Cinematters

I LOVE going to the cinema. So much so that I cried when writing a Facebook status the other day about having to cancel my Cineworld Unlimited card because of leaving London and there not being one close enough to where I live to warrant the monthly fee...

"Cineworld Unlimited card cancelled. […] It is a bit like breaking up with someone. We've been together 3 years, had good times, bad times, he's cheered me up, he's made me cry, he's kept me warm when it's cold outside, I've walked out on him but I've always come back for more. What will I do without him?"

Quite poetic isn’t it?

There is one thing I don't love about the cinema, aside from the smell of burnt popcorn, and that's the people who come to see a film and start talking as soon as it begins. Rude and a bit stupid. Why pay for something you can do for free somewhere less inconvenient for those who are up for keeping their gobs shut.

The guy whose sperm I requested was guilty of this behaviour to the point where, quite frankly, running the risk of having a child who shared the same antisocial habit was unthinkable. It was so bad that half way through Fame his phone rang. He stopped talking at me to answer it and started talking to whoever had called. This was a 32 year old man. I avoided seeing him again after that.

In December I went to see Paranormal Activity and there were a couple of kids playing music on their phones throughout. I would agree that music is good for calming the nerves but if you're scared of horror choose a different genre, children! My friend Chris was getting annoyed and I was crossing my fingers he wouldn't say anything. He'd already shouted at a man in the film we went to see beforehand, The Box, who decided to stand up before it had finished and just stand there blocking everyone's view. When we came out of Paranormal Activity, relieved he'd not made a scene, I told Chris about an incident that happened from telling people off in the cinema...

It happened last July in Leeds. A woman who was out with her family watching Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince told some unruly ruffians to be quiet. After the film the youngsters followed the family shouting abuse at them. One of the kids, a 16 year old boy, bought some Domestos, walked into the restaurant where the family were now dining and squirted it all over the woman. Some of it went in her eyes. This little toe rag only has to serve half of his 12 month sentence. The judge was lenient given the boy had to suffer an abusive father. Surely he should be taught that abusiveness will not be tolerated and get the full sentence rather than being let off so lightly. I wonder how the woman with bleach in her eyes, who's now too scared to go out alone with her kids, feels about that? I bet that boy wishes he'd been making noise throughout a cooler film when the drama kicked off. Oh well, serves him right.

People shouldn't have to feel scared about telling someone to shut up; they have every right to watch a film they've paid to see, and hear, in peace. If you want to talk go to a cafe, use a phone box or join a debating society. I'd love to see the look on the 'yoofs' faces when you suggest joining a debating society. Forget the bleach, I reckon that'd be a stabbing offence.

In loving memory of my Cineworld Unlimited card. November 2006 – January 2010

The Unbalanced and Broody Babysitter

For some time now I have been quite broody and it seems babies are more frequently popping out of people I know, which is taking the broodiness to new heights.

In August last year the opportunity arose to look after one such child, the fruit of Victoria Thompson’s boss’s loins.

I was delighted, and a bit shocked, when I heard the news that he was including me in the babysitting duties because although he knows me quite well 'digitally' (his choice of word not mine) he’d only met me twice in real life – once when I brought him an ice-lolly because he was working late at the weekend (good impression) and the other time when I was having a mental breakdown on the grass outside his work (not so good) – but as the date came closer the fear set in…

I have a theory that babies, like cats and dogs, can sense evil. I am not saying that I am evil but just that I might be and don’t know it yet. This particular concern has been highlighted by the film Antichrist (I have a habit of taking films personally). Any logical person would have the same thoughts, no? Just me? Well anyway I was worried about meeting Luca because he had the potential to alert everyone in the vicinity that I am the devil.

When I explained this to Vic on the way there, doing my best to hold back the tears, she told me not to worry. She told me that I’m one of the nicest people she knows and I felt guilty so I told her I’d done some pretty mean things when I was little. (I didn't give her any examples but I'll give you one now... When I was seven I went to an all girls' boarding school and they started to introduce boys. The first one to move into our building came to the room I shared with my best friend to give her The Little Mermaid on video as a gift. I think I was threatened by him making the moves on her so I grabbed it and threw it on the floor exclaiming, "She already has this one!" I still feel bad about this especially as I don't think she did have the film.) Vic looked at me funnily and said that anything under the age of ten doesn’t count and that it was probably not a good idea to tell her boss and his girlfriend of my concerns given this was the first time they’d be leaving their three month old first born.

