Secret Diary of a Tall Girl #1


I thought it could be fun to do a wee diary series on the blog. I’ve never done one before, except (from memory) when I was travelling in Australia and had more interesting things to write about than finding jammy Wagon Wheels on sale in the supermarket and coping with a pretty aggravating shaving rash.

However, right now I’m (once again) at a time in my life where I feel really unsure of what I’m doing and putting a lot of pressure on myself to work that out. Basically, my head is full of dilemmas, big and small. I’ve been preoccupied trying to think of life-changing topics to tackle, stories to write, plays to begin, and instead I’ve lost sight of why I started writing about my life in the first place.

You see, I’m obsessed with real life stories of the most mundane kind. I’d much rather know what each of my friends have for their packed lunches every day than at which point in their lives they are committing to marriage or being responsible for a vegetable patch. It’s all about the little things, the snapshot moments that make you who you are, and form your every day.

Life is so unbelievably silly even at the best of times and perhaps I was put on this earth to overshare, to tell the small stories, because someone has to, as not all of us are holidaying on tropical islands, or buying our first home, or getting books published. Some of us are just tootling on in life slower than a sloth in custard, taking pleasure in taking our bras off at the end of the day, travelling as far as Tesco, or viewing success as not having cystitis for the time being.

So welcome to the first Secret Diary of a Tall Girl blog post; a place where I just write for writing’s sake and stop over-thinking it. You’ll have to excuse the name, I came up with it in a slightly fevered state in the middle of the night earlier this week (this is what happens when your brain can’t switch off). I’ve been completely wiped out with this piece of shit summer virus and I can’t be sure all of the decisions I’m making are the right ones.

Obviously it depends what you classify as tall. I’m taller than most of my girl friends. Taller than a lot of the boys I kissed in my early twenties. Not quite tall enough to wear tall jeans, but too tall to wear normal jeans, so I always have to make the decision to either rock the ankle bashers or roll them up to the point of looking like I’m wearing swimming bands round my ankles. What’s actually funny is that it’s my body that’s abnormally long, not my legs, which makes the average t-shirt a crop, and playsuits eat my crotch.

Anyway. Enough about my torso. This isn’t Cosmopolitan. 

It’s Saturday. I’m writing this from under a blanket on the sofa, binge-watching episodes of Riverdale and feeling a bit guilty about my only real achievement this week being getting to the end of a giant Toblerone I treated myself to from the airport a couple of weekends ago. That whole trying to eat well so you keep fit and don’t get ill goes completely out the window when you get ill anyway. So does exercise. I’m a shadow of my former Couch to 5k-ing self and back to the person who gives herself a pat on the back for walking up the escalator without needing a saline drip.

It’s my sixth day of being ill, and whilst it’s been the absolute pits, I’m not gonna lie, genuinely nothing is going to bring me down today. I’m going to wash my hair, put some deodorant on, get drunk on cough syrup, and make my way to Greenwich because tonight, friends, my dream is coming true.

I’m seeing Celine Dion live.

Despite feeling pretty gross, and the fact that every time I’ve tried to practise my backing vocals to My Heart Will Go On from the sofa this morning I’ve had a coughing fit, really this concert couldn’t have come at a better time.

A funny thing has happened in the last few weeks, where I’ve gone from thriving on how busy work is, and how few hours there are in the day, and seeing how many shows I can squeeze into one week, to feeling like I’ve lost the plot. I cannot begin to describe how obsessively I am biting my nails at the moment. Genuinely, I cannot keep my fingers out of my mouth. I’ve got three weddings in a row starting next week and feel a bit guilty I’ll be throwing confetti with stumpy little unpainted hobbit fingers.

This week I had my improv class show on Monday night and was already coming down with this gem of a wheezy bug. On the way home, despite the show not being a disaster, I fell apart, cried into my train seat, sent my boss an emotional email, and thought about moving to an old world war one shelter in the countryside to take refuge until I hit at least 45.

In retrospect, checking my work emails to make the train journey go faster, and being sad I didn’t have the appetite for a vegetable pasty might have been the catalyst. But either way, it’s made me want to make some changes. After a week at home, I’m starting to feel a bit more like myself, but I think I need to stop taking everything so seriously, so personally. I need to stop comparing myself to other people. And I need to remember I’m not a machine.

So I’m beginning a bit of self-reparation. Evenings in actually do a lot of good, as does sleep, as does television. Before this whole Riverdale malarky I couldn’t remember the last time I watched anything, and it turns out sitting on the sofa drowning in pints of Ribena and American small-town drama is really good for the soul. I’ve learned being the busiest person doesn’t make you anything but tired, hungry and offensively sweaty.

Enter Celine. I’m ready for a night of pure, golden inspiration with a twist of French diva, with one of my favourite people in the world at my side. Sometimes it’s the little things… and sometimes it’s Celine Dion.

See you on the other side. Have a dazzling weekend y’all.

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