Dear Reader

Dear Readers, I'll be honest here, #commuterlife is really just a massive rant hiding behind a hashtag. It's an excuse to swear and vent and be rude about people you don't even know, and you know why? Because I am tiny, blonde and very very British and there is absolutely no way I would ever have the balls to say these things to peoples faces....therefore here I am, spouting my nonsensical, slightly violent thoughts to you...whoever is reading...my constant readers. So remove your children and (hopefully) prepare to have a giggle at the daily mother fucking struggle of being a British commuter with a very anger fuelled internal monologue. Isn't it amazing how a small change such a listening to music as you travel can change your whole outlook... I'm currently sitting on my train home from London, its crowded, people are tired and ready to get home, it's completely full, people are uncomfortable and no one would dare make eye contact or speak to another hum

Dear Reader, I have noticed during my daily commute on the train that my internal monologue often run on a loop, such are the monotonous journeys I endure each day. I thought I would attempt to entertain you with the thoughts that offer almost everyday (should I be awake enough). Things I wish I could say on the train: Could you kindly stop talking, I'm trying to read my book and your voice is putting me off  Move yo'self the fuck over MY ARM REST! Now look here you, stop eating that apple or I'm going to shove it down your throat Oh I like your dress, where did you get it from? SIR YOUR HEADPHONES ARE NOT PLUGGED IN AND WE CAN ALL HEAR YOUR SODDING PROGRAMME... ...wait don't plug them in, I was starting to enjoy that Stop apologising for the train being late and let's get this show on the road Please go home and clean your travel mug, that is truly quite deplorable I see you there, reading the back of my book, i

Dear Reader, A man on the train in first class was so keen to shut himself off from us peasants in coach that he pressed the close button around eleventy billion times before attempting to forcibly close them by hand! I thought to myself, this gentleman here clearly does not want to associate with the great unwashed. Bollocks to this I said, don't you group me in with this lot of ragamuffins and I jumped though, quicker than you could say 'Shall we Winter in St. Barts', as the first class doors slammed behind me with the most middle class bang I've ever heard... S.P.

The Battle For The 17.30  In other words, not leaving enough time and thus power walking (badly) through London whilst trying not to scream "I HAVE A DEAD GRANDMOTHER THAT MOVES FASTER THAN YOU" at every human being that decides to walk in front of me.  I don't scream that because I am a short girl who's internal monologue is far more ballsy than she is.  One might say 'well if you left the office on time then you wouldn't have a problem making your train home' and one would be correct HOW-FUCKING-EVER as any human that has ever worked in a sodding office will know...easier bloody said than done!  So we've left the office, 10 minutes late, 'What's the big deal?' I hear you cry! The big deal is that I have 20minutes to do a 20minute journey...hang the fuck on...however you have the get to the buggering train with enough time to walk far enough up it to get on a carriage with a sodding seat left! Which by this point is the first ca

Dear Reader,  Today I'm not writing to you as usual, today I am writing to a stranger...which come to think of it, you are too. Well now that we all know our place... Dear man standing next to me on the train, (Calm enough start you think, sure there's nothing to rant about here.  Well the bloody well is) Let me rephrase.  Dear old white man with large stomach standing somewhere between too close and BACK THE FUCK OFF distance from my face. At what stage in train etiquette proceedings did you feel this would be even marginally a good idea? It's buggeringly bad enough that I have to sit on a crowded train, on which there is fuck all air movement but now I have to deal with you leaning over me for eleventy billion hours as we make the rickety, cramped journey home.  At what stage in life did you forget about people's bubbles? Oh wonderful, now you're coughing, you've fucking trampled on my bubble and now you're coughing on it. Thanks a lot.

Dear Reader, I am officially a commuter, a grumpy, tired, stop stealing my seat and stay on your BLOODY SIDE...commuter. To be fair, I'm not grumpy really and we all know I never actually tell anyone to stay on their side, I'm quite small for such a huge wuss. It's more of loud internal monologue whereupon shouting occurs at random points. I'm sure that should you be able to tape it and play it back, it might make a rather good radio show. So as of last week my people watching has kicked up a notch, I'm in London now, way more people to watch here... However, what the BLOODY  HELL LONDON?! Do you have to sign a document before you live here saying that under no circumstances will you ever move out of the way?! I mean I'm all for sticking to your guns but this is ridiculous. The amount of people that have whacked straight into me when all it would have taken is a 3 degree shift to the left is quite maddening. And I tell you what's more, I'm so Br

Dear Reader, Today I saw one of my closest friends, I call her my sister because except for the whole, different parents, no blood relation thing, we're sisters. We grew up together, we wore matching outfits, we went on holidays together and we definitely fought like sisters. So here we are 20 something years later, sisters. We've got to that stage that I feel most sisters reach eventually where you stop arguing so much. I don't know when it happened or how it happened but we just stopped. We stopped annoying one another quite as much and embraced each others faults a little more. It's nice, you know, you suddenly become even closer than you were before. So one of my favourite things about my sister is her ability to forget things, it's fantastic and it makes me laugh so hard I cry sometimes. It's silly things like forgetting the names of objects or people and it makes her who she is, it's ruddy wonderful. I might love it a little more because I always

Dear Reader, Trying to get a job sucks. It really does. I've always known it but I've never had a chance to put it into practice...until now. Until I had to find one myself, with no one to do it for me, no one to hand it to me. It's hard, I believe we're allowed to say that. We're not moaning or whining or whinging. It's buggeringly difficult...to get noticed in this sea of people applying for the same job, to know what to wear if you even make it to the interview, to know what to say to get them to employ you or when to even begin to have the slightest positive thought about possibly, maybe getting the job. The overwhelming sense of failure when you don't manage to get a job you actually thought you might be in with a chance of getting is the hardest thing to move on from. Why will no one ever give you a break? Why will no one ever give you a chance? You know you could do it if they just gave you the mother flipping job so why is no one employing you?

Dear Reader, I have been writing short stories for a few years now, I'll be honest, I have no idea where they're going or why I bother but I've always enjoyed it and when it comes down to it, do we really need a reason? I wouldn't dare say out loud that they're worth publishing, but those of you who write will know that we dream in that silver lined cloud where someone finds our work and just has to make it into a book. How bloody terrific would that be?!  Anywho, I love writing and I wrote a particularly short short-story (I wear short shorts), the other day after remembering a comment I had seen on a post that said "Write a horror story in less than 10 words" or something of that ilk, so I took the one I liked and expanded on it a little...and it became this... Bless You  by  Suzie Peckham Steve was working late again. He could almost put money on it. Once, sometimes twice (those weeks were the worst), someone would be wheeled in at 5.5

Dear Reader, One thing I really love about us girls (men you might want to head off and read a Top Gear magazine or something of that ilk for this one) is the unity we have at a certain ‘time of the month’. Our periods are fucking annoying , let us be honest. Often they’re a blessing, some times a curse but always a pain, not in the arse, in the uterus. There is a special kind of crappiness reserved for the way we women feel once a month. Do you know what makes me feel a little better about it?... (Whilst I sit here in my pyjamas, a stabbing pain in my lower stomach as the cramps roll their way around my womanly organs) …There are 3 billion human beings on this planet who understand exactly how I feel. How often can you say that about something? That there are that many women who understand the feeling of being stabbed, REPEATLY , in the stomach with the worlds largest invisible butchers knife. Our periods do not define us, they do not make us women, what makes us wo