Despite her reassurance I kept my distance from the wee one until the parents had departed for their date, when I felt it was safer to test the water. Also I get embarrassed chatting to babies or young kids when grown-ups are around because I tend to talk to them like they’re adults, and occasionally in this weird voice that my high school boyfriend used to do when talking to his dog, and sometimes me.



Before they left they informed us that Luca only poos once a week. You can imagine I was quite upset by this - I wish they'd told me to sit down before delivering such bad news. However after his bottle he did do some tremendous farting that led us to believe a poo had been deposited. A special treat given the disappointment on hearing of his infrequent bowel movements. Nappy open, we saw it had been a trick played by a particularly stinky fart. It took about half an hour to work out how to get the sticky bits on the nappy to work and also to get the nappy to sit like he wasn’t a gangster with his crotch by his knees. I say we - most of the nappy work was being done by Vic - I was just hanging over the side of the bed dangling my magical necklace in his face to distract him from the indignity of it all.



Perhaps the chiming necklace I was wearing had distracted Luca from outing me because if he sensed any evil he didn't say anything about it. He did, however, mistake my body for a bed and my finger for a nipple. But as I've been mistaken for a prostitute on more than one occasion I'll take being mistaken for a bed and a nipple as a compliment.



After his nap and some food (milk for Luca, meatballs for us), and once we'd worked out which way round to put him in the pram, we took him for a walk in the park and felt how a proud lesbian couple must feel with Luca chatting away to himself in the way only babies that can't talk do. He soon fell asleep and I envied him. If I had someone to push me around in a pram maybe I'd get some decent sleep.

When the frantic parents returned we left them to do some serious catching up. As we walked to the station I text a guy I been on a few dates with telling him I'd been babysitting and "Please can you lend me some sperm so I can have one?" I am aware this is not the sort of thing you say to a guy if you want him to stick around but wait...

He replied straight back saying, "What you doing tonight?"

I have never know someone so keen to lend their seeds for an artificial insemination extravaganza. Maybe he just thought it was the modern way of asking for sex. If that was the case he didn't get what he wanted and neither did I.

I am still accepting donations so do get in touch.

Poo in Looe and Other Adventures

I tagged along to Cornwall with my mum and step dad Sean at the beginning of December and there were a few moments worth a mention...

On our way down we stopped off in Littlehampton to see Sean's son Dan, Dan's wife Karen and their two kids Mia and Zoe. We went for some food at a pub where I had sausage and mash. When the plate was put in front of me I wondered if they'd mistaken me for a small child. I cannot and will never understand small portions especially where mashed potato is concerned. Anyway the food is not the point of this story...

Mia is 6 years old and a cheeky little posing monkey. She is truly hilarious. I hope I have a kid like her one day. After we'd eaten we decided to play I spy. We had a couple of goes and then it was my turn. "I spy with my little eye, something beginning with 'S'." That threw her. I don't care how old you are, I taken no prisoners. She finally gave in and I told her it was a sausage. We continued back and forth for a while. Her turn, "I spy with my little eye something beginning with 'P'." Plate? No. Picture? No. Um, phone? No. I give up. "Possage," she said. "What is a possage?" I asked her. "It's a sausage with a 'P'." PAUSAGE! Haha! I tell you what, I could not stop laughing to the point where I started doing this thing where it sounds like I might be choking. What a way to win the round. Just pick a word that's already been done and change the first letter. I'll be using that in future games so watch out.

After that little delight (you could say as a reward) I taught her how to make a beard out of her own hair. I feel this is a thing all children should learn.


I told her it would be more authentic if she cupped her chin...


6 or 46? It's hard to tell with this little trick.

The next morning, after eating Dan and Karen out of house and home, we made our way to Looe (that's pronounced 'Loo' - how appropriate) where mum and Sean had rented a cottage for the week. I was aware that I'd be gooseberry but didn't realise how large a one until we got there and saw that the toilet was an en-suite. I was staying in the living room. Uh oh. I tend to go to bed late. And I always have to wee directly before I go to bed (this stems back to the days when bed wetting was rife. The fear remains. I'm aware this makes me sound like a mental patient.) My mum said she'd leave the door ajar but I really didn't want to impose on any bedroom action that may be taking place. The first night I managed to get in there before they went to bed. But the next night disaster struck. I needed to go after they'd gone to bed and the door had been shut tight. Desperate times call for desperate measuring jugs or failing that just a normal jug will do. Yes, I'm ashamed to say that I weed in a jug. Not my finest hour. After leaving it to soak I was sure to wash it thoroughly with scorching hot water and washing up liquid (P.S. You can drink urine so don't judge me). In the morning my mum asked what I'd used the jug for. I avoided a lie and said I was just cleaning it. I felt this wouldn't rouse suspicion as it's natural not to want to drink the contents of a dusty jug, or a urine laced one for that matter.

