Whilst we're on the subject, if you are one of those people who really only reads someone’s blog/listens to someone's story for the chance to bring it back to yourself however tangentially, then I suggest you get your own blog because honestly, you sound just the type. Blogging's the perfect occupation for the completely self-absorbed, take it from me, I get loads of that ilk cluttering up my comments box with their life stories when I only added that feature to invite readers to compliment me.

And newbie bloggers need not be intimidated by my superior grasp of the vernacular; there’s a bounty of banal blogs out there. The internet does not discriminate and any old detritus can and does moor itself in cyberspace ready to confront unsuspecting Googlers, as we’ve all discovered when innocently searching terms like “doggy”, “swing” and “spank”, only to land on some frightful middle-class mother’s blog about her toddler’s foray in the playground with a naughty puppy.

I have nothing against mothers - I have one myself – but I don’t think they should blog about their kids for the simple fact that no one else cares. Of course we’re all forced by social mores to pretend we do but I know I'm not the only one who thinks their friend’s child is Damien, and the only thing stopping them from asking whether there was a satanic ritual involved in the child's conception is fear of causing friction. If I ever have a child, you can rest assured I would not be cluttering up my blog with the yawnsome minutiae of a toddler’s day-to-day. Anyhow, they would be a literary prodigy in their own right and have their own globally renowned blog so there would be absolutely no need.

Back to 2011 and what I did which is the whole point of this blog. I became further exasperated by my body as it has increasingly paid less attention to simple commands, i.e. “Pick up cup”, and just made up its own “artistic" interpretations such as "Push cup over", "Pick up cup briefly, drop cup into lap", and the now clichéd; “Pick up cup? Go f**k yourself.”

I'm a firm believer in freedom of expression but frankly, my body’s rebelliousness and creativity has become unnecessary and pretentious, much like Tracey Emin’s unmade bed covered in dirty knickers and unmentionable bodily excretions, however, you won't find me in the Saatchi gallery exhibiting my lap full of tea as an exploration of my nervous breakdown. Which is a shame because I think a disabled girl covered in Earl Grey is a lot more poignant than a messy bed plus I could do with a few hundred thou.

Instead, I explored my nervous breakdown by having MRI scans of my cervical spine in which is housed a cyst (aka syrinx/syringomyelia) and sent them to eminent neurosurgeons around the world including New York, Los Angeles, Germany, South Africa, London and Bristol and said; “I'm getting progressively paralysed at breakneck speed (excuse the pun) - any suggestions?”

And it transpired that these medical professionals were full of suggestions, or one particular suggestion which was that nothing could be done to help and I should f*$k off. Well, at least there was a consensus.

Via several letters, e-mails, phone calls and face-to-face consultations I was advised, in a nutshell, to crawl into a dark little corner and "accept (my) continued deterioration". Quote.

But there are two problems with this; 1) I cannot crawl, and 2) I simply can't, and never have been able to do what I'm told, particularly when there is no mention of a blindfold, gag or fluffy handcuffs.

I did cry a lot because the doctors were basically saying; “You think your life's limited now? Wait for another couple of years! You'll be looking back on this time as those halcyon days of hope and opportunity when you could almost hold a fork and could still use one digit to operate a PC!”

Having already kissed goodbye to many of my hopes and dreams with bitterly puckered lips because of my disability, the thought of losing the fraction of mobility I had left was intolerable.
I was deeply demoralised by the prognosis and as I scarcely had a moral to begin with, the effect on me was devastating.

2011 was a tearful and dehydrating year. Fortunately, it was also the year I discovered coconut water with its potent rehydrating properties, so despite my tanties I was mercifully able to maintain my “glass half full” (of coconut water) attitude, and continued searching out people at the top of their spinal game. 

Plus I prayed, in the way that someone with fickle faith who has felt somewhat abandoned by any higher power at a young age prays – angrily, desperately, chaotically - an internal scream of; “Fu$k*ng help me!” I didn't bother with pleases and thank you's and didn’t care who or what heard me. I would happily have sold my soul to the devil to be physically able again and was even considering taking my friend’s child aside for a quiet word.

Fortunately a satanic pact wasn't necessary but instead I attended a "Complex Spine Clinic" offered by our marvellous NHS for people who have complicated conditions requiring a multidisciplinary approach. Here, a gaggle of orthopaedic surgeons, neurosurgeons and similar gathered in a lecture amphitheatre to poke and prod me and have a powwow. Rather than too many cooks spoiling the broth it was a case of can’t cook, won’t cook, get another cook in who can and will.

Betwixt them they bubbled up a recipe to blast the cyst, halt the deterioration and hopefully recover some function with a "laminectomy and spinal cord fenestration". For those of us not fluent in Latin, this means cutting out a piece of vertebral bone, opening up the spinal cord and draining some fluid to relieve the pressure on the nerves. Wowzas.

So in December that's what I did, I had spinal surgery. Absolutely terrifying. Especially as surgeons these days seem to only vaguely mention any possible positive outcome of a procedure in the lead up to an operation but really lay it on about the risks. The 10% chance that you will be made totally and irreversibly paralysed, the other 10% chance that you will be made a lot more paralysed permanently, the chance that you will lose more mobility but only for say, six months, and that's all if you survive the surgery in the first place. OK, I get it, shut up already.

