Brace Tragedies

My braces have officially left my face. I repeat, there are no longer metal bits stapled on my teeth.

And, to mark this very special occasion, I have written this blog post to commemorate all of the times my brace fucked up.

Enjoy, because if you don’t, I essentially suffered for 3 years for nothing.

Contextually, my teeth are fucked up; they always have been. When I was about 9, I had the biggest overbite known to man; at one point my front teeth were practically horizontal. I had to have a retainer for a couple of years, before my dentist realised that they were worse than everyone thought.

He told me that I was missing one of my back teeth (pretty grim ikr), and that one of my adult teeth was sitting at 180 degrees in my gum. This meant going under general anaesthetic twice to make them somewhat normal.

I can’t really remember anything about ‘going under’. Although I remember that I had to strip completely naked and wear the thinnest robe that tied at the back, so my arse crack was on display if my hand slipped from holding it together. I also remember seeing the orthodontists inserting the needle into my forearm and feeling like I was being euthanized; it was terrifying.

After the initial operation, the first tragedy occurred.

It doesn’t really have anything to do with braces, but when I came back I couldn’t eat solid food for about a couple of days, so in that time I survived on custard and jelly. Now, the first word that comes to mind when being encouraged to eat toddler party-food isn’t tragic, in fact my mum allowed me to go into Tesco with her and get some delicious crap for me to eat.

Although, not all of it was that nice. I think I shoved a ton of shit into the trolley, just for the sake of eating whatever I wanted and getting away with it. So, I guess the first tragedy was essentially that my braces forced me to remember the taste of rice pudding; I don’t forgive myself for taking it off the shelf. Gross.

The second, more legit incident, happened on holiday.

I went to Verbier with some family friends, and for the very first night someone decided that it would be a nice idea to rustle up some spag bol; how very middle-class.

Now, I love a bit of spaghetti; I eat more pasta than I probably should. However, my relationship with the Italian dish became strained after it snapped the fuck out of my brace.

Bearing in mind, at this point I only had my braces for less than two months and I was away from my orthodontist for the first time; if anything happened I was basically screwed. Or my teeth were.

I must have been two spoonfuls in, when I heard a crunch. At first I thought that it was some carrot, but then I realised that my mouth was beginning to throb and that I could taste blood.

No, the food wasn’t off. But what was off, was my brace; the whole of the lower left side had come out and was sticking into my gum.

I am not really a screamer, but my god, this challenged me. I remember making eye contact with my sister for a split second before squealing loudly, lolling my head around, and pointing dramatically to my mouth.

Within a couple of seconds, I was pinned down on the sofa, with all of the lamps in the house held up around my head. I felt like I was in an experiment, as though my mum was going to rip up my mouth with her frantic prodding, right up until  I heard my sister snapchatting the traumatic experience.

For 15 minutes the only thing the adults managed to achieve was making the hole in my  cheek larger, whilst pretending to know what they were doing.

Then, miraculously, my dad’s friend remembered he knew an orthodontist (other than my mum), which was great, as by that point I was fed up of tweezers pricking at my teeth. He called her up and he basically explained my situation. Evidently, that conversation ended with some pliers being shoved down my throat. (that said, they did manage to cut the strip of metal embedded in my gum)

The third tragedy was not being able to eat certain foods without my brace snapping (not to the extent as before lol).

Now, we all know that eating a Curly Wurly is not the best idea, but no one tells you that melon and ice cream are just as bad. (#protip: you can still eat apple, just make sure that you cut it up into small pieces xx)

Lollipops, hard sweets; all, understandably, incompatible with braces. But simple foods, nice foods; why? Life is not fair. My heart is pained.

Also, since having braces, pineapple has made my mouth bleed. I mentioned it in a previous post about hating braces, but since writing it, I have concluded that it directly correlates to having braces. It’s not really relevant, but I just thought that it was useful information to add to a conspiracy theory floating around.

Thank for read 🙂

Hopefully I won’t have to write another blog post about braces.


