Tag: mother

Girl, You’ll be a Woman soon & Growing up Abi: My Mum died when I was 15. I always think it was a shame because I could really do with asking her a few things about now. I never knew my Mother as an adult, I certainly never thought much about her life before I entered it. The truth is, I always think I am failing a bit at being an adult. I don’t see myself as having achieved half…

(Click for larger… you know you want to!) Have I done enough to secure my spot in hell? Surely I must be getting pretty close… [More hell-seekers can be found over on Lilu's blog!] This photo’s for everyone out there that’s been caught without toilet paper either at home or in a public bathroom. For everyone that’s tried in vain to find a scrap of paper in your pocket or handbag that can be shoehorned into anal submission. For those…

Merry Christmas! Or Winter Solstice! Whatever! As the last few days of 2009 and the decade dribble lazily through the hourglass’s pinch of incessant, unstoppable time, my focus turns inward. I’m not prone to introversion — really, it’s sometimes a little worrying how little I stop to care; least of all care about myself. Obviously, the delicious irony is that the moment I try to think about why I don’t care, I stop caring and think about something else. I guess…

(Click for larger) Ho ho ho! … Everyone else seemed to be doing Christmas cards so I thought I’d jump on the bandwagon. It being Thursday, the last sensible blogging day before Christmas, I tried to be festive and fold in the too-much-information thing. [Obligatory link to Lilu, The Queen of TMI's blog]. Did I succeed? You can hardly tell the cat’s been composited in, right? I tell you, I’m never doing cat photography again. I thought it was meant to…

This is a continuation from a series of entries I wrote chronicling my childhood and teenage years. For some reason I got sidetracked — I wrote about ‘that tale from my teenage years‘, and before I knew it I was writing about my crazy relationships and sexual encounters. And then I got talking about The American. I often write as if I’m not affected by what unfolds — chilled, objective — but the truth is… I am. I am effected…

For those of you that read this blog on a regular basis you’ll know that my mother likes to comment. In fact, reading my blog is part of her ‘breakfast routine’ — she can often be found with a cup of tea and pastry in-hand as she reads my blog in the morning, her face displaying a terrible, nervous grin as she discovers yet another disgusting fact about her ‘beautiful, first-born son Sebastian’ (that’s how she introduces me to friends)…