However, if I didn't have the operation I would continue losing more function over time which might even affect my brain so although I was literally catatonic with fear for several weeks before the op I was like; "Bring it! Where's that scalpel?! Show me the morphine! Do it to me!" Because I was more terrified of what would happen if I didn't go through with it.

And here I am to tell the tale. The operation was a success; Oh joy! Or as I like to say; "Oh Choi!" (my very excellent surgeon's name is Mr Choi.)
This is my scar 5 days after! I hope you're not freaked out, it looks a lot better now. And I am recovering nicely…

Whilst we're on the subject, if you are one of those people who really only reads someone’s blog/listens to someone's story for the chance to bring it back to yourself however tangentially, then I suggest you get your own blog because honestly, you sound just the type. Blogging's the perfect occupation for the completely self-absorbed, take it from me, I get loads of that ilk cluttering up my comments box with their life stories when I only added that feature to invite readers to compliment me.

And newbie bloggers need not be intimidated by my superior grasp of the vernacular; there’s a bounty of banal blogs out there. The internet does not discriminate and any old detritus can and does moor itself in cyberspace ready to confront unsuspecting Googlers, as we’ve all discovered when innocently searching terms like “doggy”, “swing” and “spank”, only to land on some frightful middle-class mother’s blog about her toddler’s foray in the playground with a naughty puppy.

I have nothing against mothers - I have one myself – but I don’t think they should blog about their kids for the simple fact that no one else cares. Of course we’re all forced by social mores to pretend we do but I know I'm not the only one who thinks their friend’s child is Damien, and the only thing stopping them from asking whether there was a satanic ritual involved in the child's conception is fear of causing friction. If I ever have a child, you can rest assured I would not be cluttering up my blog with the yawnsome minutiae of a toddler’s day-to-day. Anyhow, they would be a literary prodigy in their own right and have their own globally renowned blog so there would be absolutely no need.

Back to 2011 and what I did which is the whole point of this blog. I became further exasperated by my body as it has increasingly paid less attention to simple commands, i.e. “Pick up cup”, and just made up its own “artistic" interpretations such as "Push cup over", "Pick up cup briefly, drop cup into lap", and the now clichéd; “Pick up cup? Go f**k yourself.”

I'm a firm believer in freedom of expression but frankly, my body’s rebelliousness and creativity has become unnecessary and pretentious, much like Tracey Emin’s unmade bed covered in dirty knickers and unmentionable bodily excretions, however, you won't find me in the Saatchi gallery exhibiting my lap full of tea as an exploration of my nervous breakdown. Which is a shame because I think a disabled girl covered in Earl Grey is a lot more poignant than a messy bed plus I could do with a few hundred thou.

Instead, I explored my nervous breakdown by having MRI scans of my cervical spine in which is housed a cyst (aka syrinx/syringomyelia) and sent them to eminent neurosurgeons around the world including New York, Los Angeles, Germany, South Africa, London and Bristol and said; “I'm getting progressively paralysed at breakneck speed (excuse the pun) - any suggestions?”

And it transpired that these medical professionals were full of suggestions, or one particular suggestion which was that nothing could be done to help and I should f*$k off. Well, at least there was a consensus.

Via several letters, e-mails, phone calls and face-to-face consultations I was advised, in a nutshell, to crawl into a dark little corner and "accept (my) continued deterioration". Quote.

But there are two problems with this; 1) I cannot crawl, and 2) I simply can't, and never have been able to do what I'm told, particularly when there is no mention of a blindfold, gag or fluffy handcuffs.

I did cry a lot because the doctors were basically saying; “You think your life's limited now? Wait for another couple of years! You'll be looking back on this time as those halcyon days of hope and opportunity when you could almost hold a fork and could still use one digit to operate a PC!”

Having already kissed goodbye to many of my hopes and dreams with bitterly puckered lips because of my disability, the thought of losing the fraction of mobility I had left was intolerable.
I was deeply demoralised by the prognosis and as I scarcely had a moral to begin with, the effect on me was devastating. 2011 was a tearful and dehydrating year. Fortunately, it was also the year I discovered coconut water with its potent rehydrating properties, so despite my tanties I was mercifully able to maintain my “glass half full” (of coconut water) attitude, and continued searching out people at the top of their spinal game. 

Plus I prayed, in the way that someone with fickle faith who has felt somewhat abandoned by any higher power at a young age prays – angrily, desperately, chaotically - an internal scream of; “Fu$k*ng help me!” I didn't bother with pleases and thank you's and didn’t care who or what heard me. I would happily have sold my soul to the devil to be physically able again and was even considering taking my friend’s child aside for a quiet word.

Fortunately a satanic pact wasn't necessary but instead I attended a "Complex Spine Clinic" offered by our marvellous NHS for people who have complicated conditions requiring a multidisciplinary approach. Here, a gaggle of orthopaedic surgeons, neurosurgeons and similar gathered in a lecture amphitheatre to poke and prod me and have a powwow. Rather than too many cooks spoiling the broth it was a case of can’t cook, won’t cook, get another cook in who can and will.

