Confession. I went into this book already obsessed with Matt Haig. I’ve read snippets of his writing before, I’ve followed him on Twitter, I narrowly missed the chance to see him read in Bath and all my friends from uni rate his writing. So – I went in with big expectations.
I was not disappointed.
‘Welcome to the beautiful Sinclair family. No one is a criminal. No one is an addict. No one is a failure.’
Why does that strike me as insincere?
A storytime blog about my first and one true love – James Bond.
I’m going to review the following novel on three chapters – and no more.
The Flatshare has a really fresh premise for a love story.
A dating service where matching is based on people’s search history exists. You’re a serial killer. You go on a date with a writer.
Posh, adjective. Meaning to do something in an ‘upper-class’ way, showing the qualities of elegance or smarts. Fleabag is none of these things. I’d end my argument here, but I’ve got a few more points to make.
I try to get myself in bed before half ten So I don’t hate myself In the morning. I make sure I brush my teeth. I shake out my pony tale and then Put it back. Sometimes I wash my face. The ginger Tom Cat spreads across my White cotton sheets, Like he fucking owns […]
An epic poem about Medusa, the ultimate feminist icon.
You walk into your bedroom and discover someone going through your drawers.
Anxiety is a trickster. It makes you feel and believe things that aren’t true, makes you think you’re guilty for things you’re not, and separates you from those around you. This isn’t a lesson in how to beat it, but recognizing when it might beat you.