Best wishes,



Burning Down the Kitchen Cabinets *emotional*

I assume you read the title of this blog post and immediately envisioned me screaming in the middle of my kitchen at the sight of my surroundings going up in flames, after an innocent pasta sesh gone wrong. Don’t be alarmed, thankfully this is not the case. In fact, the title of this post is not true at all.

Don’t worry though, I didn’t use click-bait, this was just an excuse I used to get out of meeting up with friends in Year 7. You know, because I was so anti-social.

I would say that I was a very attention seeking child, to some extent I suppose I still am. And, along with my annoying need to be looked at, I was also a very avid liar.

Now, of course, lying is wrong; it gets you into all kinds of shit. Personally, I try my best to avoid being deceitful, unless I’m in a game of ‘never have I ever’, in which case all of my morality regresses, and truth goes out of the window.

I didn’t have this attitude when I was younger. I mean, I never went to enough parties to gather an opinion on whether or not lying in a social game is acceptable. However, I did think that lying was generally okay.

Usually, I would lie about finishing the last packet of crisps, not loading plates into the dishwasher, forgetting to feed the dog. So, never anything too serious. I would refrain from lying about issues that would potentially get me into more trouble.

‘But how is this relevant?’ – something I hear a lot from my teachers, and a phrase I can hear you saying right now.

Well, as established, I used to love being the centre of attention, and I was also incredibly anti-social. Put these two things together, along with the characteristic of being a good liar; you almost make Jay from ‘The Inbetweeners’, as well as my Year 7 self.

To get out of events I would come up with some trivial excuse that would mean I could stay in and watch EastEnders. Yes, it was a rough period in my life.

My friends did catch on, and it reached a point where I couldn’t keep coming up with short-term excuses to get my (almost) daily doses of Ian Beale and Phil Mitchell. So, I knew that I had to think of something more dramatic, but not unbelievable. Something more long-term, and could last for months on end, not just a few days.

I told my friends that I burned down my kitchen cabinets.

I think I was boiling pasta and the water overflowed, the context of the lie escapes me. However, my friends were so gullible that they believed me. I mean, I did tell them that my brother died, and their parents almost called mine (i know, dark).

For about four months I maintained this lie that my mum wouldn’t let me leave the house as punishment for my sinful actions. My friends were none-the-wiser, and after a while it was just assumed that I was unable to leave the house because of that small house fire I caused one time.

It was great. I didn’t have to hang out with acquaintances in Years 7-9 if I didn’t want to, and I could be silently anti-social without looking like I actually wanted to be at home. The lie never really manifested itself, and people didn’t realise what a pathological liar I really was.

However, one minor issue about the whole ordeal was that I didn’t really have a social life. Although, as people thought me to be credible, I made up for it with lies to sound more interesting; we all remember my fake boyfriend.

Eventually I stopped lying. And by the end of Year 10, my friends and I had completely forgotten about my little culinary accident. In fact, I think it was only around Christmas time last year that they finally found out the truth.

So, I guess the moral of the story is that it’s okay to lie if you are good at it, and if it has potential to be a funny story in about 5 years’ time. Or, I suppose you could also argue that the moral is that you shouldn’t lie at all, and that the truth always comes out eventually. Personally, I prefer the former.

I hope you enjoyed this, although I am sure I will get shouted at by my parents for telling my friends that that my brother got run over by a Volvo estate in Year 7.

Best wishes,


P.S. I do remember to feed my dog – please don’t call PETA. Thx xx

Faking and Flunking: My Tragic Musical Career

When I was younger I used to be able to sing. I mean, this is a lie, I was always crap at singing, but my mum forced me to join my school choir in Year 3.

I distinctly remember one meeting in the hall with my teacher and about 30 other kids, aged 7-54, rehearsing, probably, a Christian song.

The song was going well, I assume that everyone was slightly off-key and a little high-pitched; but all was good. That is, until we reached the third verse.

There was a line that we couldn't quite perfect; my teacher was practically having an aneurysm after containing her despair for 20 minutes. So we were repeating, and repeating it; each time getting gradually worse.