Betwixt them they bubbled up a recipe to blast the cyst, halt the deterioration and hopefully recover some function with a "laminectomy and spinal cord fenestration". For those of us not fluent in Latin, this means cutting out a piece of vertebral bone, opening up the spinal cord and draining some fluid to relieve the pressure on the nerves. Wowzas.

So in December that's what I did, I had spinal surgery. Absolutely terrifying. Especially as surgeons these days seem to only vaguely mention any possible positive outcome of a procedure in the lead up to an operation but really lay it on about the risks. The 10% chance that you will be made totally and irreversibly paralysed, the other 10% chance that you will be made a lot more paralysed permanently, the chance that you will lose more mobility but only for say, six months, and that's all if you survive the surgery in the first place.

However, if I didn't have the operation I would continue losing more function over time which might even affect my brain so although I was literally catatonic with fear for several weeks before the op I was like; "Bring it! Where's that scalpel?! Show me the morphine! Do it to me! "Because I was more terrified of what would happen if I didn't go through with it.

And here I am to tell the tale. The operation was a success; Oh joy! Or as I like to say; "Oh Choi!" (my very excellent surgeon's name is Mr Choi.)
This is my scar 5 days after! I hope you're not freaked out, it looks a lot better now. And I am recovering nicely…

Whilst we're on the subject, if you are one of those people who really only reads someone’s blog/listens to someone's story for the chance to bring it back to yourself however tangentially, then I suggest you get your own blog because honestly, you sound just the type. Blogging's the perfect occupation for the completely self-absorbed, take it from me, I get loads of that ilk cluttering up my comments box with their life stories when I only added that feature to invite readers to compliment me.

And newbie bloggers need not be intimidated by my superior grasp of the vernacular; there’s a bounty of banal blogs out there. The internet does not discriminate and any old detritus can and does moor itself in cyberspace ready to confront unsuspecting Googlers, as we’ve all discovered when innocently searching terms like “doggy”, “swing” and “spank”, only to land on some frightful middle-class mother’s blog about her toddler’s foray in the playground with a naughty puppy.

I have nothing against mothers - I have one myself – but I don’t think they should blog about their kids for the simple fact that no one else cares. Of course we’re all forced by social mores to pretend we do but I know I'm not the only one who thinks their friend’s child is Damien, and the only thing stopping them from asking whether there was a satanic ritual involved in the child's conception is fear of causing friction. If I ever have a child, you can rest assured I would not be cluttering up my blog with the yawnsome minutiae of a toddler’s day-to-day. Anyhow, they would be a literary prodigy in their own right and have their own globally renowned blog so there would be absolutely no need.

Back to 2011 and what I did which is the whole point of this blog. I became further exasperated by my body as it has increasingly paid less attention to simple commands, i.e. “Pick up cup”, and just made up its own “artistic" interpretations such as "Push cup over", "Pick up cup briefly, drop cup into lap", and the now clichéd; “Pick up cup? Go f**k yourself.”

I'm a firm believer in freedom of expression but frankly, my body’s rebelliousness and creativity has become unnecessary and pretentious, much like Tracey Emin’s unmade bed covered in dirty knickers and unmentionable bodily excretions, however, you won't find me in the Saatchi gallery exhibiting my lap full of tea as an exploration of my nervous breakdown. Which is a shame because I think a disabled girl covered in Earl Grey is a lot more poignant than a messy bed plus I could do with a few hundred thou.

Instead, I explored my nervous breakdown by having MRI scans of my cervical spine in which is housed a cyst (aka syrinx/syringomyelia) and sent them to eminent neurosurgeons around the world including New York, Los Angeles, Germany, South Africa, London and Bristol and said; “I'm getting progressively paralysed at breakneck speed (excuse the pun) - any suggestions?”

And it transpired that these medical professionals were full of suggestions, or one particular suggestion which was that nothing could be done to help and I should f*$k off. Well, at least there was a consensus.

Via several letters, e-mails, phone calls and face-to-face consultations I was advised, in a nutshell, to crawl into a dark little corner and "accept (my) continued deterioration". Quote.

But there are two problems with this; 1) I cannot crawl, and 2) I simply can't, and never have been able to do what I'm told, particularly when there is no mention of a blindfold, gag or fluffy handcuffs.

I did cry a lot because the doctors were basically saying; “You think your life's limited now? Wait for another couple of years! You'll be looking back on this time as those halcyon days of hope and opportunity when you could almost hold a fork and could still use one digit to operate a PC!”

Having already kissed goodbye to many of my hopes and dreams with bitterly puckered lips because of my disability, the thought of losing the fraction of mobility I had left was intolerable.
I was deeply demoralised by the prognosis and as I scarcely had a moral to begin with, the effect on me was devastating. 2011 was a tearful and dehydrating year. Fortunately, it was also the year I discovered coconut water with its potent rehydrating properties, so despite my tanties I was mercifully able to maintain my “glass half full” (of coconut water) attitude, and continued searching out people at the top of their spinal game. 

Plus I prayed, in the way that someone with fickle faith who has felt somewhat abandoned by any higher power at a young age prays – angrily, desperately, chaotically - an internal scream of; “Fu$k*ng help me!” I didn't bother with pleases and thank you's and didn’t care who or what heard me. I would happily have sold my soul to the devil to be physically able again and was even considering taking my friend’s child aside for a quiet word.

