Life Skills.

We always used to have these career days at school where you would brainstorm what skills you possessed and how these would determine what career you entered into. There would be a discussion with Madame Lott as to whether you had management skills, people skills; whether you were good with technology, good at memorising lots of facts and figures; good at maths, good at foreign languages and what careers you would be suited to you based on these apparent skills. My meetings were always rather brief. In my humble opinion aged 15 do you really have that many skills? And if you have acquired much more accomplished skills than myself, do you really know, at 15, what you want to do for the rest of your life? On reflection of my pathetic teenage self this is as skilled as it got:

- Cross the quad without dropping any of my books in the puddles, if I walked extra slow.

- Apply eyeliner faultlessly on a Friday afternoon, after spending all week with panda eyes.

- Miss my bus after games on a Tuesday afternoon because I couldn't get my tights on quick enough.

- Sing school hymns exceptionally well for an Indian.

- Spray my french homework in perfume so that I would continue to be one of Mr. Tomlin's 'fave girlies'.

- Recite Mean Girls from start to finish.

Was there more to life at 15? 

Oh and my personal favourite - I was so skilled I managed to get shat on by a really fat pigeon in the school car park one morning. It was so great that it was in my hair all down my school jumper and I was stood right next to the boy I really fancied whilst he hysterically laughed. Does life get any more skilled than that? 

I managed to tame the fro a litte for this picture. Life skill? Hell Yes. 

One year we took a career aptitude test, the whole year sat in the main hall pining their hopes and dreams and on essentially a reasoning test. I like everyone else was adamant the results were going to determine my entire future. Two weeks later everyone was eagerly awaiting their results to brag about how they were going to become a scientist or a lawyer or win a Nobel Peace Prize. So when I finally got my mitts on my results, I was rather disappointed with my predicted future. 

Careers based on results: 

1) Florist 

2) Hotel Manager 

3) Social Worker

Not exactly what I had expected. Was I to suddenly know my hydrangeas from my hyacinths?

Because 8 years later I still don't know the difference - I thought Hyacinth was a faux posh ageing lady who was adamant about keeping up appearances...apparently not. BBB was also less than impressed when he found out that 10 years of private school equated to arranging flowers.  

Hotel manager was a little more exciting. When I was little (well I've never really been 'little' perhaps younger is more apt) I always wanted my own chain of hotels. They were to be called 'The Five Oceans' (evidently an 8 year old's rip off of the Four Seasons) and there were going to be themed suits according to what ocean you were in. Hawaiian luaus in the Pacific Suites with floral walls and coconut water on tap. New York/London themed rooms in the Atlantic Suites with a Big Ben bed and Statue of Liberty bath robes. Obviously Indian rooms for the Indian Ocean Suites...with Indian things in there. Then my creativity went blank or I simply couldn't remember the other oceans. 

Think I could have been on to a winner. Maybe I should give Richard Branson a call see whether he would be interested in investing millions into an eight year old's dream.

As the end of 2013 draws to a close I decided to have a re think of my life skills. Upon reflection not much has changed. I'm still clumsy, I still can't apply eyeliner, it is however at this time of year that I continually sing carols exceptionally well - O Holy Night still belted out the best. Some say drowning cats, others say enthusiastic, I say... next Celine Dion? I suppose a skill I have acquired/ honed is the ability to write self deprecating matter on a fortnightly (when I'm good) basis. 

To my complete surprise the blog has done much better than I ever anticipated. Whilst initially my only consistent reader was Geeta (when I literally forced her to read it) I have now amassed over 90,000 views. When I delved a little deeper to see where these views had come from, to my amusement the post with the most amount of views was 'How to Lose Weight Fast' - clearly people really do google everything. 20,000 views and all they would have found out about losing weight fast is what happened to me when I got the flu. Lol. 

In the way of careers it has gone a little like this: 

Aged 5-16: Doctor. Then I realised I didn't understand any of A-Level chemistry. Rings and chains - what even is that.  

Aged 16 - 18: Classicist. I was going to discover something exciting or find gold and be rich. 

Aged 18- 21: Lawyer. As soon as I got to Uni I didn't want to be the next Mary Beard this was just my new unique way of becoming a lawyer, obvs - total sense. It was going to be great, I had it all planned - Classics was going to make me a more well rounded (no pun intended) lawyer. Life was going to be great. 

Aged 21-22: Career Unknown. Law school is horrendous, law is horrendous, I hate my statute book and I hate my case law book even more. Soz Baz I don't want part of the family business. 

Aged 22-23: Teacher. Seemed a logical route given the above...

PRESENT MODERN DAY NOW: Writer. 

Who would have guessed. Well, not to brag or anything but I did once win the Literature Cup at Stoneygate when I didn't even read the book. I think I would be quite happy to do this forever. Basically I want to be Caitlin Moran, have my own column, get paid to waffle on about mindless shit; but maybe a tad less feminist because I would still like to drool over Ryan Gosling without being chastised for showing a woman's weakness. 

Will this happen with my particular set of life skills? Who knows. I'll guess I'll just have to give it a whirl. 

Fatty BB xxx

The Night I Partied With Nicole.

Scherzy won't reply to my messages about grabbing a quick maccy's now though...awks.

There is a policy for this blog: Ask no questions, and I will tell no lies. (Publicly - if you ask me in private I will happily disclose my dirty little secrets).

So, I managed to wangle an invite for myself and Alex to attend the Sushi Samba One Year Anniversary Party (at is at this point we adopt our policy). Now I wasn't exactly invited by name but I had a hard copy of the invite and enough courage from Alex to attempt to blag it on the door. Believing I was Billie Big Balls I told them I was essentially a big deal, and quite shockingly they believed me... up to the 38th floor of the Heron Tower we flew.

We made it! 

We were greeted with free flowing Verve, a lot of beautiful looking people, even more edgy looking people and a chortling Nick Grimshaw entertaining his cronies. We obviously got as close as possible and pretended to join in on their Harry Styles related joke.

Our motto for the evening consisted quite simply of: BE COOL. BE COOL. BE COOL. (Not something that comes all too naturally). Whilst we only sampled one piece of sushi each (these cool kids act like they've never seen food before, I wasn't about to be the fat kid that deprived them), we certainly sampled our fair share of the champers. It was after we had guzzled a few pints of the Verve that a very awkward situation occurred.

Being Cool. 

