IMG_7126Well now, shall we have un petit (apologies, have just read a text from my Dad that was written in worryingly accurate french…) catch-up? A catch-up accompanied by a garden shot or two, naturally. Said garden shots taken when pigs flew and the sun shone during a weekend. A Bank Holiday weekend. In Blighty. Shocker.

New Job continues as does a whole host of other stuff, namely the adding of a wee string to my qualifications bow; Fully Qualified Exercise to Music teacher.

Yeah baby!

After a challenging few years and a subsequent eating of too many cakes, I hit the gym in late February last year. And it’s wouldn’t be all that wrong to say I’ve barely left since. (“What, back again?”, question the long-suffering reception staff.)

Fast forward to March this year; the daily grind of 3.5 hours commuting to London for 8 hours of bum-on-chair action is sending me steadily loopy and various chats with a lovely ex-colleague have- somehow- led me to google opportunities within the fitness industry. All ready to dismiss the results returned- such an idea is laughable, surely? And besides, I’m not nearly fit enough- an oh so inspiring current teacher of mine offers some truly wise words. Words which, for once, I actually listen to.


Days later it’s Monday, it’s 6am and I’m London-bound. Except this time I’m decked out in lycra; attire usually exclusive to play and not work.

I spend the next three weeks with my head in an anatomy textbook, feet periodically bursting into a grapevining-boxstepping-hamstring-curling frenzy. I learn 32 count choreography, become a fountain of skeletal knowledge and have a number of wobbles- most questioning what the actual heck I am doing with my life.

With the bombardment of practical and anatomical theory and assessments over and a returning to of normal life- in my case a new job entirely unrelated to the fitness industry (oh life, you rollercoaster, you!)- I choreograph various routines, shout along to music in the car and bark teaching points at peers with whom I would usually participate.

Sporty little socks well and truly practised off, I hoof back up to London and return a fully qualified lady!


So yes, that’s my slight wild card of an update.

Anyone for a lunge?



Yes, yes, yes, long time no chin wagga wag. Life’s gone slightly crackers on me. But before we chat life, can we just talk about the above cake. Are you salivating? Well that was the weekend. Thank goodness my baking skills aren’t up the standard of Daisy’s or I’d be the size of a house I tell you. Actually, make that the Houses of Parliament.

Anyway, the briefest of brief updates is that I’ve got a new jobby job that came unexpectedly (but brilliantly, obvs), am mid-gaining an additional qualification (given this afternoon’s four hours of fruitless practise, however, the gaining of said qualification is questionable) and continue to drop everything that briefly comes into contact with my hands. Living with Yours Truly: not for the faint-hearted.

We also received some absolutely amazing news this past week that has been fourteen or so long months in the making. Needless to say, there was champagne.

On a school night.

OH yes.

Back prontissimo, promise promise.


IMG_6928The radio silence you ask? Extra-curricular and educational activity, my friend. Happy, fulfilling, rewarding extra-curricular and educational activity.

I might divulge a tad more if and when I’m feeling brave, but until such time let’s be throughly British and discuss the weather, shall we?


That wind peeps, that wind. Sheeesh kebab, it could cut through glass.

Happy Easter one and all- I do hope an indecent amount of choccy is being scoffed to compensate for the fecking freezing, lingering winter temps.

P.s Apologies for that pathetic excuse of a photo.



One and all, this week has been crackers. Brilliantly crackers. I’ve arisen in the early hours and hit the hay in the very late ones, all in the name of a slight wild card of a course I’ve decided to do. I’m not finitoed yet; there’s oodles of practise and revision to be had but it has proved as fulfilling as I had hoped (albeit far more intensive) so far. A good thing, given that I raided the piggy bank and booked it on a slight last-minute whim.

In other news, back in February (ummm, just how quickly are the months whizzing past?) Daisy and I had coffee, homemade cake (beyond tastilicious) and a natter with the lovely ladies at The Little Shed in Goldalming. Laurie and Linda have recently relocated their little shoppy to a quiet courtyard nook just off the high street and it is as cute as a Farrow & Ball button.

There’s a whole host of sumptuous stuff to be had so do pop by if you’re in the area. For those flung farther, here’s a wee snippet:


I said it was sumptuous.


Warning: Unless Body Attack rocks your sporty socks to the extent that it rocks mine, the below might leave you in a slight state of bafflement.

It’s been a busy old working week, but I’ve little remarkable news to report.

Unless you consider Tuesday’s Oscar-worthy catching-of-train remarkable.

You’d like to hear the story?

Really, though?

Oh go on then.

But you ought it know that I’m an appalling story-teller.

Tuesday’s gym timetable reads “Body Attack”; the greatest workout class in the history of sweatathons. Being that I have an hour and 45 minute commute and finish at 6pm, the 7:15pm class is, for the most part, tricky to attend.

Tricky, but not impossible.

This in mind, I made a mad dash for the underground (running through central London in clackers, why not) this past Tuesday evening after escaping Office Towers a crucial few minutes early. Despite a deal-breaking nine minute wait for the tube (“Operational Problems”), I flattened myself up against the door so I could be first off.

And, with one minute and 10 seconds to spare, first off I was.

Wo-man on a mission, I sprinted up the empty escalator, burst through both sets of ticket barriers (just why do they need to double up?) and legged it up the two flights of stairs. As I reached the platform- the number of which I’d guessed- the whistle blew and my heart sank as I braced to turn the air blue with foul language.

But then, then my friends, the gorgeous glint of one remaining open door caught my eye.

It was through aforementioned open door that I flew seconds later, with the Ticket Chappy as they closed. The impressed look on Fellow Commuter’s face confirmed that it was a feat reached in SPECTACULAR style.

I whipped on the old lycra in the train loos (had it with me, just in case), ran Forest Gump-style to the station car park and definitely did not ignore the odd speed restriction en route to the gym. Ahem.

Bloomin’ made track 1’s warm up didn’t I! The class was technically full- a thrilling story for another time- but having broken records that evening, I set my own class-size rules and got sweating with a smile.

Nothing I love more than making those high-intensity lunges against all odds.