This Is The Last Time

A cranberry muffin


How many of us have said that?

‘This is the last time …’

We all love issuing ultimatums.

To ourselves.

To our lovers.

To our family.

This is the last time…. I go on a weekend booze bender.’

‘This is the last time…. I pig out on muffins and pizza.’

‘This is the last time…. I will let him hit me.’

‘This is the last time…. you are going to cheat on me…’

‘Next time…next time I’m leaving.’

Sorry, but if you din’t leave the first time…you probably aren’t as good as your word.

When emotions/circumstances/situations come into play, you find yourself making excuses.

‘He didn’t really mean to hit me. He was just angry.’

‘He didn’t really want to cheat. That b**** tempted him.’

‘I will change. I will definitely stick to this diet.’

‘He will change. He will finally stop sticking his stick in every hole and commit to me.’

People don’t change.

Stop issuing ultimatums.

Just act already.

Leave that player.

Drop that muffin.

Go out and get a man who will cherish you.

…………….Emm…….what you still waiting for?

Ah I see………

Next time?


A Personal Story

Breasts. The appendages that hang off our chests and cause such an uproar. In art, in media, in porn, in …life. In fact, I tend to think they get much more air time than they deserve. What is the big deal after all??? Just some loose, dangly bits.

Despite that, breasts represent an unmistakable part of our identity. Without them, we would feel…well. Not quite woman enough.

I wanted to share a story that I have held close to my breast (pun intended) for a long time.

I haven’t told many people. Just a handfull.

Its not a big secret. Its just, well, I’m not exactly sure WHY I  have made such a big production of keeping shtum about it. *shrugs*

Its not shame. Its not fear. Its not…well, not anything I can put my finger on.

But it is this reticence in sharing our experiences, that allow this scourge to continue to maim and shoot down our worldwide sisterhood.

I am not being deliberately cryptic. Just trying to find the right opening to this story of mine…..Honest!

Now, where do I start? Okay, here goes….

On a cold, December night, I noticed a lump.

Okay that’s a lie.

I don’t actually remember the first time I noticed the lump; The alien hardness my left breast had taken on. I just remember noticing that my breast felt weird. I was terrified to do a proper self-examination on myself. If I lay on my tummy, I could feel the lump more distinctly against my chest wall. But I steadfastly refused to touch it. To…feel it. To map out its craggy contours against the streamlined softness of my breast.

Should I touch it? Is it…just hormones? The time of the month? Maybe I’m just imagining it…?

What the **** is it??!!!!

For weeks I battled with myself. Not uttering a word to anyone.

Yes, I work in the medical profession. That did not make me any less a coward.

After weeks and weeks of negotiations inside my head, I finally gathered the courage to confront the demon laying dormant next to my heart. Nestled warm and cushy, deep inside me.

I did a self exam.

‘Okay. Thats the lump. Umm, feels a bit weird. Hard. Knobbly. It doesn’t seem very defined. Yes, it definately feels different from the ‘lumpiness’ of the rest of the breast. Its about one inch across. About the size of a large marble. Feels strange…..Is that…NO! It can’t be. Is that…a SECOND lump? WTF?!! Okay, deep breaths. DEEEEEP BREATHS! Keep going. No use chickening out now….. Its also hard. Bigger than the first. How have I not noticed it before???? There is something attached to it…it seems…WHAT? A ****ING THIRD LUMP???’


My brain, needless to say, shut down.

I booked an appointment to see my doctor straight away.

*To be continued*

I’m having a fat day

A Big Mac sandwich taken at Velika Gorica, Cro...

Approximately 10000000000 calories

Girls, you know what I mean. Guys too.

Those days when you wake up in the morning, and you just feel… bleugh.

Disgusting. Bloated. Fat.

Your favourite trousers don’t fit. You look into the mirror and see flab. EVERYWHERE. Even you’re ears look fat.

Yes, you’re having a fat day.

We all have those days. Even Cameron Diaz, that skinny cow, has them.

What is it about today’s society that we have become a nation of fat fearers. A pork chop nation of battered buttys. We are fattist. Especially towards ourselves.