Alex had left me (probably to stalk Grimmy under the guise of having a pee) and this woman kept looking at me and smiling - granted I had made an effort for the occasion but not one that really warranted strangers smiling at me. So I smiled back and did an awkward little wave, that appeared to summon her over - very cool. Before I knew it she had walked over to me and engaged in a conversation that went a little like this:

Smiling Lady: I love your coat!
Billie: Thank you - it's my favourite!
Smiling Lady: It's mine.
Billie: *feeling a little confused and wondering whether she was going to steal it from me*          Ummmm...no I don't think so - it's mine.
Smiling Lady: No, no, no. I'm Alice Temperley - I designed that coat.
Twatface: Ohhhhhh. It's my favourite. (well done, well incoherent just repeat what you previously said)
Alice Temperley: Well it looks great on you (bbrrrppppp) Have a good night!

I finally managed to pick my jaw up form the floor and shout behind her to have a good night too. Just call me a smooth operator.

THE COAT. 

A few more (clearly unnecessary) glasses of Verve meant two things:
1) We had made friends with the bar tender who constantly topped up our glasses before anyone else's.
2) We should have a dance since Neneh Cherry and Grimmy were playing and were supposed to be really into them...because the invitation told us to be.

A revelation: Apparently cool kids don't dance, they just shuffle along the dance floor shmoosing and air kissing - I think this was our give away that we weren't part of that crowd...

Smashing it.

All of a sudden Alex stops mind grind and turns to me and says to me 'Look who is directly behind you!" I turned around and BOOM there was... Scherzy in all her cat suit glory. 'Be cool' went straight out of the window and 'I lost my shit' tookover. She is without a doubt the most beautiful person I have ever seen (text me baaacccckkk Scherzy!) Alex played it cool and didn't whip out the phone, I on the other hand decided with only 4% batt (I know I was having palpitations too) I wasn't wasting my time with anymore sushi selfies I was getting Scherzy.

     

More dancing, more drinking and more laughing ensued and before I knew it, it was time for Cinderella to leave to ball. We arrived downstairs at the same time as Mark Francis who seemed to be shouting 'Where the fuck is my car?!'... to nobody. Giggling like school girls who had just crashed the party of the fit boy two years above we were greeted by a gaggle of paparazzi who were about to take our picture before they released...we weren't anyone worth writing a shit piece about in DM Online.

The night ended in Liverpool station scoffing fast food and getting a stitch from laughing after realising we were both smashed and had to be up for work in less than 6 hours - that part was not chic.

The next day at work I was suitably smug when I was telling everyone about my new BFF Nicole, until I was brought down a peg by picking up dry cleaning. Oh real world - I have not missed you.

London adventures continue...

Fatty BB xxx

Living The London Life.

The London Life - much like the American Dream, but less realistic. 

The Dream: 

Residence: A town house in Fulham (all four floors are mine)

Boyfriend:  The elusive 'grounded City boy'

Animals: A pug named Spenny 

Clothes: A complete Net-A-Porter wardrobe 

Hobbies: Freelacing as an Asian Caitlin Moran

Hang outs: Private Member's Clubs, Liberty's and the occasional nibble at Sushi Samba.

The Reality 

Residence: A blow up bed in Kate and Juliet's gorgeous flat. (The excitement when they have both been away and I was able to commandeer their beds)

Boyfriend: An unhealthy relationship with Itsu during the day and Pinot at night. 

Animals: Harbouring a hideous cold and the remnants of a blazing temperature. 

Clothes: At present a pair of Uggs with a hole in and a scruffy Wildfox sweatshirt - oozing sex appeal. 

Hobbies: Tube perving on the hot guys, making awkward conversations with people in lifts because I can't handle the silence. 

Hang Outs: Well, it's Saturday night I'm sat on the sofa surrounded by snotty tissues, Jonathan Ross and James Blake's Retrograde on repeat, writing this. 

Did someone say Bridget Jones? Because I would definitely respond. 

Two weeks of Vogue and this is the result. If there was ever a sign that I wasn't made for the working world this would appear to be it. However I should probably tell the truth. I have a bad habit of thinking I can do it all with absolutely no consequences, burning the candle and all that shit. In my head I can do the early mornings, look spritely on the tube, do a full's day work (in not the easiest of industries), go out for a few drinks afterwards, come back spend an hour faffing, wash my hair, dry my hair, spend 45 minutes deciding what to wear in the morning and then do this all again on 5 hours sleep. Easy. If Fat Boy Slim could make this into a song - we're onto a winner. 

Well the reality has begun to sink in and I don't really like it so I think I'm going to continue living idealistically and just put this down to tube germs, I do catch the District Line after all. Two weeks down. Two to go. It is going far, far too quickly, I don't like it. I don't want to come home. I am home. Sorry BBB, I know you're missing your pal. 

Vogue in a word is...ridiculous. 

Day One: I work up extra early to prep and I felt literally sick to my stomach. I tried on about 8 different outfits before settling with the initial one - isn't that always the case? What a lot of hanging up to do afterwards. In hindsight I was perhaps not wise with my choice. 

The 'I'm shitting it' smile. Classic. 

Obviously on the first day there is a lot of hand shaking and a leather skirt with sweaty palms sliding down it...not ideal. I can't say that the first day went so smoothly there were a few hiccoughs, but if I ever want a job in fashion I definitely can't disclose them. Let's just say it takes a REALLY long time to go through 600 fashion shows with 40-80 looks per show. 

Day One definitely set the pace for the rest of the week, the other interns and myself took to predicting what stress level we would reach each day. Most days we naively predicted a steady 6/10 and by 6pm we would be at a 12/10. 

The following example solidifies the notion that people in fashion are crazy and ridiculous. So at 3pm I get a call from a designer in Paris saying a dress we were shooting that day needed to be in New York tomorrow - realistic then. Having spoken to the mail room I was told we had missed the cut off point and the earliest it would be there was Monday. I realyed this to Paris and was told this was not an option, greeaattt. I begged and pleaded with Fedex and they agreed to come and pick up (don't get too excited this did not go smoothly). The came and they left...without the box. Apparently you need a document declaring what exactly the dress was made from, because customs is suspicious of polyester and nylon. So a bit more begging and pleading and Fedex agree to collect again (don't get too excited this doesn't go smoothly either). The Fedex tosser decides that I take too long in the lift down to reception and doesn't fancy waiting all of 35 seconds and leaves. Another hour of begging and pleading with Fedex and by the time its 7pm all hope is lost, it's not getting to New York until Monday. First tears are shed. So I emailed Paris in the morning and told them of my Fedex dramas and that the dress had now been collected but wouldn't be there until Monday. Instantly there was a reply saying this was not ok as there would be no one be at the address on Monday and it had to be redirected to Paris. WHY, GOD WHY?! Of course when I called Fedex to recall the package they have no reference of the tracking number and it appeared the package was lost. Excellent. (The package is now in Paris and the lady is happy so I shan't bore you with any more fashion crises.)

