Subway rodeo

The tube. A place of squash, sweat, and occasional eye contact. All in all this leads to enemy number 1, boredom. I have to spend 2 of my good hours on the thing 5 days a week and I’ve been looking in vain for a way to liven up the Bakerloo.

…and then I found this.

I still have my old kickboxing gear, which I think will make a good substitute for football kit. Now all I need is a willing opponent. Lucky you, Bakerloo…


Alien invasion

In the unlikely event that I am one day pulverised by invading aliens, I hope to end my time on earth like this:


The real me

JosiahSugarRush & Rachel Davies

Moments after the life changing revelation

Star Wars. Vegetables. Early bedtimes.

Unlike the above, ‘dangerous’ isn’t a word often associated with yours truly. However, it is time to come clean: My true self struts through the wilderness of formidable cool. I just hide it well. Really well.

One such outworking of my ‘dark side’ is the habitual, intentional corruption of my friend’s children. Through regular brain washing, it is my aim to get each and every one of them addicted to the greatest drug on earth. Chocolate.

Today has been a roaring success. This evening 10 month-old Josiah tasted his first chocolate flavoured item, baked by yours truly. Upon consuming his first brownie bite he then crawled with desperate vigour towards anything vaguely chocolate-coloured with the crazed frenzy that only a sugar-drunk baby can. For the next carnage-infused hour, he managed to smear ice cream on my dress, knock over a glass of sangria and stick a phone in his mouth. I’ve never been so proud.

Ladies and gentlemen, you are reading the words of a badass.


Insomnia: Top 5 things to do to pass the time

It’s 5 am and I’m awake. In fact, I’ve been awake for about two hours already. On a Saturday.

Most people may be slightly vexed by this reality, but I’ve come to accept that this is just what my body does every now and again. I’ve found that it’s better to just roll with it and do my best to not drop breakables/ walk into stationary objects as the day progresses. I’m clumsy at the best of times, although when sleep deprived, the Rachel Disaster Comedy Show rises to a whole new level of humiliation.

Being awake in the dead of night gives you lots of time to think. While other sleep deprived people are probably considering the meaning of life right now, I’m thinking about this: There are many things that I’m tempted to do in life which I don’t have the guts or inclination to carry out in the full light of day. However, being awake while others are asleep presents the perfect opportunity to fulfil all those unrealised dreams.

I call it the ‘night-bucket’ list.

Here are my top five. I’ve actually already done a couple of these with friends… but I’m not telling you which ones. What would be on your list?

  1. Go for a run dressed in neon bright 80’s clothing, complete with visor and vile shell suit
  2. Plant flowers in obscure and run-down places
  3. Play a game of Frisbee with a glow-in-the dark disc.
  4. Jump the park gate (without, er, getting stuck at the top and having to be ‘helped’ down by a friend), climb the park hill and wait for the sun to rise over London

But most of all, I’m really tempted to stick this poster up all around town. It’ll either make people laugh or just confuse them entirely. Either way, it’s a win-win.

Lionel: What a legend.


The Tuscan pizza of degradation

How not to attract a man, part 2

The sun was gently setting over the Tuscan vineyards as thirty hungry people sat down for dinner. A few friends and I were spending one scorching summer week working on a family-run vineyard in Italy. We had spent the day vigorously pruning and were ready to consume obscene amounts of food.

Every night Catty, the eldest daughter of the family, kindly prepared dinner for the workers. We would sit along a stretch of tables set up on the porch, eating by candlelight as the sun disappeared behind the mountains.

Tonight was pizza night. Ruth and I had volunteered to help out, although it wasn’t exactly an act of self-sacrifice – Catty had essentially given us a free Italian cooking lesson, and I can’t say that the presence of Catty’s hot brother, who was watching TV in the corner of the kitchen, was entirely unwelcome.

As Catty and Ruth cut up the steaming pizza and carefully placed the slices on wide platters, my job was to carry the food out through the beaded door curtains to my waiting friends.

Due to the presence of Catty’s brother, I was of course trying to execute this in as elegant a fashion as possible for me (i.e. – not falling on my ass).

My hungry friends were applying subtle pressure to hurry up and get the food on the table. In haste I dashed to the kitchen to grab the last platter and rushed back through the curtains. Somehow as I flew through the beads they managed to tangle themselves around my torso, jarring me backwards. The platter jolted, catapulting the pizza off the plate and onto the tiled floor in synchronised splendour. To add to this spectacle, several of the beaded tails tugged free from the ceiling and clattered down around me.