By the time we sang the line for the 5th time, my teacher started to lose it. Her voice grew to almost a baby-like scream, which no doubt sounded better than what my classmates and I ever produced.

So when one child had to leave due to stress-induced trauma, I decided to question why we were always incredibly awful. I thought that I was alright at singing, although my dad said otherwise. But deep down I knew that I wasn't great; so on the 14th repeat I stopped singing and mouthed the words.

And when everyone, bar me, finished, my teacher actually started to smile and she praised everyone for singing the best they had done in months. I'm not joking.

She proceeded to congratulate everyone for the entirety of the rest of the session, which ultimately led me to the depressing conclusion that I was actually shit at producing noise from my mouth.

Orchestra was somewhat similar.

Obviously when you join a club that requires you to know the pieces that you're playing, you practice at home; I didn't get the memo.

I chose to play the flute when I was 7, and, at the time, I didn't anticipate on hating the instrument; which correlates to my musical downfall, and also the (minimal) amount of time I would spend playing it at home.

Therefore when my lesson partner decided to have solo lessons there was no competitiveness to even spur me to at least try, which drove me to become increasingly awful.

It was particularly heartbreaking at orchestra when my ex-lesson-partner and I were sat next to each other; making the difference in our "abilities" to become strikingly evident. So evident, in fact, that I couldn't actually play any of the pieces we performed.

Instead, I pretended to okay the flute, which carried me through numerous concerts.

Of course I would join in during the easier sections, but the rest of the time I wouldn't blow air into the tube, and would fake hand actions.

It was a method that worked well; I got away with it. I did not, however, get away with not practicing.

I carried on the flute into high school. My teacher had long grey hair to her waist, a long nose, and also hated me. I guess it was because I failed to care (or turn up to any of the lessons lol).

It was due to this lack of caring for that I never tried; this showed, especially at my grade 3 exam.

Now grade 3 isn't exactly noteworthy; you don't hear people screaming about it (probably because it's so easy).

As you know, I can't carry a tune to save a failing choir, so you can imagine my examiner's face during the aural section of my grading.

One part is that the examiner plays a note on the piano, and the examinee sings it back. I executed this extremely well, and lost many marks.

Another section is clapping the beats per bar (or whatever it was) of a certain song. I can remember the examiner shaking his head midway through one song, and looking at me in disbelief when it was over. So this went well too.

The scales were great. I mean, I asked to skip them after attempting (and failing) the D major scale twice, so I guess from my perspective not doing them was the peak of the exam.

Three months later I received the results: the pass mark was 100; I scored 101. To be honest, it was probably because he felt bad for me.

After that disaster I distanced myself from attempting to play musical instruments and singing, and decided that letting others do it was better for my sanity and self-confidence.

That's all you're having, folks.

I hope that you had a little giggle, and laughed like I did when I heard my sister playing the violin for the first time (hint: my musical inability runs in the family).

Best wishes,


I Shouldn’t Go On Holiday


A few months ago I was lucky enough to holiday in the Caribbean (fancy) with the family, and allowed myself to burn to a crisp (not so fancy). It was an amazing trip, however the day I am about to recall highlights all of the reasons why I should’ve been left in the UK.


The day started off well-ish; I hadn’t burnt yet (which is always a good start) and I woke up at a reasonable time.

We found a pretty place to have breakfast and ate there: I had waffles with syrup, the typical Caribbean cuisine – don’t ask me what my family ordered, my recollection of random and useless information doesn’t expand that far. The waffles were delicious. So delicious, in fact, that as I stood up to leave I heard a rip from my chair.

Now, at the time, I thought that the most plausible and realistic explanation for the sound was my thighs peeling off the chair that I was sitting on, seeing as the heat is staggering for a little pale-faced British girl. So, like nothing happened, I carried on with the rest of my day.

First on my agenda was reading, because holidays are designed to let book (and sleep) deprived teenagers catch up on desires they would’ve previously pushed away due to, you know, GCSEs.