Optimistic start of the Day. Delirious post Fedex selfie after I wiped away my tears. 

When week one was finally over Kate and I got so pissed we barely made it through dinner (well Kate didn't she fell asleep). 

Half price Prosecco. #guilty

Week two holds MANY more treats and a lot less tears, I promise. 

Fatty BB xxx

P.S. Want to know what being a fashion intern is like...check this out. It's hysterical. 

http://fashioninternproblems.tumblr.com/

Tardiness and Sweaty Palms.

Time is a funny concept, we wish it away and then all too suddenly we ask where the time went - trying to claw some of it back to prepare us for the next step.

I have always been a last minute kind of girl, the 11th hour is by far my favourite hour. Annie is the total opposite - always on time, always managed her time, always ready. I'm lazy and I'm a faffer. There is always something better to do than get up and get ready namely, sleep. During our school years we used to have to catch the school bus to Loughborough at 7:15am - I know, barbaric. 

Mornings went a little like this: 

Annie: Alarm would be set for 6am but she would be up before then. Her uniform would be laid out the night before in preparation. She would have time for a leisurely breakfast even maybe a bit of Trouble channel too - quick episode of 'My Wife and Kids'. But most importantly she would have made time to empty the dishwasher. This made her Geeta's absolute favourite. Then of course there would be the inevitable scream up the stairs (every day) at 7:05am 'BILLIE - GET DOWN STAIRS NOW, WE'RE GOING TO MISS THE BUS.' 

Billie: Alarm would be set for 6:30am and when it went off every morning I would be filled with rage and immediately turn it off, not even snooze it because snoozing meant it had to go off again....

6:35am Geeta gives me a nudge and an affectionate 'Time to get up Darling'.

6:45am Geeta decides on a new tactic, 'Come on now Billie, breakfast is ready!' (nope doesn't work)

6:55am Geeta's lost all patience 'GET OUT OF BED YOU FAT SHIT!!' 

7:00am...Better get up then, the next step of Geeta's wrath is ripping the duvet off and there is truly nothing worse. 

7:10 Stumble downstairs hair a mess, shirt untucked, jumper on backwards grab my bag and my cold toast get in the car and pray that the bus hadn't in fact gone. 

On the frequent occasion that it had already gone and we had missed it this meant two things: 

1. Geeta had to chase down the bus at the next few stops. 

2. I was going to have to endure an entire journey of Annie's elbow dug deep into my ribs. 

Bus journeys were happier times. I had bullied my way to the back of the bus - the window seat. As soon as I was on alarm would be set for 10 minutes before we arrived arrived at school (to try and tame the fro and put my jumper on the right way round) and straight back to sleep I went. 

Life has not changed much, I'm still always late and still always being shouted out. But I'm now Geeta's favourite - bonus.

I am trying my very hardest to be organised for Vogue. I even started my packing yesterday, granted it did turn into a bit of fashion show where I made Annie take pictures of me and give me her advice on outfits and then of course I did the complete opposite of what she suggested. But the intention was there to get myself sorted, even it wasn't entirely carried out.

It is now 4 sleeps until Vogue and I'm shitting it. The excitement is still very much there but there is now an overwhelming sense of anxiety, which in turn reignites a childhood disposition... sweaty palms.

I have had to endure this miserable condition from a young age (I have even tricked people into believing it is a genuine condition). Radiator hands as they were fondly referred to, even on the coldest of days my palms would still be clammy. The difficulties I have had to overcome in my life due to these sweaty palms - you wouldn't believe. I can't hold someone's hand for more than 5 minutes before thinking 'oh my god, they must think I have the Niagara Falls quite literally in the palm of my hand'. Even BBB didn't hold my hand for more than a minute, and then he would instantly reach for his handkerchief whilst giving me a pitiful smile. Whenever I have my eyebrows threaded you have to stretch the skin tight around the eye to avoid any snagging. Due to my condition I can never get a firm grip and my hands end up slipping all over the place which means I have to embarrassingly ask for a tissue (which doesn't do much) and then try not to wince every time my skin inevitably snags. Pain.

The nightmare situation come Monday morning: I'm late, my jumper is on backwards and I have to shake a lot of hands with clammy palms - would it be less awkward if I just hugged them?

But before then I have bigger fish to fry: a Diwali celebration, attempting to not burn down the house or the gym with BBB's exhibition fireworks that you need a license to set off, trying to resist a Reggae Rum on Saturday night because we have established that they give me rage. But the biggest fish:  how many suitcases/bags it is socially acceptable to take to London for a month.
So far:
2 x suitcase for clothes.
1 x Bag for shoes
1 x Bag for make up, hair care, accessories
1 x Bag....for bags.

By bag...I mean holdall/mini suitcase...ooops. Sorry Kate and Jules - if I say bags are communal does this make it any better?

And of course tomorrow is my last PT session with Zack, who has promised to rap for me - I have waited 11 weeks for this moment. Personally I would prefer a rendition of Mariah Carey 'fantasy' but alas beggars can't be chosers. So with 9 hours until my back is surely broken again by stupid 'clean and presses' (I still don't know what that actually means) I must try and put anxiety, excitement and of course sweaty palms to rest to make sure I am in true fashion late for tomorrow's session.

No doubt there will be a panic post on Sunday night, entitled 'I Didn't Mean To Get So Drunk'.

Stay tuned.

Fatty BB xxx

Miracles Can Happen.

I was dreading weigh in on Monday morning predominantly because I had made the most fattening roast the day before - everything tasted so good because it was coated in large quantities of butter before being shoved in the oven (and then for good measure I threw in a bit more butter). I had no complaints though - everyone said it was beaut (their arteries however thought otherwise).

After lying on the sofa upside down for the next 45 minutes, seriously regretting that last parsnip a wave of guilt (or perhaps just nausea from over eating) came across me and the thought of weigh in the following day made me literally hurl. It was a sleepless night...because I'm hooked on Homeland and finished a season in 3 days (think I might sack off Vogue for the CIA). Monday morning was a very unwelcome sight and even more so were the scales that had be deliberately left out in the bathroom for me. Cheers Geeta.

