking.
Just laughter, chatter, and the kind of comfort only familiar chaos can bring.

It’s funny how the Fridays I imagine never happen.
The quiet ones.
The restful ones.
The ones where I sit with a blanket, tea, maybe a candle, and do absolutely nothing.
Nope.
The universe says, “No relaxation for you, darling. Have some chaos instead.”
But this Friday?
It was the good kind of chaos.
Not the “I want to launch myself into the sun” kind.
The warm one.
The messy, cosy, friends-and-kids-and-no-tears kind.
The kind that reminds you that life isn’t always polished and peaceful.
Sometimes it’s flour explosions, sticky counters, hangover-pending afternoons, random children shouting “LOOK WHAT I CAN DO!!” while nearly injuring themselves, and your friend laughing so loudly you worry the neighbours will complain.
And sometimes, SOMETIMES, that’s exactly what you need.
Because in between the mess and madness, there were moments that made me feel… human. Present. A bit more me. Not the robot who wakes up at ungodly hours and shuffles around the kitchen muttering at sponge cakes. Not the exhausted version of me that cries on Tuesdays for absolutely no reason.
Just the me that enjoys being around people I love.
The me that laughs without thinking about who’s watching.
The me that deserves a Friday free of stress, tears, or any emotional plot twist.
And Then… The Aftermath
Of course, once everyone leaves, you’re left standing in your living room looking at the war zone that used to be your house.
It’s always the same thoughts:

Where do I start?
Why does my back hurt?
Why is there glitter on my stairs?
How did a biscuit crumble under the sofa?
Why is there a sock on my kettle?
Should I clean or just move?
But then you remind yourself:
Cleaning can wait.
The house can stay feral for one night.
You’ve earned your collapse.
You’ve earned your can-barely-move slouch on the sofa.
You’ve earned the right to lie there like a Victorian woman fainting dramatically.
And honestly?
The mess is proof that the day happened.
That you lived it.
That it wasn’t wasted.
As Fridays go, this one surprised me.
It walked in disguised as a stressful, exhausting, why-am-I-awake-so-early disaster…
and turned into something good.
Something full of laughter.
Something full of warmth.
Something full of noise but absolutely no negativity.
A rare combination.
A needed one.
So here’s to:
Early mornings
Cake chaos
Friends who drink like pirates
Kids who turn your house into a circus
and Fridays that don’t break you.
I didn’t get my lie-in.
I didn’t get peace.
I didn’t get quiet
but I got a good Friday a real one and honestly? I’ll take that.