Fortunately a satanic pact wasn't necessary but instead I attended a "Complex Spine Clinic" offered by our marvellous NHS for people who have complicated conditions requiring a multidisciplinary approach. Here, a gaggle of orthopaedic surgeons, neurosurgeons and similar gathered in a lecture amphitheatre to poke and prod me and have a powwow. Rather than too many cooks spoiling the broth it was a case of can’t cook, won’t cook, get another cook in who can and will.

Betwixt them they bubbled up a recipe to blast the cyst, halt the deterioration and hopefully recover some function with a "laminectomy and spinal cord fenestration". For those of us not fluent in Latin, this means cutting out a piece of vertebral bone, opening up the spinal cord and draining some fluid to relieve the pressure on the nerves. Wowzas.

So in December that's what I did, I had spinal surgery. Absolutely terrifying. Especially as surgeons these days seem to only vaguely mention any possible positive outcome of a procedure in the lead up to an operation but really lay it on about the risks. The 10% chance that you will be made totally and irreversibly paralysed, the other 10% chance that you will be made a lot more paralysed permanently, the chance that you will lose more mobility but only for say, six months, and that's all if you survive the surgery in the first place.

However, if I didn't have the operation I would continue losing more function over time which might even affect my brain so although I was literally catatonic with fear for several weeks before the op I was like; "Bring it! Where's that scalpel?! Show me the morphine! Do it to me! "Because I was more terrified of what would happen if I didn't go through with it.

And here I am to tell the tale. The operation was a success; Oh joy! Or as I like to say; "Oh Choi!" (my very excellent surgeon's name is Mr Choi.)
This is my scar 5 days after! I hope you're not freaked out, it looks a lot better now. And I am recovering nicely…

I’m veeeery hard to please when it comes to tickling my funny-bone. I’m no lily-livered buffoon who will guffaw at just anything, oh no. I might look amused at a comedy club with a perma-grin pasted on, but that’s simply a tactic to avoid being heckled by the comedians - inside I’ve got a face like a proper slapped-ar$e.

Sadly, this ruse is not practised by my partner. When I took him to see stand-up comic Simon Amstell warming up for Edinburgh, he didn’t even crack a smile throughout the gig. It might have been OK but it was a tiny room and we were smack in the centre of the front row, nose-to-nose with Simon.

Needless to say the grumpy ginger German South-African sitting next to the girl in the wheelchair wearing a corset, fabulous Kiss My Cherry fascinator (this one from the Summer collection)  and insane smile did not go unnoticed. Mr Amstell tried heckling my partner into submission but the ginger would not snap - even with all his best gay Jewish one-liners Simon could not crack the ginger nut. Excruciating. But lovely that I got two ginger biscuit jokes out of that.

Sadly they’ll be lost on my non-UK audience which last month’s Google Analytics informs me are abundant; yes, I’m quite the global phenomenon. No surprises that I’m racking them up all over the UK, US & Canada but interesting that I’m doing healthy figures in Sweden (12), Russia (3) and Turkey (2) as well as being thoroughly enjoyed in the Asian continent; India (1), Malaysia (1) and Thailand (1); Sawadika!

Anyhoo, back to Britain; my partner hasn’t picked up that in this country, when someone’s trying to be funny, even if you think they’re a blithering idiot, you feign merriment - it is just good manners to be completely insincere. Similarly, if you don’t like someone, you simply pretend you do to their face and talk badly about them behind their back, thus, no one ever knows how you really feel and you end up being a people-pleaser. It is not a difficult practise to pick up but apparently in Africa, they are not familiar with such behavioural subtleties, so if my partner doesn’t find someone funny, he won’t laugh and it is just embarrassing for all involved. Except for my partner, who doesn’t find it at all uncomfortable. My bad for taking him to see stand-up comedy; it was an accident waiting to happen.

Talking of accidents, now there’s something that’s sure to invoke a vesuvian belly-laugh from me. Yip, someone stumbling/tripping/falling over will always have me in stitches - not if they are, obviously - I won’t be roaring my head off at someone who clearly requires suturing, but a bit of grazing or a few bruises and there’s my slam-dunk giggle-fit.

Other than people embarrassing/hurting themselves a bit, a chortle from me is hard-won. That’s not to say I’m a miserable sadist; I’ve just explained that I laugh at other people’s misfortune, I’m hardly miserable! But I did not find Bridesmaids that funny second time round.

However, there is one type of funny that transcends all cultures and faiths and can tickle even the most jaded of fancies, and this universal source of hilarity is known as Skype-A-Mum. It doesn’t even have to be your own mum, just any mum will do. My partner and I Skyped both our mums in one night and it was back-to-back side-splitting laughs for us.

We started by Skyping my pseudo mum-in-law in South Africa which is always a challenge because they’re still on dial-up; can you even remember life before broadband? It makes me shudder, but in S.A they’re much quainter and not so up-to-speed with technology because they are understandably occupied with their daily survival such as running away from lions and leopards. Also, the rhinos and hippos dig up the phone lines so they can’t put the really good ones down. They have to make theirs from string and giraffe droppings which are less efficient than fibre optic cables.