'Be brave Billie'/ ' Why did you eat that roast?!' - was my mantra and before I could force myself to be sick, I jumped on to the scales. Annoyed that I had to wear my glasses because they could contribute to any extra poundage I was shocked to see what the scales read. So much so, I bounded off the scales, checked they were set to 0 and bounced back on again. 2 STONES DOWN. GET IN. (what a yob).

Quite shockingly I had actually reached my target of 2 stones in 2 months. Whilst I had loosely stuck to Zack's diet plan because no one should have to endure that much spinach or sweet potato ever, there had been a few hiccoughs/hiccups (depending on your preference of spelling, I prefer the pretentious version obvs) along the way. You know the kind that just keeps persisting, you drink water, you hold your breath, you anticipate somewhere scaring you...because you have asked them to and still the hiccoughs don't cease. Those kids of hiccoughs, you can't help it so you just let them carry on.

A hiccough that continually torments me is Newcastle. Every time I go, it destroys me. Considering the most wild thing that had happened that week was buying a remote control for the DVD player in the gym so it meant I wasn't forced to watch the trailers all over again when Zack had a moment and pressed the 'open' button instead of 'play'. One job, Zack. So when I heard that Shariat was hosting a RedBull party, coupled with the fact that Alice and I are unemployed and don't need to abide by school night etiquette we thought hellz yes - let's go. I had a PT session that day and definitely underplayed to Zack how easily influenced I am when out with any Mayville girls, I'm sorry I lied. Shariat did us proud though and the party was incredible, even though I couldn't fully coax Alice into a breakdancing battle with the pros (don't worry, she hasn't lost it - the second the ring of people started to disappear she jumped straight in there, snaking it like a PCD).

Perhaps a few too many RedBull cocktails later, the snaking got a lot more loose. A reliable source then told us that Razor Light were at the party, and despite not knowing any Razor Light songs and only that Jonny Borrel once dated Emma Watson we were on the man hunt. After a 2 minute look around we got bored of the celeb hunt and refocussed our attention on Grand Master Flash - so much so we were oblivious to the fact that suddenly half the crowd were naked.

So since Shaz had the key to warehouse we needed to stay until the very end when everyone had dragged themselves away from the free bar. Reluctant to actually be helpful because I was at that drunk stage where you're totally selfish, Alice and I stumbled into the VIP room and found three guys sitting in there. A quick glance at each other and we both had the same thought...RAZOR LIGHT?!

Queue hair tousle and a quick pucker up. Alice performed the worm to much applause, and I necked a bottle of beer to much less applause...it was going well. After 5 minutes Alice disappeared and Jonny Borrel was firmly in sight. After an hour of my best moves, mission accomplished. I went to find every one else, skipping over to Alice in glee to tell her that I had pulled the guy from Razor Light...my world was quickly shattered.

Alice restraining her snorting laughter flashed a picture on her phone of Razor Light and then burst into fits of giggles. Perhaps not so shockingly the boys in the VIP were in fact not Razor Light. Great. An hour of my life wasted on a boy called Glen. Excellent. All devastation was quickly forgotten when we arrived at the 24 hour bakery (soz Zack) and we ordered pretty much everything in sight.

Much happier after the bakery visit. 

Safe to say the next day I was not in a good place. The sugar in the RedBull had kindly disguised how smashed I actually was and when Alice cracked open a can on the way home I thought I was going to be sick. Constantly calling people on the way home to try and get out our dark depression we arrived home wishing not to see any more RedBull for a long time.

With 3 Weeks left until Vogue commences, I am trying to keep the hiccoughs down to a minimum and Asos shopping to a maximum. Although with all my confessions in here I think I might be made to plank from now until November 4th. Bleurgh.

Fatty BB xxx

Baby Got Back.

Since Geeta has been homebound and poorly she has become quite the pain in my ass. Everything in the house (that is already neatly stacked away) has to be emptied and de-cluttered.  Although this is hideously laborious and quite frankly unnecessary it has allowed for a few gems to be found.

Funnily enough it was my room that had the most amount of shit to be de-cluttered, I'm a horder - or if I can't be bothered to find an actual space for it, it just gets shoved at the back of a closet and I pray Geeta doesn't find it. Like a whole bag of odd socks. How do people keep socks paired anyway? How do you make sure that all the same socks go in the same wash? It's impossible. My argument for wearing odd socks is that it's my act of spontaneity for the day...this often leads to eyes being rolled and an occasional telling off from BBB that I have taken his cashmere socks.

It all started when I watched 'Crossroad's, I was young and impressionable and Britney had a full head of real hair. In the film they make a memory box and then go on to have a rather stupid adventure, but they sing a lot of NSync and Sheryl Crowe thus making it a great film. Now it's publicly known that I'm a dweeb and upon our de-cluttering endeavour I found multiple memory boxes.

The oldest box was filled with my favourite Polly Pockets (one of which Annie had deliberately sabotaged because she wanted it), a tamagochi, a prediction for what my life would be at 21 (I was VERY idealistic) and my old Stoneygate sports skirt with my colours on it. The contents of this box was not brutally thrown away like many other, but left as a reminder of life pre Iphone.

The next two boxes were an assortment of uni goodies. My first Carnage T-shirt - pornstar themed, classy. With an homage to the Rupert Cox wit all over the tshirt: 'She's like Treseme: affordable yet professional' and 'Rupert's Bitch'. Now if those had been predictions for a 21 year old Billie, we would have hit a more realistic note. I joke Baz, I joke...I didn't even drink at uni.

Amidst the priceless treasures of Fruity tickets I stumbled across some Bhatia baby pics. I was an adorable child, not the prettiest of babies but by one I had really blossomed into my fro. However there was a theme to these pictures...I seemed to be eating in a lot of them. An even more realistic prediction to the future.

Magnum demolished aged 3. 

I love you, Twix.

Definitely have hidden all evidence of eating that chocolate, good work. 

The tone was set from a very young age and the signs have been there all the while, I was destined to be a fatty. Perhaps the tone needs to be changed again. I think I need to take some photos of me seeing how many carrot sticks I can fit into my mouth in one go, or how many kettlebells I can hold in one hand (although I struggle holding 10kg with 2 hands) and maybe one of tones abs...getting carried away now.

18lbs down I think I might be on my way to changing my life theme. Is 'From Fat To Fit Billie' actually happening rather than mindless ramblings?!

Don't be so silly.

Fatty BB xxx

P.S Apparently V.S training started from a young age...

The Time When I Almost Died.

Personal trainer sessions are well underway now and I was heavily misguided in thinking that it would get a little easier. I was so wrong, it never gets easier. At least I don't have to sleep with a hot water bottle any more.