I pack novels for holidays like I pack clothes: I always bring far too many and end up never use/read them all. So usually out of the twelve books I take on trips, only about 3 are read in their entirety. However, on this particular day I seemed to accomplish my holiday reading capability, in 6 hours as opposed to 10 days. I don’t know how I did it.

It’s a great achievement, of course, but I can’t help feeling that it was such a waste as I decided to stay inside and read for a 6 hours, instead of prancing around in the 30 degree heat and my ghost-white skin. If I’m honest, I could have wasted that time in England where I don’t get judged by nonexistent cleaners for staying indoors for that amount of time.

So, moving on.

After I eventually finished the 3 books, my parents dragged me outside (quite rightly and annoyingly), and left me huddled on the most uncomfortable sunlounger they could find whilst they went to find some fruit.

The wooden sunlounger was pretty stiff, and so I spent quite a while throwing my legs about, trying to find a relaxing position. However, when I did find a comfortable place to put my legs I fell asleep.

But not for too long, as in the 10 minutes of pure roastage I could physically feel my flesh boiling beneath my skin, a sign that you should probably get back inside.
I looked down at the part of my body in the sun (my waist and up was sheltered) and thought it was a joke.

My position of choice was bending my legs towards the saturated heat. Great choice Sofia, great choice.

It turns out that in those 10 minutes I managed to only slightly burn my stomach but completely change the colour of my knees and the tops of my feet to a bright crimson. The colour was so vivid that it looked like I had dipped them in red paint. Absolutely horrifying.

So naturally I went back inside, to hide the shame from my parents and to fall into a spiral of self-wallowing. (Which isn’t a rarity, I have to admit.) And it wasn’t long before it was time for dinner. Hallelujah!

I was still sitting on the side of my bed before my sister came in, looking less visible, shall we say, than me. We discussed the audiobook she was listening to (which was apparently very good), and the low-down on our evening meal plans. It was, as you can imagine, riveting.

Of course I needed to get changed out of my ratty, trashy clothing into something more presentable, so I just changed my top. My shorts could stay. For now.

As I rose, I heard a murmur from my sister, but I didn’t follow it up, nor listen intently as I was too busy addressing my burnt knees/ feet situation.
We ate. I can’t remember what. It was probably some sort of chicken and rice dish idk. But that’s not the point.

It was when my sister and I were making our way back into our room when she decided to tell me that I had a rip on the back of my shorts. Oh joy – the rip from the morning.

Now, I think you should know that it wasn’t like this rip was just a small hole; one that wasn’t really that visible. Oh no. It was a HUGE, GAPING hole at the back of my shorts, right in the centre. You could’ve patched it up with a mug placemat it was that big. It was devastating, and also made me feel the following (we all know how much I love list);

Self-conscious. I got up from that seat in the morning and thought it was my thighs peeling off it, and it turns out it was my fat arse splitting my shorts of course you are going to feel self-conscious. I mean, that is an improvement in the wrong direction.

A bit fat. My shorts were 2 sizes bigger than my actual size. Can you actually IMAGINE??? But if I am honest, this feeling went away after a few days as I remembered what the ice-cream tasted like.

Pissed off. Those were my only pair of decent shorts and I only went and snapped them in half. I still continued to wear them, but even still, I was very angry at allowing myself to enjoying eating what the hell I want to eat (when I walked around I covered a towel around my waist, which in retrospect looked like I was hiding some sort of developing child, but it was handy in keeping my embarrassment concealed behind a piece of vibrant orange material). Although my knees and feet were still on display for all to laugh at.

So, that’s basically what I’m like on holiday in a nutshell: I burn in weird places, eat too many donuts, rip my clothing; which then makes me to cry into a pillow in my hotel room whilst reading some mildly entertaining novel, that presents vaguely relatable teenagers going through similar traumatic experiences, and eventually coming out of them slightly better-off than at the start, all the while being judged prefucely by the cleaner. #cantrelate

I guess it’s a good job we are only going to Dorset for 3 days during the Easter holidays. Hopefully it will be slightly less shit.

Best wishes,


The Sponsored Lie

It’s a new year and I feel like I need to expose my lies.