We managed to get through to S.A Mum who had spruced herself up for the occasion by changing out of her “camo”s and strategically placing some traditional African masks and wooden giraffes in shot. It wasn’t until she’d complimented us 3 or 4 times on our “set dressing” of pulling the duvet up to cover our naked-ness, that we realised she was awaiting a return compliment and didn’t know that her web-cam was off so we couldn’t see her. We suggested she do whatever she did last time we Skyped, as then we could vividly see the full glory of her African headdress (or she might have just washed her hair). However, her other son had supervised proceedings last Skype and now he was out, probably hunting kudu or searching for stones to make into arrow-heads.

A slew of; “Scheiß menschen!” (translation; “$h!t people!”) and other German profanities ensued plus much clattering of African crafts, but still the web-cam “on” switch remained elusive. We’ve long since learnt the futility of talking a mum through the simple procedure of opening the “Tools” bar and clicking on “Video Settings” so we sat back whilst S.A Mum turned everything on her P.C on and off, to an accompaniment of Germanic expletives and the distant thunder of charging elephants. Mums Skyping hey? Hil-frickin-arious.

No sooner had we said auf weiderzen to S.A Mum, we noticed my Mum was on-line in the South of France, so we hit the Skype again, but Mum in La France (or MILF) didn’t answer until about our the tenth attempt because she thought it was the dishwasher beeping. When she finally picked up her iPhone she’d somehow managed to mute the speakers and the microphone but that was no impediment to her jabbering away, iPhone akimbo.

We couldn’t even attempt to lip-read as all we could see were blurry shots of pot-plants, furniture and ceiling beams in the style of Madonna’s “Ray of Light” video, mixed in with several cleavage close-ups in the style of something you’d rather not find your mother starring in. My frantic yelps of; “Muuuuum! Step away from the iPhone! We can see your boobs!” made no impression; we just had to wait 'til she’d worn herself out. Then, as finding the iPhone volume button proved too much of a challenge, we repeated the whole exercise from her iPad but she couldn’t find the stand for it so it was an up-the-nose shot throughout our chat.

So to re-cap; if you’re feeling a bit glum, Skype yo’ Mum. Guaranteed non-stop giggles!

P.S Wanna look hot for Hallowe'en? Check out my Kiss My Cherry skulls and spiders collection!

Well, this repetitious refrain is all I have going on in my noodle right now - no thoughts, just a loud, lurching loop. Why? Because I’ve been rendered verbally impotent by a quite unbelievable event and am unable to process how deeply selfish seemingly nice people that you invite into your home and get naked in front of can be.

This sounds like I got done-over whilst hosting a swingers’ evening. I did not. And “done-over” is not the appropriate expression to be used there anyway as presumably a doing-over would be a successful result, whereas I am enjoying no such thing. (The successful result that is, not the swingers’ party. Although I’m not enjoying that either, and if I were I think it would be very rude and show no sense of community to be writing a blog during proceedings.)

Let me be specific. My carer walked out. Just like that. No awkward preamble, no; “it’s not you, it’s me”, no “I’m handing in my month’s notice” as is the custom amongst civilised people in the adult world of work. No, instead, my carer got moody and recalcitrant, and when I asked politely (or not so politely but WTF she was well out of order) if she could lose the attitude, she had a melt-down, packed her bags and left without waiting for my partner to come home. So, to recap, she left me with no warning - or time to organise cover - completely on my Jack Jones, on my tod, solitaire, toute seule, solo, pro bono. OK, not that one, I don’t know what it is in Latin, but you get the idea.

I’m not pushing this point to get sympathy - although I will be going for the sympathy vote in part 2 of this blog so hold that thought. Here, I’m simply looking at the situation as an observer - I’m in shock and emotionally disenfranchised from the event but as a semi-reasonable human being I know it’s not cool to leave someone in my “situation”, unattended. (I’m being vague because using adjectives such as “dependent”, “vulnerable”, or “helpless” makes me want to kill myself.  And as my mum helpfully pointed out when I was feeling sorry for myself recently; “You can’t kill yourself!” Not as in “because the world would stop without you” but matter-of-factly as in “you’re not capable”, to which I retorted; “Yes I can!” Clearly unconvinced, Mum asked; “How?!” I answered; “I could put my head in a plastic bag!” She said; “Well, we’ll have to make sure we don’t leave any plastic bags lying around then won’t we?!” Which despite being a very annoying answer and hardly in the spirit of “equal opportunities” I have to agree is a good rule of thumb vis a vis the environmental impact.)

Getting back to my point of someone with my “delicate constitution” being abandoned by a carer; I would go as far as saying that it’s wrong. Morally.

“Judge not lest ye yourself be judged” Matthew says (7:1) but then he quickly back-peddles with; “Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother's eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?” (Hysterical, biblical metaphors, hey? Not a “chip” of wood, or a “splinter”, but a whole plank! And the carpentry theme? Surely even JC would be embarrassed by that blatant attempt at point-scoring!) I say, in answer to Matt’s woodwork query; because in order to pay attention to any plank-in- my-eye type situations, I need my carer’s help, and she’s vamoosed. 

I mean, seriously, it would be considered highly irresponsible if we were talking about walking out on a puppy or a child under 12, but at least they could spend a gay afternoon working their way through the liquor cabinet and shredding a few loo rolls. When I’m left unsupervised I have absolutely no chance of upending the Bailey’s or chomping the Andrex as I can’t reach them. 