Last week I almost died. Now I know I am prone to the occasional exaggeration, but this is a true story.  I had attempted to up my gym game, mainly because Zack made me. Before this I was quite happy having a casual little peddle on the bike whilst watching Mean Girls/Seventeen Again but apparently I can be more productive when pushed.

So I had been on the cross-trainer, had done my weight exercises, had complained of a stitch for about 10 minutes, had cursed Zack in my had about 15 times and wanted to collapse on the floor at least twice. And still my hour wasn't over. With my legs feeling like jelly, my arms feeling numb and sweat dropping into my eyes and blurring my contact lenses I clambered on to the bike as elegantly as ever - panting like a pug.

It was all going well, I was smashing my sprints and thanking God that I wasn't made to go back on the cross-trainer, then all of a sudden... I couldn't breathe. I genuinely believed I was having a heart attack, and so (obviously) I dramatically held my chest as I gasped for air. I clearly wasn't having a heart attack but in my head I was utterly convinced and thus panicked. Panicking in hindsight was not my best move as this further prevented me from breathing and I looked like an even bigger tit. I think Zack may have even been slightly concerned as he didn't bark at me to keep peddling. Thankfully I got my breathing under control, the humiliation was harder to hide but in truth I was just glad I wasn't that person that fell off a piece of stationary equipment. Having regained what little composure I had left I proceded to collapse on the mat to do my stretches post workout - where I look like fat Jesus being crucified.

After my close brush with death I decided life was most definitely worth living and proceeded to drink my body weight in water and gorge myself on salad leaves. Pre potential heart-attack I would have dived into the biscuit tin and relished the taste of being alive with a hob-nob, not any more.

Don't worry I haven't changed too much (if at all), I still refuse to take pea protein because it smells like dog shit, it makes me gag and you wouldn't have had it in the olden times therefore you shouldn't take it now. And I still went out at the weekend, and lied to Geeta about how much I drank.

It was the return of Alice Willmott from her travels and obvs the original plan was just to go for a couple of drink you know...have a catch up. But having spoken to Alice the night before her return and her declaring that she was now an alcoholic, I was dubious as to whether the plan would remain the same. I made a promise to Zack I would take it easy and that I wouldn't go too hard; by the sheer fact I didn't have any Reggae Rums I would say I kept my promise. This also meant no shots - much to everyone's annoyance who kindly bought me a shot, but much to Alice's delight who elegantly guzzled down any Tequila in sight. And so our  non-messy, civilised in fact classy night went a little like this.

              

Blame Alice, none of it was my fault Zack. Thankfully by 7am Geeta had given up all hope of a sober return and we snuck in unnoticed. The next two days were a blur of depression - after a much fun weekend going back to chicken and spinach, and dying on the cross-trainer was not ideal. BUT after three weeks of hard work in the gym and perhaps not being as strict as I should be on my diet...one stone has been shed. This means my hips no longer share the same circumference of the M25 - success.

There are still 1.2 billion little lbs to be dropped, but there is hope. Inspiration comes in may shapes and forms but this weeks inspiration is a wager set between myself and Shariat. Whoever fails in the 'who lost the most weight this week' challenge buys the shots. Who says I'm not motivated?! Obvs Zack these will be shots of water...or at most orange juice.

Having evaded death and the potential dire humiliation of falling off a stationary bike, I feel confident in saying...I can do this.

Fatty BB xxx

11 Weeks.

11 weeks is all I have until Vogue. 11 weeks of getting my butt kicked.

This is the tale of week one.

Monday afternoon was going to be my first personal trainer session with Zack, and Sunday night felt like the night before an exam when you know you have underprepared, really underprepared - like 23 years of under preparation. Monday morning was equally as agonising as I avoided the scales like I plague. The recognition that weighing myself alone was going to be SO much better than with an audience forced me to tip toe to the bathroom and endure my Bridget Jones moment. Stepping on the scales mild heart attack ensued, whereby I forcefully removed any kind of jewellery I had one, believing two solid silver bracelets and a pair of earrings would shove the dial down a few stones. It obviously made no impact whatsoever. We are now at that point in the exam where you are queued up with your peers waiting to go in and sit your maths papers when you realise you don't have a calculator...you're quite fundamentally fucked. Fair to say breakfast that morning comprised of lashings of air, sprinkled with some kitchen dust and a big fat dollop of full fat H2O. Lunch was of a similar variation.

2pm came all too quickly... show time. Having promised not to look at where I had written my weight until he had left the house and I couldn't hear the cackles I hesitantly made my way into the gym.

The session began with a 5 minute warm up on the bike, I smugly thought 'hey, I think I might actually be able to do this.' That little thought was imminently squashed. Next came the cross trainer at levels I didn't know existed and kettle bell exercises which I thought were going to break my back along with my spirit. According to Zack being sick was normal so when I resisted the urge to spew I was extra pleased with myself...crushed it. Finally my hour was up...THANK GOD. Lying on the floor attempting to stretch out my muscles, I realised I looked like this...

 

And although I say Fat Amy/Patricia is my idol these days I'm aiming more for this... 

I realise Candice may have a few things over me like being a VS model, admired and oogled by millions, and the fact that she looks this good after giving birth but now that I've kicked the carbs who knows what miracles could happen. 

So after a little mermaid dancing on the floor  I then tried to get up - this was a massive struggle. My legs felt like jelly, my back felt like it was carry a house on it and my stomach didn't feel much changed at all  BUT I felt good. It was a good pain. That was until I attempted to go to sleep that night and could barely move, my hot water bottle was taking away no pain and I wanted to punch Zack in the face for making me miss sleep as whatever way I turned I was in agony. Tuesday was a complete and utter write off, I could barely walk and every time I sat down there was no way I was getting back up again...including the toilet.  Wednesday was much the same but a whole lot worse. 

Then came Thursday (my next session) and I thought nothing can be as bad as Monday, if I survived that I will be OK. No, no, no, no. Monday was a walk in the park in comparison to Thursday even though I had warned him I needed to be able to walk as I was going to a wedding the next day (I think he made it his mission to make my hobble). After the session there was now no way I was going to be slutdropping at the reception, for if I dared drop I most certainly wasn't getting back up. 

However, hats off to Zack kicking my ass because after week one I have managed to lose 6lbs (and this was with 1 or 2 vodkas at the wedding...3 max, sorry Zack.) 

I survived week one. Week 2 here we go. 