First up: The Sponsored Lie

Growing up, I was always told to be charitable and respectful to those who have less than me. So when I was about 8 I decided to run 5km (non-stop) around my road for a charity called Shelter.

I can’t exactly remember if it was my idea or my parents, but for perhaps a couple of months I violently pressured family members and neighbours to sponsor me. Overall I, more or less, received £250.

Before I go into the details I would like to add that I was more sporty and active than I am now, making this run for 8 year old me slightly more realistic (for those of you who probably don’t believe me)

So soon the day arrived; my grandparents came down from Suffolk, my siblings were forced to stand on the road looking warm and supportive, a couple of neighbours actually went out of their front door and it looked like I would raise a tiny sum of money for charity.

However, what my parents and the donors didn’t know was that I was a little bitch and probably failed the non-stop run and that they should have been refunded entirely for their minuscule donations. *Something I feel incredibly bad about by the way

5km equates to about 10 laps around my road and apparently that was very difficult for active me.

The first 4 went great. I can’t remember, but I’m pretty sure that they went well. The next 6? Well, they were crap.

You see, as I struggled my way through the 5th lap, passing my grandparents smiling and clapping for me, I wanted to collapse. I wanted to collapse and have a nice bath filled with all of the lush crap I used to like (and still like tbh).
But I couldn’t do that, because people had paid pennies to see me die. Sorry, I mean run 5km.

Therefore, I came up with a plan.

Whilst dragging my legs around my road I noticed that outside one house was a very nice and large bright red fence, open and resting on a large portion of the road; perfect for blocking their neighbours’ view of their house. And perfect for dying 8 year olds to have a 1 minute rest.

Sorry about that.

So whilst I ran around the highway of hell, I used to take small breaks of 1-5 minutes rest. Making the non-stop 5km run I did for charity utter, utter tripe.

Although I thought that this technique worked, I realise now that it would have been so stupid for onlookers, as one minute I would have been flailing enormously, and the next I would have veered off to the right and hid behind this fence; making me entirely visible to the road ahead of me, due to the fact that only one side of the gate was open, and that the road turns from that person’s house, with no hedges blocking the view. Not only this, but the people behind me probably knew what I was doing as well, as they would have most definitely seen me pull a Houdini.

Well done Sofia, well done.

Thankfully, my house is opposite the hiding place I used to have, so my parents never actually found out; meaning that they still love me. I think.

This said, I am pretty sure that they knew something was up; the 5th lap included a 5 minute break and it was, as I passed the house, that they started bringing out refreshments and asking me if I was alright. *Which I was; I had just started to breathe again.

10 laps completed, and 5km later, I was done.

Everyone was proud; or pretended that they were; they said their congratulations and gave me warm embraces, and I repaid  them with sweat and a fat lie, both of which I have never forgotten or can remove from that one pink t-shirt. (Jk)

I mean, I did round up money for homeless children, but I have been riddled with the guilt for many years. I think about it when I go to bed at night, to when I sit in boring Head of Year assemblies.

So I suppose the ending of this would be me announcing that because of the trauma that this has caused me, I will do it again, but this time, properly. However, in my typical style, I won’t because it’s unrealistic due to the fact that even running up the stairs gives me a stitch, let alone running laps and laps around my bumpy and treacherous road. Perhaps I will do it again in the more distant future when I’m not half-dead from my mock exams.

Or perhaps I will just have a sponsored netflix marathon.

Yeah, that sounds good.

That sounds better.


Best wishes,


Banana Bowels

I was going to write a blog post on online reputations and social media – this is not going to be a blog post on online reputations and social media.

Instead, I have decided to make a mockery of myself with another story. Great.

Throughout your life you’re told to eat your five a day. I try, or my mum tries, to apply this rule every day; giving me at least half a plate of vegetables every evening meal.

You see, my mum takes healthy eating very seriously. If I am hungry my wonderful mother will tell me that I am not, forcing me to drink a glass of water to “prove my hunger.”

So one day I felt the need for food. The usual happened: I was told to have a glass of water. No thank you.