Hmph. The bottom-line is there are naturally certain expectations one has of a “carer” and the clue’s in the title, in the same way you’d expect an accountant to be able to count and a butcher to be butch, non?

I went to sleep that night with a heavy heart (not to mention the eye), feeling thoroughly disappointed in my species.

The next morning I woke up in my sleepy cul-de-sac to find not just my carer missing but also my car.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Here I am. Alone. Recovering from retinal plank damage.

Yes! Over my wheat grass and pineapple juice, I discover my leafy North London suburb is twinned with South Central L.A, and my Ford Galaxy people-carrier with ramps in the back for the wheelchair, has replaced the Escalade in terms of desirability. Must’ve been one of the Crips, haha. (Do Wiki “Crip” or listen to a Snoop CD if you aren’t familiar with gangster-slang and think I’m making a disablist joke when I’m cleverly tying in my L.A gangs’ metaphor.) 

When I spoke to the PC who took the crime particulars, i.e “the car was outside my door last night, now it’s not”, he informed me that rather than a West Coast gangsta, it may have been a local racket who are stealing cars, manholes and stripping broadband and train cables, for scrap metal, as metal prices have soared because of all the construction in the far-east.

Apparently, drug-addicts in particular are known to steal stuff for scrap-metal. So, someone’s getting high, another Chinese sweat-shop is being built and I’m stuck indoors fighting with the insurance company about “book price” & “actual price” of a second hand Galaxy. It’s win-win-lose. Or win-Wing-lose. That’s not a racist comment right? I love crispy duck.

Silver-lining is that after all this drama, I get to find a new carer. This week’s batch of CVs brings me a Romanian who assures me she is well-qualified for a carer role as she’s “taken care of a dog and 2 cats” not to mention her proficiency in ironing, and a Filipino nurse who lists under Special Skills: “Has the ability to drive defensively”, and “Used assertiveness to find work” which surely translates as she has road rage and she beat someone up to get a job. The fun begins.

Someone very wise once said; “It’s more important to look good than to feel good.”  (Confucius?) Let me explain. I think we’re all agreed that there are many tenets to live by but with this one it feels like never a truer word was spake ( lending credence to my theory that this phrase is Confucius as no texts actually written by him survived. Fact.  Other scholars wrote the great philosopher’s  “ Best of…” compilations posthumously - so it’s safe to assume his works were initially spread via word-of-mouth;  just imagine what use he could have made of platforms like Youporn? I mean Youtube. And maybe Youporn?)

In this dog-eat-dog world (Confucius?) where everyone’s out for themselves, it’s hard to keep on top of all the available personal grooming tricks so that you look far better than anyone else whilst still having enough time and energy to parade around showing off your fabulous self and ensuring you make no friends but instead stoke up a load of jealousy reassuring you you’re getting it exactly right.

In this blog, I’ll be sharing some of my tips to looking nauseatingly gorgeous even when you’re dead inside and the only thing stopping you from throwing yourself under a tube is not being able to get an electric wheelchair down the escalator (plus don’t they have plastic screens on the platforms now?) Do not expect to be popular when you’re looking hotter than Krakatoa on crack. Do expect dagger stares and no comments on your latest FB photos or status updates. Ironically, it ain’t pretty being pretty.

 In this photo you can't really see my nails but my point is, when the tips are tended to and overall perfection achieved, you attract all sorts of hanger-ons

I’m only sharing my tricks on how to leave the Joneses quivering in your wondrous wake because I’m quite sure I’m always a trick or too ahead of the pack. Don’t assume because I’m in a wheelchair, I do charity work. I’ll pulverise your Manolos with my Pirellis in a heartbeat in the incredibly unlikely scenario that they look better than my Louboutin knock-offs.

Today, I’m blogging about the importance of attention to detail and how if you don’t follow through on looking great, there’s no point in getting out of your PJs. And by PJs I obviously mean La Senza babydoll and thong. And by follow-through, I don’t mean having sex; although it’s fair to say in many instances, I do believe sex is the answer. However, in my Style-athon, following-through must be read as leaving no part of oneself, however seemingly insignificant or easy to hide under something billowing, untended to.

The first nugget of glamour gold I’m going to impart with you is to do with those furthest extensions of one’s physical self…one’s nails. Yes, for our tips, I have tips – two small words which will revolutionise those raggedy claws…nail wraps!

Now, hold your horses girls and gays, these are NOT the things you go to the local mani for like we did when acrylic nails were big in the 90s and we all had square-tipped talons with French mani varnish. No, these babies are what you buy online and get your carer to put on for you. Or you can put them on yourself if you have two fully functioning hands and are the type that can use a knife and a fork at the same time and are basically a bit of a show-off. These wraps are like a magic stickers that take mere minutes to size, stick on and trim and then, then, these babies will keep those claws looking like you’re fresh from the salon for two weeks non-stop! I $h!t you not! These bambinos are going nowhere! No chipping no-matter how downright dirty you get!