Fatty BB xxx 

Spanish Escape

The constant upkeep of being an Indian housewife, the closing of Entropy, the return of being a glorified receptionist and the fact I was feeling a little pale all pointed in the direction that I needed a break. However I was anxious to leave Geeta - she had been such a trooper during her first three session of chemo but the fourth was taking its toll. Somehow she found the energy to tell me to get a grip and practically booted me out the door, so with her blessing I headed to the airport in search of sun, fun and large jugs of sangria.

Attempting to keep costs down I booked a flight with Ryanair. This did not keep costs down at all. I decided to check in a 20kg bag (yes I was only going for 6 nights), but my past experience with weight limits has not be successful. When packing there is always the 'definitely yes' pile, the 'definitely no' pile and the 'maybe' pile - so far I have yet to ever put anything in the 'definitely no'/ 'maybe' pile - in my head 6 pairs of shoes for 6 nights is not only acceptable but totally necessary. The worst was when I went to America and I thought I had nailed the weight limit, smashed it, crushed it, and walked over to the counter with a smug 'I don't need to move stuff into my hand luggage look' plastered on my face. In fact I was 8kg over and I had to pay £100 before I even left the county. I say I...I mean BBB.

My logic was that if I paid £50 for a 15kg I would definitely go over and thus incur more fines by paying £70 for a 20kg I was saving in the long run...I was not. But get this - my bag was 19.9kg! Winner. However I printed off the wrong boarding pass, didn't check it and had to pay £70 to reprint it.

Ryanair- 1. Billie - 0.

Clearly when I was booking this flight I was feeling like Billie Big Bucks as I clicked yes to all these crap added extras like priority boarding, assigned seating and travel insurance. Having already paid extra for a shitty piece of paper and getting absolutely no smiles from the miserable Ryanair woman I just wanted to board the flight and get my sangria on. So I  waved Kate goodbye as she joined the cattle queue and I lodged myself into priority boarding - lodged being the operative word. Ryanair are very anti-fatties.

I hadn't chosen well at all for my preassigned seat, either that or the aircraft design online was rather deceptive. Essentially I was right at the front next to the minuscule aisle, so although I was entertained judging the parade of Ryanair passengers on their choice of flight wardrobe (i still do not understand why women where heals to fly) I also got whacked (sometimes I think deliberately) by every person that walked past. To top this off...my seatbelt was broken, so I was abruptly moved from my chosen seat.  Sleep was the only remedy to my Ryanair disasters.

Ryanair 2. Billie -0.

I think now as a good time as any to mention it was a 'steal' that lead me to this holiday. Juliet is a housemate of Kate's and I stole her. Having realised we were pretty much the same person (but she a much more toned version) I was 100% committed to steal. (Gracey I hope you're enjoying my 'committed' reference) In fact I stole Grace as well - the delicate, petite, blonde, princess who after half a bottle of wine turns into a lairy chav - calling everyone 'sweetheart' with a cockney accent and a wag of her middle finger. Two of my very favourite steals.

Hitting the sangria hard on our first night the party animals that we were, we were all in bed by midnight. Juliet's villa is stunning, the views are incredible the whole place was just awesome and when I was told it was on a hillside I was lied to. It wasn't a hill it was a fuck off huge mountain - think Mount Doom.

The View from the mountain 

It being Juliet's birthday I was happy to do whatever she wanted thinking lazy day by the pool with jugs of sangria my ipod with Miley's 'We Can't Stop' on repeat and a bar of milka at the ready for fuel. How wrong I was. We were to head down to the beach (ie scale the mountainside) for some beach fun - this beach fun consisted of a 2km swim out to nice yachts and back. Ok not so bad, despite being a whale I'm a pretty decent swimmer...maybe its because I'm a whale? So minus contact lenses I didn't see the jagged rocks that lead into the sea thus I rather ungracefully fell into the water and was laughed at my all the paddling toddlers who had managed to manoever themselves with much more ease. Well done Billie. Just keep swimming. That I did until the waters started to turn and inky black colour  - at which point I knew it was the seaweed and not a whale but that didn't stop me from swimming extra fast over these bits especially when the seaweed brushed my legs and I thought it was jelly fish/piranha. So whilst the girls got their goggles on and explored the seaweed and fish I tried not have a panic attack that the seaweed (whale) was going to jump up and get me. Happy to say I was the first back to shore.

Next came the climb. Although partial to being a little dramatic, the climb back to the villa almost killed me. Imagine the travellator from Gladiators - for a 1km up one hill. Hideous. I made it to pool, the final steps to the villa were impossible, threw myself in and was utterly grateful that there was no one around to see my wheezing and streaming eyes. But hey - I did it.

After I ascended the mountain.

The rest of the holiday went as I had hoped: pool, sangria, cheesebreadmeatsalad, return to pool, cards, oreo milka, malibu, vodka, try and speak Spanish to impress a boy, fail at speaking spanish and fail at impressing boy, double vodka, blur, bed. And on top of that I managed to escape the ordeal of kayaking with children. Excellent.

The Wolfpack at its finest. 

The most magical part of the holiday, I lost 2kg. Apparently going on holiday with skinny minnies and being forced to do activities whilst eating like a horse and drinking like a fish is not only good for the soul its good on the bod. Bring on round 2. Until then I shall just bask in post-Spain glow/ gone a darker shade of black or as Boden affectionately said I looked like I had spent a week in the rice fields.

Back to reality from the rice fields. 

 Oh by the way I have my first personal trainer session tomorrow - bricking it doesn't come close. Especially when this boy looks like a god. I'm gonna Mila Kunis his ass.

Fatty BB xxx

I Could Have Been An Athlete.

Every time there is a big sporting occasion (this time it's Wimbledon) I think back to my childhood days and think 'I could have been an athlete.' It's a similar situation to the grandma in Billy Elliot: 'I could have been a ballet dancer'. It's endearing that she thinks she could have been a ballet dancer, but being a 'Billy' does that make me the ballet dancer? I think so. But whenever the words'I could have been an athlete' slips out of my mouth, I am quickly humbled with a snort from Annie and a high pitched hyena laugh from Ashwin followed by a: 'It's funny cos he's fat' Mr Chow quote. Cheers then.