I was done with the drinking-no-eating rule and instead I decided to eat a banana – you know the bananas that are not ripe but not brown either, and the ones that are hard but don’t take ages to chew. Those were the bananas that my mum bought. Those were the ones that did my digestive system no good.

And as I mentioned before, I was hungry; one banana was not sufficient enough for my appetite. So I had 7.

Did you know that you can die from having 7 bananas? Neither did I.

Obviously I haven’t died, however that night I felt like I was going to.

I was lying by the couch watching The Simpsons, or something like that, and I felt my stomach churning and making gurgling noises. Bearing in mind this was about 5 hours after the incident, I had sort of blocked it out of my mind (which was probably why I began to question if I was pregnant. I wasn’t.)

This gurgling continued for about 10 minutes until I started to violently shake. I physically couldn’t stop. At once point I was moving so much I actually dropped to the floor like a fish on dry land; flapping around, hoping for a way out before I die.

Okay, okay that last paragraph never happened. Although in a weird way I hope it did.

(Warning: gross)

As I was watching the TV with the soundtrack of my bowels I felt the urge to fart. But I knew that it probably wouldn’t be a “clean” fart, if you know what I mean. The kind of fart that can either go two ways.

So I waddled to the toilet, holding on tighter than Rose on her wooden plank in the Titanic.

As I was bending over everything came out; and kept coming until I was empty inside. I couldn’t even brush my teeth in that bathroom for a week without gagging for fresh air.

I did warn you.

Well there it is; my incredibly revolting story, of which the moral is: stick to the water kids. Stick to the goddamn water.


Until next time.

Best wishes,



Rejection happens to the best of us: J.K. Rowling was rejected multiple times before Harry Potter was finally published, Kanye West was rejected by Kim a couple of times before finally going out with her and becoming one of the greatest power couples of all time (yes, I just wrote that) and I, one of the funniest and beautiful people in the world, have been rejected many a time too. However, sadly, I haven’t had my happy and wealthy ending yet. Yet.

Now, I know you are wondering, what has spurred this on? Well, to whom it may concern, I have been rejected quite recently and so I need to feel a little sorry for myself, dragging you down with me.

At the beginning of the year my friend Amy compiled a bucket list for 2016 that we were to supposed to complete and tick off by December. I have only done 3 of the 30 things on the list because I literally have no time in between finishing seasons of TV programs in no more than one week, and school. One example on the list is to “do a triathlon”, and I’m sorry, but that one is pretty much physically impossible for me. I am also not prepared for that much of a commitment to being healthy and keeping fit. Fine, I could eat a few apples, more fruit, blah blah blah. But no, I cannot work out every other day in preparation for this. I have people to talk to, fridges to empty, a bed to sleep in- the best bits of having no life.


There is another on the list “go on a date.” (already quite challenging seeing as I know no persons of the opposite sex) Great. However I think I have already been the closest I will ever be to ticking that one off the box. Which is miraculous.

It all happened at school (obviously in between lessons who do you think I am) (…) and I was chatting to my friend, Grace, who has a boyfriend named Dan. I’m going to be honest here, I am pretty desperate, (Why else would I write a blog post on this) (I also go to an all-girls school what do you expect) so for this reason I usually joke around (that’s what people think) and that day I mentioned going on a double date with her and Dan, to which she immediately accepted.

She spoke to him and they chose someone. Everything was on the up: I was going to get a boyfriend/ speak to a guy out of choice. Grace forwarded me photos of him and vice versa. All looking good, and that was just him… I was then forced to text him, which was, not going to lie, pretty awkward, but I handled it like a pro. Then we had lunch.

We were in the canteen eating the school’s bland and oily chicken korma, (delicious) when my friend received a text from this guy saying that he wasn’t interested and was planning on seeing someone else after his exams. Wow. This was after he replied to my text which was, by the way, “Hey this is Sofia, Grace’s friend” I perhaps should have been more exotic, but I had no idea what to say to a person I have never met before.

That’s the end.