The next night in a similar situation I turned to a fruit bowl (I didn't feel two days of washing an 'unused' jug would go unnoticed). You'll be pleased to learn there was no fruit in it at the time. Because I thought I might need to use it again another night I put it outside in the garden to save washing it every time but in the end it was not needed.

Two days into my time in Looe (haha) I managed to do three poos in one day (these were done in a toilet not on a plate). My favourite kind of day because I really feel like I've achieved something. I can't take all the credit though as I had a little help from my friends who appeared to have been taking steroids.

The Oatabix Flakes failed their drugs test & were disqualified from the Cereal Olympics.

I told my mum that I always need a poo when I'm playing hide and seek (I'm not sure how this came up as we weren't playing it at the time - it may have been that she was bunged up. I really hope she doesn't read this). She told me she always needs one when she's in a video or bookshop. I'd love to find out what induces other people's bowel movements. Please share if you feel comfortable doing so - coffee and cigarettes will not be accepted.

Towards the end of my stay my mum was choosing which walk we were going to do. She placed her finger on the map and this is the exchange that followed:


Mum: There's a Shag Rock here. Wasn't there one of those in The Muppets?

Me: Do you mean Fraggle Rock?

Mum: Oh yes.

I'm glad we cleared that up and she'd not been watching Muppet based porn.

The view out of the living room window.

I left Cornwall a few days before mum and Sean as I really wanted to give them some space. My mum called me a couple of days after I'd gone and asked if I'd put the fruit bowl in the garden. Lying doesn't come naturally to me. I said no, like I always do when I'm lying, in a drawn out questioning sort of way to show that I actually mean the opposite. It's sort of an honest version of lying. But my mum, not one to just take the information she's been given, continued to ask questions, "Why did you put it out there?" She wasn't going to take my "I don't know" lying down. Eventually she managed to put two and two together and not only did she work out that I'd used it as a toilet but she realised that that's what the jug washing was all about. And I thought I'd got away with it. Not content with finding out this information she carried on with the questioning, "Where did you do it?" Does it matter mother?!! I felt like I was being investigated for murder. After much hilarity I managed to avoid giving any further details.

Lesson: don't leave the evidence in the garden. Or maybe just don't wee in crockery.

You Give Them Somewhere to Live and This is How They Repay You...

Shortly after my masculinity was thrown into question by a mere ladybird my room was invaded by even more of them. Because I now knew their identity I let them go about their business because everyone knows ladybirds are a friendly bunch. The very same day I was on the way to my local Tescos in Highgate when I came across a massive swarm of them on a street corner. I have never in my life seen such a sight. And it was highly inconvenient - I had to walk on the road to avoid them. I was later informed that there'd been an invasion of Asian ladybirds in Britain. I took this information and did nothing with it. A couple of days later I woke up to find at least 13 ladybirds having a snooze at the top of my curtains. I shrugged and left them to it.

This was in September.

Come November they were still wandering about and it was getting to the point where I was growing quite fond of them and able to tell some of them apart. I distinctly remember wondering if perhaps there was something wrong with the way my brain was wired.

Towards the end of November I went to The Wrestlers pub with my friend Al who lives down the road. One of the ladybirds decided he wanted to come along and I noticed him wandering about on my scarf and stupidly drew Al's attention to it. I felt a bit embarrassed - I was like the pigeon lady in Mary Poppins but with ladybirds instead of filthy ones.

Back in my bedroom I accidentally broke one's wings by not seeing it and squashing it with my Johnny Vegas monkey (an excellent boyfriend substitute as his arms are really heavy so you get great hugs without the hassle that would come if he were real). I was in tears because I knew I'd have to put it out of its misery. I was sat there eyes brimming saying out loud, "I'm really sorry, please forgive me" as, after waiting for ten minutes hoping it would recover, I squished it in a tissue. I felt shaken for some time afterwards.