At primary school we were forced to undertake lady like activities on a Tuesday afternoon, these consisted of sewing and ballet. Whilst the boys partook in more gentlemanly sports such as rugby...and crocheting. Baring in mind I was six, fat, had a football shaped fro and one of the few Indian girls in my year how was I ever going to be the next Darcey Bussel? For starters I didn't have the conventional tutu, probably because it wouldn't fit over my rotund frame. I dreamed of having a pink fluffy tutu and the perfectly tied sash shoes but no instead I had a tutu made out of curtain fabric and a pair of black plimsols (wide fit ballet shoes - now there's one for Dragon's Den). The odds were already heavily against me. Despite practicing my demi plies to bend down in order to snatch a biscuit from the tin, that elusive graceful air seemed to be lacking. And I wasn't the only one to pick up on this (deftly astute for a 6 year old), the other girls seemed to clock on that I wasn't the full ballet ticket either. Three terms I tried my hardest to progress from baby Dawn French to baby Black Swan but alas fat kids can't plie and we certainly can't leap. School reports were the highlight, smatterings of As and A+s - I clearly peaked far too young - were tarnished by the ballet slip report that snuck in every term. It stated without fail each time: 'Kiran is not a natural at ballet but tries very hard.' The report is somewhat similar to life today if it were to read as a ballet report: 'Kiran is not a natural Beyonce dancer, but tries very hard and when smashing jaeger bombs has an incredible amount of self belief.'

So clearly the Darcy Bussel dream is over but does the Laura Robson dream live on? I may not have Harry Styles tweeting more or perfect pins but I did have a cracking forehand. It all started on a hot sunny summer's afternoon when baby fat Billie and baby skinny Annie embarked upon a summer of tennis coaching. This story is regaled very frequently when BBB has had one too many and wants to reminisce over days gone by. So BBB and his pal Goz had come to collect Annie and I from tennis and were sat in the car watching to see if either of us possessed any talent. It was a very simple tennis lesson - the coach fed us the ball and he had to hit back over the net into any part of court. Up tottered delicate, little Annie... the ball was hit to her and all simultaneously a little squeak was let out, a leg was popped and the ball was hit straight into the net. Being a £20 an hour tennis lesson, the coach liked to give us feedback after every shot...'try and aim to hit over the net Annie'. Enlightening.  Off she ran to the back of line, with a look of 'what did I do wrong?' slapped across her face.Determined to show her how it was done, next up was me. THUD. THUD. THUD. Thinking I was already Sampras I stormed to the net, my racquet pretty much wrapped around the back of my head my back and whack straight over the net and out of the court. With a smug smile I plodded back to the line, whilst the coach shouted to me 'in the court please Billie'. Pfft whatever coach, crushed it.

So tennis it would appear was out the window too as I to me it was a contest of how hard can this be hit? Not a contest of how hard can this be hit and still be in. I finally settled with squash. It seemed to hold all the necessary requirement: there was only a limited amount of space I could be forced to run around, I could hit it as hard as I could and it would most likely still be in and the squash club stocked crunchie bars. When the other 8 and 9 year olds went for water breaks or to talk strategy with their parents after the surprise whopping from the fat Indian kid with bad bed hair, I went and perched on my bar stool, ordered a fanta and kit kat and wondered what mum was cooking for dinner- breaks of champions. The only time I ever reconsidered my break strategy was when at 16 I got beaten by a 12 year old boy, but then it struck me he must be one of these child prodigies and who was I to stand in his was of stardom.

I was all on track to be an athlete and then I saw the training regime and thought 'nah rather not.'

What a shame, I could have been a great.

Fatty BB xxx

Being A Good Indian Housewife

Geeta has asked that I write a post about her, she feels she has been eclipsed by BBB as of late (who isn't?!) and as such this is for you.

Being a good Indian housewife has never been high on my list of priorities or things to become. It fell somewhere between become an astronaut and the Three Peaks Challenge. Considering I failed my one physics module that I actually elected to do (mainly because it was called Stars and Planets and I thought we were going to learn about Aliens....it wasn't about aliens at all), and my sincere lack of excessive walking; being a good Indian housewife was both unrealistic and hugely undesirable.

Undoubtably this is what I have become.

Exhibit A: I did 3 loads of house washing (ie NOT MY OWN), didn't pull the cba card and shove in the dryer actually hung it outside because this little annoying voice in my head sounding like Geeta was saying 'it's lovely out it will dry in no time'. I followed this by doing the ironing (voluntarily) and went on to make dinner for the family. After all of this I hoovered and mopped multiple rooms without anyone telling me to. AND AFTER THAT...I went to work. Just call me the 'Bhatia matyr.'

Exhibit B: Exhibit A should be enough.

The reason for my sudden and certainly unexpected change comes back to Geeta again. 5 weeks ago she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Not going to lie...I did not take this well. I cry at John Lewis adverts, so you can imagine my response. There were a lot of tears and the occasional 'fuck you cancer' mixed in with more the frequent 'this is so unfair'.

As much as cancer is everywhere, on tv, on the radio, in other more distant family members you never, not once, think it will be in your home and that it will be your mum. Geeta being Geeta obviously wasn't even thinking about herself her main concern was telling us. Apparently I was the big dilemma as I can get overly emosh - such bull. I'm always so together.

So there it is, the big C bomb. Well cancer can go fuck itself. Geeta's words not my own (before you shout at me BBB for being uncouth.) Cancer seems to have made her into a rowdy little chavette much to my own amusement. Ordinarily her response to irksome things and irksome people would be to roll her eyes, give them one of her hugely obvious fake grins and say in the most insincere voice 'oh dear'. These days we skip the bullshit and her response is simply: 'oh fuck off'. I love it. BBB winces every time, whereas Annie, Ashwin and I beam with pride and high fives ourselves. Obviously Geeta doesn't high five, she cuffs.

After being told she has cancer, having a pretty horrendous operation and undergoing her first session of chemotherapy Geeta being the lad that she is thought it was appropriate to resume her role as good Indian housewife. In the reverse to R Kelly her mind was telling her yes but her body, her body was telling her no.

Step in substitute housewives: Annika-singh-rit-pal-kaur and Kiran-preet-jeet-deep-singh.

Now what I have started to notice is that household chores are actually quite the work out and since the last time I ran on the treadmill it started to smoke, I feel housework is the safer option.
Hoovering: thats like constantly walking.
Dusting: Beats the arm cycle.
Laundry: Ironing BBB's tent-like shirt - it's like kettle bells. I have found muscles under the flab. This was highlighted when I almost dropped a pint I was pouring because my arm was shaking so much.
Picking Up After People: Basically stand up crunches.

By the time I get to work, the only energy I have left I use to climb up onto my reigning bar stool and delegate all my jobs to other people whilst I sip on a coke. If im feeling particularly exuberant I go to hunt out Poppy and Caitlin upstairs and have a 5 (to 20 minute) Gossip Girl session.