This has probably been a big anticlimax for you, I feel the same way, so for that I apologise that you had to endure on reading this for about 3 minutes or however long it took you to get to this disappointing part of the story. In hindsight this post may have been more exciting if we actually went on the date together and it failed, or if when we met the guy turned out to be an arse, but that didn’t happen (sadly/happily).

What happened is that I was angry that I put my hopes up, thought that it would pan out. Of course it didn’t. The whole thing was a miscommunication, which is fine, yet really annoying.

So the moral of this story is that life is a bit crap at times, and it probably won’t go the way that you want it to go, which means that rejection, rubbish and boring stories are okay and are nothing to be afraid of (unless you are the one listening to the story in which case, run away as fast as you possibly can)

*Oh and one last thing- don’t let your friends send photos of you to potential boyfriends


Best wishes,


Sheep Shenanigans 

There are two types of people in the world; those who like sheep and those who do not. I personally fall into the latter category. So here’s the story of why I am terrified of the woolly animals…

I was walking my dog one chilly Sunday afternoon, and I decided that I was going to take her on the “long walk”, a walk that takes you to pretty much every field around and in my village (and is about 45 minutes longer that the usual walk) *I don’t do it often. It’s a treat.

So we set off and everything was going well. There were no dislocated limbs, lots of 3G and no blisters. However, this atmosphere of “happiness” was about to change.

As I was flailing about in my wellies (as you do) I noticed that in the distance was a flock of sheep. I was cool, calm and collected; I had walked in a field with sheep before, but that was with about four other adults and my sister, so I decided to call my parents to aid me.

My dad picked up and so I told him the situation,  asking him what I should do. He told me to, “put the dog on the lead and just walk through.” He also suggested that if a sheep would come close I should, “scream and they should go”. Thanks Dad. No really, thanks.

So I walked into the enclosed field (shutting the gate behind me obvs) and even though I was slightly shitting myself, everything, so far, was good. The dog was scaring a few of the sheep with her (not so) terrifying stance, but she wasn’t dying or anything. However things would take a turn for the worse.

Two sheep took a keen interest in the dog and me and began to advance towards us. #pray4sofia. I froze. I had no idea what to do. I just stood there in my incredibly uncomfortable wellies and stared at them. Then I remembered: Dad’s Advice.

I screamed a very high pitched please-don’t-kill-me-scream and suddenly the whole flock (50+ sheep) snapped their heads towards us and that’s when I knew that I ducked up.

They began to trot towards us; by this point I was now already silently crying and also subconsciously wailing “don’t get me”, “I don’t like this”, etc. It was awful for me. The dog on the other hand was probably on some sort of drug as she was completely oblivious to the whole situation.

I figured out that I needed to actually move , so just as I finished my wailing monologue, I ran the fastest I think I have ever run in my life (which is not too fast as I don’t really exercise much) towards the gate. I looked behind me and the sheep were now running. Fast. I ran faster. The gates were now visible, but the only thing that was slowing me down was the dog, still on the powder. I reached the gate and opened it, shaking.

I scraped through with the dog trailing behind me and did a half laugh/ half wtf. I immediately called dad to tell him of my traumatic experience, and mum answered the phone. She wasn’t really comforting so I hung up and decided to walk the shorter, more muddier walk.

Moral: forced exercise/ exercise in general is not fun and don’t walk in a field of sheep.

*my dog has never taken drugs. I think.


Best wishes,


Fake Boyfriend

As it is Valentine’s Day today I have decided to share another story that will once again embarrass me. Fantastic.

So the 14th of February was a much bigger celebration for me when I was younger; I suppose there was an actual chance that someone might buy me flowers. (no one actually did/does) Well here’s to another depressing year! Hurrah!

It was the 12th February and I must have been about twelve when a bunch of my friends and I were talking about the possibility that a guy will magically fall in love with us in time for Valentine’s Day. (Some things never change) Obviously the chances are very slim, and even smaller since we were talking about our year 7 selves; but this didn’t stop us talking about different scenarios that would involve us meeting that man of our dreams in two days. These ideas were a bit rubbish seeing as they are a) not possible the time scale and b) we knew no members of the opposite sex. However, I had an idea to rival everyone else’s. I made up my own boyfriend.