I looked up to notice HotItalianBrother gaping at me in bewildered confusion, as if to say “Who is this weirdo, and why on earth has she decided to destroy my house?”

The pizza lay in splattered ruin on the floor. Unfortunately I was unable to a) redeem myself by clearing it up, or b) run for dear life (the preferred option), as I was still entangled in the damn door.

HotItalianBrother continued to stare at me, baffled. Guessing he was probably not entirely won over by my slapstick charm, I decided that a quick exit would be wise. Then I remembered that I couldn’t actually move.

At least I made an impression.


How not to attract a man (and other fun stories)

Life. For most it passes by with the occasional fail. For some, however, (cue: me) life is a series of slightly humiliating disasters of hilarious, yet epic proportions.

For example, take my track record on interaction with attractive men. For some reason this area of my life seems to resemble a Will Farrell movie.

Rather than moan, I thought I would share my in-depth experience with the bloggasphere in the hope that some of you may avert dating disaster by following this one simple, yet highly effective rule: don’t. copy. me.

Over the next few weeks I will share a few of my most embarrassing moments in the hope that some good can come out of the more ridiculous things that I have done have happened to me (against my will. Through no fault of my own. Whatsoever.)

Part 1: The slide of horror

I was ten years old and on my way back from a walk in the welsh mountains with my trendy parents (yes – my mum and dad were cooler than me even then. Not a good sign of things to come.)

Upon passing a small park I begged my weary parents to stop and let me play for a few minutes. In retrospect I now realise that the park was, in the words of my mum,  “a bit run down” (i.e. a total dive/ death trap) but all I saw was the possibility of five whole minutes of unbridled fun rather than the fact that this was Not A Good Idea.

On entering the play area I realised I was not alone. There was another kid sharing the space with me, and not just any kid.

A Boy.

When I was ten A Boy was a big deal. Especially one that was a little older than me. I struck my best confident walk, striding up to the rickety slide that towered above me. I climbed the stairs tentatively, making sure that the wind didn’t whip my flowery elasticised skirt over my head. I made it to the top. He was watching. Result.

Throwing myself onto the slide I began to wiz down, trying not to bang my elbows on the large iron hooks that poked upwards along the sides.

Allow me to narrate what followed:

Young girl begins descent. Girl’s skirt catches on hooks. Girl’s torso flies through centre of skirt with technical flare.

At least this is what the onlookers remember. All I can recall is starting the descent with my skirt on and finishing in my underpants, skirt still half way up the slide.

I wish I could tell you that this is an isolated incident in an otherwise uneventful life. But we both know that I would be lying.

Next week : Part 2 – The Tuscan pizza of degradation


The moment of truth

I’m standing in the queue in Starbucks, waiting for my turn with the frappachino and herbal tea requests.  I’m here for a meeting.  In less than two hours I’ll be at another meeting with an MP – a former Home Office Minister who knows his stuff – and I’m exhausted.

I jolted awake at four this morning from another horrendous nightmare.  My job involves thinking about human trafficking and exploitation day in day out and unfortunately this is not without its side effects.

I also have another minor problem on my hands.  At 11am this morning I realised there was a small hole in my skirt.  Unfortunately this hole is located directly over the butt area.  I quite like my bum as it is, but my skirts do have to stretch a little to fit and tend to give way at inconvenient moments – for example, during 11am meetings with lots of men. (This is me we’re talking about – I mean, my skirt was never going to wait for an all-girl slumber party.)

I quickly excused myself from the manly meeting (walking backwards out of the room as normally as possible) and rushed to my colleague, Gemma, to ask for her opinion.  Is the hole noticeable?  Can I possibly get away with it for a whole 30 minutes in the presence of an esteemed politician?  Her contorted expression, trying to hold back a pained smirk, confirmed the answer as a firm NO.  Five minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom with a safety pin holding my skirt together.  Unfortunately this was not the world’s most sturdy piece of metal and within minutes I had an undone pin protruding out of my bottom, ready to puncture anyone who got too close.

So here I stand in Starbucks – exhausted, slightly traumatised, with a safety pin sticking outta my butt.  If I’m looking for a sign that something in my life has got to change, this is it.