I know that for every girl, gay and guy that doesn’t mind putting on his girlfriend’s knickers now and again, this is a moment of liberation. Banished forever is that pit-in-your-stomach moment when on the second day of wearing Rimmel’s latest chip-free polish, you cast an admiring glance at your hand holding your latte aloft with pride only to see a colourful chunk’s escaped from your thumbnail. You vow that’s the last time you ever give those cosmetic racketeers £3.99, but then, a new varnish, a new promise… and the sorry cycle starts anew.

Fortunately for you, I’ve run the gamut of nail wraps and can tell you that however sparkly and shiny the mirror nail wraps appear on prezziebox.com and the like, they are little more than pieces of silver Sellotape and about as glamorous as wrapping your hands in tin foil. The only nail-wraps that will encase your fingertips in a fortnight’s worth of mesmerising lustre are by Incoco. Find ‘em online, buy ‘em and take gorgeousness to your extremes for 14 chip-free days.

Again, you can't see my nails, but this was taken on a recent shoot for "OK" magazine and you just don't get to be part of the OK glitteratti gang unless you look bangin' from tip to toe

Wow. I wish I had a friend like me. But alas, then we could never be friends!    

Do you have a particular style problem? Tell me, I may be able to help. And if you’re beyond help, I’ll be sure to let you know too.   

My mum (Pineapple founder Debbie Moore OBE) had a party at London’s most stylish venue, The Ivy Club, to celebrate  her photo (by Paul Wolfgang Webster) becoming part of the National Portrait Gallery’s permanent exhibition, and because she’s receiving an Honorary Master of Arts Degree from UCA for her outstanding contribution to fashion.

Good on my mum, hey? It’s nice to be in galleries (I have my very own Gallery of me on this website), and it’s lovely to get awards (I got the Science & Geography Prize plus the Backgammon Cup when I was 11, but lost the Ballet Prize to Nevette Webb because I’d slacked off for a few months to have a spinal haemorrhage.) It’s especially nice to get an “honorary” degree because you can skip the years of swotting in grubby digs and sitting exams, and simply fast forward to the cap ‘n gown, glass of Champers and I’ll have an M and an A please Bob.

So, we piled into the IC to say OMG to Debbie Moore OBE, soon to be Debbie Moore OBE MA, LOL, and whilst people were in the mood for an acronym, I used the opportunity to announce the launch of the new KMC website.

For those of you unfamiliar with common acronyms and modern text-speak, KMC stands for Kiss My Cherry - my label of hats and fascinators; “For gals that use their heads.”

And here I am, merrily practising what I preach and showing my noggin off to its very best advantage in a KMC poppy and Swarovski crystal number whilst cosying up to mum and our good friend, Prince of the Pirouettes, Wayne Sleep.       

As Conservative MP Iain Duncan Smith said when mum introduced me (and I thought he was someone from accounts); “I like your hat.” And these were words from “The Quiet Man” (you have to be pretty politically savvy forward slash know how to use Wikipedia to get that reference.) Like any good politician, IDS was picking up on the atmosphere and echoing what everyone was saying that night - apart from TV’s favourite soap-expert Sharon Marshall, who said to me quite pointedly: ”I want that hat.”

Fascinators and hats command attention and people get quite reverential and a little mesmerised by a hat-wearer; perhaps because historically, hats are associated with authority, but also because with the right “topping” you really can make a silk-purse out of a sow’s ear. That’s not a great use of metaphor but what I’m saying is people assume you’re quite important if you have something pretty on your head.

And the moral of the tale is, you can spend your life building an international dance and fashion empire, receive accolades from from the Queen and renowned institutes of art and education and people will still think you work for Louie Spence. However, stick a hat on your noodle and there ain’t no mistakin’ who’s boss.

Well at least, unlike highly irritating social networking site status-update enthusiasts (forward slash “losers”), I’m not going to be re-hashing the minutiae of my day-to-day and broadcasting what I just ate and how bloated I feel. Except on veeeeery slow days.

Whilst I’m on the subject of those petri-dishes of vacuity and ego, AKA social networking sites, let me just put it out there; no one needs to know you’re feeling fat coz you didn’t make it to the gym again. We can see you’re fat on your profile pic. As far as I can tell, there’s only one valid use for “SNS”s and that’s to remind everyone when it’s your birthday. Come November time I’m very grateful for the barrage of people, most of whom I couldn’t pick out in a line-up, writing “Happy Birthday!” with a smiley face on my wall. Other than that, as my mum, Debbie Moore OBE, says; “If you’ve got the time to tell everyone what you’re doing, you ain’t doing much.” (However,  Debbie Moore OBE also says; “Work is more fun than fun” - so we take DeMOBE’s wisdom with a soupcon of salt.)

You can tell from my abhorrence of verbal detritus that this blog is going to be nothing less than a hugely important piece of social commentary with practically no mention of bloating. However, this first blog is a little backward in coming forward and is mainly just a dig at SNS status sluts because I’ve got to get back into the blogging saddle. I think it’s quite normal to be a little blog-stipated after such a prolonged blog absence. It’s not that I haven’t done loads and loads of things that are blog-worthy. Loads. Of course I have. Loads. It’s just the getting them into proper sentences bit that’s gone a bit rusty, and where to put the commas and that.

I’ll just start by saying a warm Bienvenue, Wilkommen, Welcome to my blog and all things me-related! Hoorah!