I went home and was (quite clearly) very bored, so I decided to create my very own boyfriend. I retrieved pictures off the Internet, made up this whole story and decided to run with it; it was probably the most creative thing that I have ever done.

I came into school on the 14th and showed everyone pictures of my new boyfriend “Jack”. (I had an unhealthy obsession with Jack Whitehall at the time and so I decided to base my DIY boyfriend’s name on him)

Unbeknownst to my friends the pictures that were of “Jack” were some photographs that I dug up on google images. Oh, by the way, I only had two pictures because matching them up was a bloody nightmare! It took me at least half an hour to find boys that had the same hair and skin colours, let alone age!

And then for my story. “Jack” was a boy I had met from London, and our fathers knew each other from work. He had just broken up with his girlfriend of two months (commitment goals) and decided he wanted to go out with me because he always felt like we had a connection. So he texted me and asked if I single, of course I said yes (because when will the answer ever be no). I stopped my story there because I couldn’t be bothered to make up anything else. #WhatALiar

When I showed everyone at school a few of my friends sort of looked at me as though they were confused, even shocked. I even heard one say, “Oh my God. If Sofia has a boyfriend, why can’t I?” How nice. So everything was going well until someone brought up the flaw in my story. The photographs.

As I said before it was an absolute nightmare to match the two photographs together, so in the end I chose random pictures of boys that kind of looked like each other, but not really. One of the pictures of “Jack” was a boy in his bed, covering his face. I was asked, “Why do you have a picture of him in bed?” I panicked, then replied, “He was ill and his mum needed a picture to show the matron at his school” Wow. Great response. This brought up a series of questions that were followed by delayed and awful responses.

Then there was another hurdle; believability.

So as it turns out no one believed me, and after I had probably wrecked any chances of making friends there was a lot of teasing both to my face and behind my back. So the lesson here is: Don’t make up your own boyfriend but if you do try to find decent pictures that look believable.

I hope that you have an awesome Valentine’s Day, I know I am going to spend the most part eating pizza and crying both internally and externally. Fun times. Also if you do have a boyfriend/girlfriend (you lucky person) I would appreciate it if you didn’t post your entire day on social media for my emotional benefit!

Best wishes,


Fish Food

When I was little I had two pet fish whose names altered pretty regularly. (Most common titles include: Nemo & Bob, Alex & Charlie) I used to be chief fish feeder before my dad overtook my job, and it was my task to sprinkle the fish food into the tank.

I had this job from the ages of four to five, and I usually chucked a couple of (small) handfuls of food into the water, watch the fish swim up to the top and then practically sink to the bottom again as they lay in a coat of fishy flakes; this was my idea of entertainment. After I had watched these (quite traumatic) series of events I would grab the remainings, lock myself into the toilet and eat a few of the flakes myself.

This fish food was disgusting, it was almost brown and smelt like my next door neighbour’s house. Not nice. However, when I was younger this substance really appealed to me. Yep. I used to eat fish food.

Now don’t get me wrong, I was a normal child, I was just addicted to a substance that wasn’t designed for me, or any other human. So please don’t judge me! Who am I kidding, go ahead, I judge me literally all of the time.

I was also quite a rude child growing up, reflecting on my past right now, it really embarrasses me how mean I was to others. However it wasn’t like I was disrespectful, I just don’t think I really understood the whole empathy idea; treat others how you would like to be treated etc. I think I just did it because I thought it was funny (which most of the time it was ngl)

In hindsight I have grown up a lot over the past few years, and I feel like I am nothing like I was before. Okay, maybe I am still a little bit weird, I am definitely less rude and more or less take others’ feelings into consideration. So for those who I have offended and/ or creeped out; I am sorry.

I especially sincerely apologise to Nemo/Bob/Alex/Charlie for stealing your food and over feeding you, as well as Mum and Dad for making you spend more money for new fish food pots that I was secretly devouring in my free time.

So do you have any embarrassing stories? Please tell me yours is worse than mine!

Best wishes,