All in all, life is hard (this post being particularly hard to write), cancer is a bitch and being a housewife at 23 is not ideal. But to have Geeta back to her best is more than worth it - just so long as she keeps up the vulgar swearing.

Love

Fattinjeet BB xxx

The Actual Vogue Diet

I'm sure this will jinx any opportunity I have lined up for myself. Oh well.

About 9 months ago I applied to Vogue for an internship and was quite thrilled that I even got a response, albeit a generic 'you have been unsuccessful blah blah blah', and I thought my Anna Wintour dreams had been dashed forever. It appears...maybe not.

My editor at Style urged me to email her contact at Vogue and get myself in, so when I finally get to the balls to do it, I once again got the generic rejection I had a 5 minute pity party and decided I am going to email them again on the hour every hour until I got  an actual response. Email was sent again and surprise surprise I was unsuccessful AGAIN. At this point I hit the biscuit tin...to find that Ashwin had scoffed them all, gutted. A couple of minutes later I heard a ping on my laptop and it was Vogue again. I was preparing myself for the worst, for the email to read, 'please stop bombarding my inbox with your pathetic attempts - to clarify you have been unsuccessful on your application.' However this time the email read 'Apologies we sent you the wrong email,  your application has gone through to the managing editor.' Further to this she actually said she was impressed with my application - WIN. One week later, I have managed to score myself an interview. Who would have thought.

Now the painful decision of what to wear is playing on my mind night and day. Although BBB has suggested I get a poncho a la Ugly Betty, just for lols I have decided this is probably not the best idea. The asos addiction is getting even worse due to trying to find something suitable - but what is suitable?! aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh. No idea.

So the gym routine recommenced in full force today and it was a painful, painful process. Even more so because Saturday night at work I think I actually ran a marathon, and my body has yet to fully recover. Despite Entropy being a small restaurant once you have run around 200,000 times that must at least equate to a 1500m sprint right? Especially when you are trying to impress Dishy Darren on table one. And considering every time at school I managed to get out of doing the 1500m by either throwing myself down a short flight of stairs or deliberately giving myself food poisoning I can now report that it is not fun. But alas, I'm sure if I continue my attempts at running on the treadmill which I still havent figured out how not to trip on, the pain will soon subside.

If I don't get the internship with Vogue, for my own safety please put the chocolate hobnobs out of sight.

Fatty BB xxx

Confession of the Cupboard.

Rather anticlimactically in my previous blog I mentioned an awaiting email from my editor regarding an article ...the email was an out of office reply. I was soo excited to see that I had a reply I was like 'yes, this is my moment'; and guttingly it wasn't.

HOWEVER, come Friday when I had given up all hope on getting a response... I finally did. At work I received an email from Harriet one of the junior fashion editors and who looked after me at Style, saying that they really appreciated all the work I had done for them and that she read my article and...SHE LOVED IT! Success. Although unfortunately she doesn't have final say as to what goes in the magazine (I was too shit scared to email the editor in chief) she did say that if she could, over the next couple of months she would push for it to be run. The likelihood of this actually happening, is rather slim as let's face it who has their first article published in the Sunday Times?! As much as I would like to think I am the next Caitlin Moran (but with less skunk like hair and such an overt opinion on feminism) I am right at the bottom of the my Everest.

But I thought I would share with you my confessions from the cupboard, so that you can act like an editor and scold my work, whilst also getting a more honest opinion of life as a fashion intern not as shown in Chanel 4's The Intern - it doesn't happen like that! So here it is...Enjoy.

CONFESSIONS OF THE CUPBOARD.

The moment when Anne Hathaway discovers the illusive ‘Fashion Cupboard’ in The Devil Wears Prada is iconic and pivotal in her transformation from Beast to Belle, and my experience has struck a similar chord. With all the excitement building I was almost expecting doves to flutter gracefully and a choir of small children singing in angelic tones, as the door to all my fashion dreams was unlocked. And although there was a line of Manolos and Choos to greet me as expected, I was heartbroken to find the cupboard of dreams was…utter chaos.

My first instinct was to blink and look again – to try and forget that I had seen a more truthful fashion cupboard and despite blinking and wishing again, my defining Anne Hathaway moment had been shattered. Before I was able to clumsily clamber out of the cupboard and run from News International, hands thrown in the air, anger at my naivety took hold. The only tribute left to my Hathaway dream were silent sobs that a Chanel necklace was not in sight for me to place upon my shoulders and begin my personal transformation from utterly shabby to fabulously chic. Perhaps without wanting to admit it, when I opened my eyes to reality I was overwhelmed by the gems that were gleaming from the cupboard. I’m not talking about Harry Winston necklaces or DeBeer’s rings dripping with jewels but the real fashion and the real clothes that real women wear. In my own little fashion bubble I dream of being in Marchesa and Elie Saab and Zuhair Murad - transporting me to a fairytale world of lace and endless elegant possibilities, but that is not real life…the cupboard was.

 My mission was suddenly clear – learn and discover! My journey was to boldly go where interns have feared to tread, straight to returns. It was whilst undertaking this rather cumbersome task that my learning began and my organisational skills were supremely heightened. A task to some, organising J.Crew jumpers into colour coordination and Stella McCartney silk trousers into ascending piles of lust is typically the kind of organisation I am very good at. Believing that when I first started at Style I had a fairly adequate fashion knowledge I was quickly put to shame…who knew that Prada and Miu Miu were the same fashion house?! My proudest moment thus far at Style should be the knowledge in fashion that I have amassed and being treated to the inner workings of my favourite magazine; but the truth is that after 3 weeks I had cleared the floor to such an extent we were able to vacuum, oh yes.

A love hate relationship with the cupboard ensued, one that can only be likened to my feelings towards Taylor Swift. I love that she sings country (although we seem to be going through a very strong pop phase) but I hate that she went out with Jake Gyllenhaal (and I didn’t). My love for the cupboard is at times unyielding, those times are when I am carefully unwrapping Cavalli necklaces and pretending they are a present to myself, or being gobsmacked at how truly beautiful and well constructed an Acne leather jacket can be. My hate for the cupboard can be equally as barbaric when dockets go missing or when a box of wigs falls on me whilst searching for the world’s smallest Aspinal purse – it wasn’t chic and surprisingly a box of wigs is actually heavy enough for a small dent.

Now that I have left the cupboard, I miss it and all its teachings – I can only hope that one day it will welcome me back to further my learning.   

And I leave you with a pic of me and my pal Jasmine in our cupboard of shattered dreams. 

Fatty BB xxx