We see calories in every forkful of food. We count the grams of fat in every crisp. Every meal is a battle field.

I hate that I have joined the ranks. I’ve become a slave to my weighing scale. I have signed up and subscribed to the skinny cow mentality:

If you’re not a size zero or below-you aren’t worth the volume you’re displacing in the universe.

I didn’t get there easily. In fact, I’ve battled hard against it. I have crowed to friends that my curves enhance my looks. That I do NOT have body issues. That I haven’t dieted a day in my life.

Well. Umm, LIES.

To be fair, when I was younger and could eat absolutely anything – 6 pizzas plus a a litre bottle of coke- I couldn’t care less about my weight. I was a size 8/10 and cellulite was a word I associated with fancy  plastic packaging.

As I’ve grown older, and had to buy emmm…size 12 and then (shock, horror!!) size 14 trousers, my weighing scale has become my enemy. Sometimes my best friend (When I’ve lost 1 kilo) , but mostly my sworn enemy (When I’ve gained 3 Kilos miraculously in 1 weekend!!)

I still see a fat person eating a plate of chips and cringe. I still watch fat people on the queue at McDonalds and shake my head. To encourage a fat free nation, I vote for employing morbidly obese people to hand around fast food restaurants stuffing their faces. We can also pay them extra to fake a few heart attacks. Trust me, nothing puts you off your big Mac more than a lard face stuffing its gob.


How many of you read that and nodded. Agreed with me? Decided you were starting a diet tomorrow?

It has long been acceptable to hate fat people. To pity them. To make fun of them. However, recently, its become a la mode to insult them to their faces. To blatantly point fingers and giggle.

I’m not saying fat people aren’t a bunch of lazy, burger munching, lard drinking couch potatoes. I’m just saying we deserve a little compassion.

Please go back to sniggering when we walk past, and placing ‘Kick me’ signs on our backs. (Sigh, the good old days)

Disclaimer: Compassion, should be reserved for those with medical conditions. Or those who are seriously trying to lose weight. Or those who are too poor to afford a healthy meal (Yes, in the developed world, the poor are obese. How’s that for irony?)

Anyway, my point: Lets all just chill out a little.

Skinny cows, stop the witch hunt against fatties. Fatties, get on a treadmill.


10 ways that breasts can be useful

umm, ouch?

So I have never really found a productive use for my breasts in my twenty-something years. They are just appendages that really get in the way more than anything. EVERY girl who has been to the gym or plays sports knows what I’m talking about.

Anyone who has found it difficult sleeping on their front can sympathize.Yes boys, its hard to sleep on them! From underwires that dig into you, pre-menstrual mastitis and an accidental elbow shoved into your breast as you walk past (hey, they do poke out and get in the way-its understandable-but no less painful)  What are breasts good for????????

Why do women all over the world insist on increasing their size, and men of all creeds lust after them? Here I have compiled a list of ways that breasts can contribute to the betterment of yourselves, AND society.

1. The Indian Pocket

If you live in Nairoberry, you know your handbag is not a safe place to keep all your mula. Guys have socks. And extra pockets hidden in coats, shirts, even boxers! Girls have handbags, and the ‘Indian Pocket’ (My mum’s codename for the bra) Have you ever hear a robber say : ‘Empty you’re bra or I’ll stab you!!!???’ No? Well, there you go.

Just realized I may be giving future would-be robbers fodder for their machinations of evil. Hmmm. In that case: ‘I DO NOT KEEP MONEY OR MY MOBILE ANYWHERE OTHER THAN MY HANDBAG!!!’

'what do you mean empty my bra or you'll shoot me??!!!'

Continue reading


So as of this morning, I’m officially fasting. Not in the usual way though. What I came to learn from different fasts I’ve been through so far is that I can manage without food or water for 12 hours. Heck, if it’s just one or the other, I’m good for a day or two. So generally, what gets me thinking and praying during regular fasts like Ramadan, is not the hunger or the thirst. It’s the inconvenience. Continue reading

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