Another reason for my confinement is that I’m staying out of the way. I discovered that decorator types are very sensitive, despite their brusque facade, when I caused outrage by daring to point out that the dark blue emulsion was wobbly where it met the white skirting and the trunking was only half painted. According to the foreman, the correct mode of conduct when you see botches is to keep schtum and then go round discreetly patching up when the boys leave so as not to offend delicate painterly sensibilities. Needless to say, I’m not upholding painting etiquette and will probably be found head first in a pot of gloss before the week’s out.

After noticing this penchant for painting squiggly lines, I inquired about the paltry usage of masking-tape. I’m no tradesperson but I thought it helped create clean lines and keep paint off the edges of things and might be handy when say...painting, but no, apparently I couldn’t be more wrong - masking-tape is actually for mugs;  proper painters use a technique called “cutting in” - a free-styling method which creates afore-mentioned wobbly lines and missed bits.

The head honcho went on to inform me that, actually, I was the real cause of any decorating imperfections because I said I wanted the job finished ASAP. Yes, apparently the boys are quite the Leonardo Da Vincis if given time to pontificate, and 73 tea breaks a day is insufficient for the ruminations that would have lead to my home looking like it wasn’t just freshly painted by a tornado.

Not wanting to be trapped in my furniture turret for too long and aggravated by the general slap-dashedness , I enlisted another local decorator to help. This, I subsequently found out, is very bad form - the right way to deal with painters is to only have the original lot in even if they’re slow, messy, refuse to work past 3, some days don’t turn up at all and jocularly warn you they’ll be leaving even earlier on Friday as it’s POETS Day (Pi$$ Off Early Tomorrow’s Saturday). Hmmmm. I only hope they’ll find next week’s SYRUYAPO Monday (Shove Your Rollers Up Your Ar$e And Pi** Off) just as amusing.

Apparently it is so offensive to bring fresh blood into an old, rotting painting stable that the foreman told me to tell the other boys the new painter was my friend. Not that I felt it might be hard passing off a 55-year old bloke in painter’s overalls, a white, ladder-laden van full of emulsion and a cigarette behind his ear who refers to me as Lorna as my bosom buddy - but I refuse to be forced into a lie. As a consequence, the new painter has been met with stony silences and what looked very much like an attempt to knock him off his ladder this morning.

I haven’t written my blog for ages because I’m naughty plus I’ve been feeling unwell for weeks which is dull and not great blog-writing material. I’ve had intermittent headaches and nausea, a sore tummy and I’ve been listless as a wilting poppy. See? It’s hard to make symptoms sound interesting or funny, although I did laugh when I was complaining about feeling rubbish to my good friend who nodded sympathetically then said in all serious-ness; “It’s not cancer is it?”

I don’t think it is, but put in a call to my healer in Thailand anyway (controversial) who made me feel much better (I can hear a chorus of disapproving tuts), in fact everything but the tummy-ache has disappeared and I’ve booked in for a scan and various prodding with my gynae, so, something to look forward to.

But enough about me (those are not words that trip naturally off the keyboard) and on to the crux of this blog; Pineapple Dance Studios - the sexiest reality series ever to hit our screens (if you’ve just come out of a coma - it’s on Sky 1, Sundays 6 p.m., repeated every evening - and I hope all your faculties return soon.)

PDS is like “Fame” but real. Pineapple – founded by MY MUM OBE in 1979 (when I was just a twinkle in my Daddy’s eye) is the place to go if you love dance and now it’s on TV so everyone can have a Pineapple chunk. The dancers featured and the Pineapple Dance Group are phenomenally talented, and Pineapple’s Artistic Director and my Thursday night dinner-date Louie Spence, has become such a Spence-sation everyone wants a bite, or a lick. Kate Moss invited him out clubbing, Robbie Williams announced “Louie is a legend” at his last gig and Kylie tweeted; “All hail Louie!” - that’s how totally HUGE he is (although if a dimensional conversations crops up, Louie always says he’s “a nice size and pretty”.) And I’m hardly jealous at all because I love him too. Even if he uses my disability to throw people off the best table at the Ivy Club for us (“We need this best table because Debbie’s daughter’s in a wheelchair you see...” And off they scuttle.)

Now everywhere I go, everyone is like; “OMG have you seen Pineapple Dance Studios?” Some people are so stunned by the Pineapple characters they think it’s a mockumetary.

Apart from Louie there’s the equally amazing (but in a bad way) Andrew “I’ve got the “it” factor” Stone (well, maybe if “it” was preceded by two other letters) and Tricia Walsh-Something, who wears a nappy-tard and sings terrible pop songs bemoaning the fact that her geriatric, millionaire husband dumped her (“for no reason”) and won’t cough up (bad choice of phrase.) 

Anyway, when I over-hear water-cooler mutterings about the Pineapple pandemic I’m like; “Hello! It’s not a mockumentary, it’s 100 percent genu-wine, I know, my Mum is Pineapple!” And everyone’s like; “Your Mum is Louie?!” And I’m like; “Shut up! ‘Course not! My Mum is Debbie Moore OBE! You know - the boss of it - and... I’m in it too!” (Blank looks)... “I am!”

It’s true, I am in it, you’ve probably seen me if you’re not prone to blinking too often when watching telly.