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?



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.


IMG_6881I’ve been a fairly miserable being this weekend/ for the last month. Can you tell?

The pinnacle of misery was reached on Saturday afternoon; huddled by the heater on the kitchen floor in my wellies, lycra and long polka dot socks (a sexy visual if ever there was one), I counted the days it had been since I’d last had fun. Since I’d last lived life as a young one.

Forty-five days it had been. Forty-five.

The two hours of arse-scratchingly boring circuits that morning had done little to lighten my mood and the non-event of a day turned into a blanket, sofa, Take Me Out write-off.

IMG_6878IMG_6880And so, as I thumped down the stairs this morning, the Mothership boldly suggested we take a pootle to Petworth in Sussex. I bloomin’ love Petworth and frankly, anything that means we’re not sat shivering in this dark, depressing baltic excuse of a building is totes cool with me.


We kicked off proceedings in Petworth House– well, the gift shop. The house was closed, alright? I bought a beaut of a jug- a steal at £6 in the sale- and now have it stashed away until Mother’s Day when we’ll pretend “Mum, would you like this?” never happened. Some squishy, leather armchairs in the cafe was our next calling. We like a cultural day out do the Mother and I…

A mug of the frothy stuff in hand, we had a chinwagga wag about life before a bitterly cold wander around Petworth itself. We popped our heads around the door of The Hungry Guest (crackers prices but the most stupendous branding) and fell into their coffee shoppy up the road moments later, lured by the promise of more froth.

IMG_6885IMG_6894Further discussion entailed- matters of a deep nature, such as whether my face was looking thinner etc- before we made our way back, narrowly avoiding being run over by a mad man in a van, for a brief wander of the grounds.

IMG_6903A lovely little day out it was. You’ve got to be grateful for Mums and their capacity to listen to and appear interested in endless hours (in my case, probably years) of life woes.

And their unconditional love of messes sat on kitchen floors in wellies, lycra and long polka dot socks.

Thanks Mumma Bear.



WARNING: Creative juices were spilled in the making of this blog post.

My feelings towards fashion, you ask? Fashion smashion. Start chatting fashion and I run for the hills. Suggest shopping clothing and I sprint for the mountains.

To me, clothes shopping is like stabbing eyeballs repeatedly with a freshly-sharpened steak knife. It is like slicing limbs off one by one with a super-charged chainsaw; hanging off the edge of a cliff with nothing but a dislodged fingernail and a toothpick.

The thing with clothes shopping, friends, is that there is never a reward. I never leave the shop bag-swinging and looking hot to frigging trot- even before my eyeballs have been stabbed, limbs sliced and soul lost to the sea.


But Boden. We need to talk about Boden; the kings of the catalogue world. A world whereby precisely zero energy is lost to fruitless but effortful clothes shopping trips. Now I have so much time for Boden.

As a young one I poured over the Mini catalogue and circled everything that my heart desired in the hope that the Boden fairy might leave it under my pillow. As a slightly older one I still sit and circle everything, except this time, sadly, I’m about as hopeful of the Boden fairy arriving as I am of squeezing into that aged 5-6 polka dot skirt. (And even if pigs flew, could this twenty year old really pull off that beaut of a green striped t-shirt complete with iced lolly appliqué and flower sleeves?)


Boden’s beautifully british catalogues have always captivated me, as have their savvy approach when it comes to the old marketing lingo. They just leave you feeling happy, don’t they? I positively want to greet them with a sloppy french smacker after reading the chummy repartee that accompanies all promotional material.

Jobby on the Side purposes resulted in access to the press website being gained today, wherein some cracking images lie. So because I’ve always been just the most hummungous fan of their art direction and styling, I thought I’d share a few faves avec vous. Don’t mind if I do.


(I mainly included the last photo because he is wearing sexy specs. But shh, don’t tell. We could also discuss how mighty fine image two is looking, non?)

And no, this is not “sponsered by Boden”. I just got carried away in a moment of article-that-I-should-be-writing procrastination. Alright?

P.s Obvs, these images are not mine. All courtesy of the brainboxes at Boden, aren’t they.


IMG_0098I’ve longed for Instagram for the past year, but the loyal Blackberry gal that I am- and far too impoverished/ stingy to pay the iphone tariff- being a part of it was out of the doable question. (Unless I jumped on the Android bandwagon of course, but I’m deeply attached to my battered, three year old Blackberry; she has a name and everything.)

One night I was sat googling the Instagram users I know and love, stabbing the keys with frustration as I typed them in one by one, when the shiny glint of the Mothership’s abandoned (not strictly speaking) ipod touch caught my eye.

IMG_0099“An ipod touch…”, I thought to myself, “…the touch has an internet facility, does it not?

Cue a widening of eyes, a sharp intake of breath and a dawning of app-related creation.

IMG_0310I’m not joking when I say Instagram is the best thing since sliced bread. Despite filing themselves under “Fully-Fledged Arse” with the change of terms malark, I love the geniuses behind the app almost as much as an extra frothy, super skinny hot chocolate.

That’s some serious love.

@chloerosemitch if you care to join. (Given the over-excitement occurring, I’d advise to not.)


Hey now, did I ever tell you about the Office Christmas Party? About how I got merry on the night-long free bar? How the American-themed Canapés just totally hit the stomach-lining spot? How I found myself shimmying across the dance floor, with no reserve whatsoever, for virtually the entire night (a rarity to say the least)? Did I also never tell you about how amusing the taxi ride home was? How noisily I crashed through the front door of the brother’s abode at 3am? And how thankful I was to get off the Overground into some fresh air the next morning? Because any longer and…

Well, I hereby tell you that the Office Christmas Party was off-the-scale good. Epic, in fact. Epic. And here’s the evidence to prove it.

All photos copyright The Photo Emporium who were, from what I recall, ridiculously fab. Happy, helpful, the works.


As I pottered around the especially cute quarters of my job on the side yesterday morning, having a little play of the ‘togging variety, I made a realisation. That realisation being that it is the kiddewinkle side of homes and interiors, specifically, that sets my world on fire. Faffing for toggy-type shoots is noticably easier in this niche, it would seem.

I’ve always absolutely loved little ones. Frankly, it’s remarkable I’ve made it to twenty without popping out a few because I’ve been broody since I, myself, exited the womb (cue future suitors running for their lives). My own childhood was also off-the-scale good (parentials, I really do owe you one), which makes for just a bit of a dream team when it comes to my feelings towards all things tot.

Baby/Little Joule; my heart screams at the sight of such colourful loveliness. I need to work for them. Illustrations in bambino books; works of art that will never fail to slap a smile on my face. And when it comes to Children’s IKEA? I am Alice in Wonderland.

So, just maybe, this evident passion of stuff for small people ought to be where my future lies. Hmmmm.

*reaches for thinking cap