In December things turned nasty. I started waking up covered in bites and in the most inconvenient places (wrists, ankles etc.). At first I thought it was because I'd had the window open and that mosquitoes had got in. But then I decided it was a bit cold for that. My next thought was that it was bedbugs which quite frankly is my worst nightmare. There's something really grim about the thought of something coming out of your bed and having a feast on your feet whilst you're getting a bit of shut eye. I couldn't work out why they would suddenly start biting though and my sheets were clean so there was something not quite adding up. And as a ladybird wandered past I came to the conclusion that I'd rather it was them biting me than bedbugs.

Perhaps they were getting me back for the tissue-squishing incident.

I was told that ladybirds don't bite people but when, two nights after receiving a particular bite, it swelled up ridiculously and I came down with a migraine, dizziness and nausea I thought I should look up ladybird bites on the internet. It turns out that the ladybirds in my room were indeed the Asian ladybirds who've invaded Britain. They're called Harlequin ladybirds and are known for getting all up in our ladybirds' faces and invading our houses. Word on internet street is that when food runs out they will start to bite humans. This made me happy and sad at the same time: happy that it wasn't bedbugs but sad that the LBs had turned on me. On a whim I put an over-ripe banana out for them and wasn't bitten again. I wonder whether I should be offended that they'd rather eat a bruised piece of fruit than me.

On Saturday just gone I was taking down my curtains getting ready for my move home and found out that not only do they use the top of the curtains as their bedroom but as their toilet as well. It was COVERED in tiny little poos. They were like minuscule versions of human poos. I felt like I'd found really disgusting treasure. I was quite surprised that over the whole period of their stay with me I never saw any of that yellow stuff they do. Do you remember being little and picking them up and thinking that they'd weed on you? Well I don't know if you know this but apparently that's actually blood - it's their way of playing dead so they don't get eaten.

I don't know about you but I feel like I've learnt a lot.

Man, I Feel Like a Woman

On the afternoon of Saturday 19th September 2009 I decided that I am a real man. If my giant turds, excellent DIY and bill paying skills weren't enough my masculinity was soon confirmed after having my ear chewed clean off by at least four hours worth of mindless babble. I sat there thinking to myself this must be how a man feels when a woman just talks at him about things he knows nothing about (i.e. The Hills) and/or has no interest in (i.e. The Hills)*.

I didn't know it yet but things were going to turn decidedly feminine.

Later that night I was taking a zinc tablet in my bedroom and instead of shaking it out on my hand I instead opted to throw my neck back and chuck it straight in. As my eyes went up to the ceiling I spotted a round, black thing. I wondered what it was, thinking perhaps it was a very large bit of dirt. But then it started moving. At first I thought it was a ladybird but it just seemed too big, especially given how high my ceilings are. And then it appeared to be changing shape - this thing was black and morphing and was definitely no ladybird - and that's when I decided there was undeniably a mutant bug in my room. Suddenly without warning it spread its before hidden wings and took flight landing on the door. It was such an unexpected movement that I squealed and threw my arms up in the air. This would have been much less dramatic had I not been holding a pint mug full of water at the time. I spent the next five or so minutes monitoring its location. Then, shape shifting, it moved to the top of the door and disappeared into the crack between the top and the frame. And then its wings kept appearing - huge and menacing. I was horrified. It was nearly bed time and I couldn't bear to turn off the light with this monster cavorting about the place with potentially enormous teeth and a penchant for human blood. I text Vic asking that if she was awake and not busy could I talk to her because I was having issues. She called straight away concerned that something awful had happened. Not yet Victoria, not yet! I informed her in a screechy, high pitched, decidedly girly manner that there was a peculiar creature in my room. She suggested killing it and although I was tempted I knew I couldn't. I live by the moral code that you shouldn't kill insects (unless they're in pain) even if the one in question is a mini killing machine. I got off the phone and mentally devised a plan of action: I'd wait for it to move away from the door and then run out and get a glass (the mug would not do - keeping an eye on this thing once captured would be vital) to trap it in. I eventually got out of the room and when I returned the unidentified insect was on the picture rail and then I couldn't see it anymore. If there's one thing worse than seeing a UI in your room it's knowing it's there but not being able to see it. I went towards the Sainsbury's bag that was doubling as a bin and noticed the bug was hanging out on it. With the speed of a girl on the verge of heart failure I put the glass over it feeding a Fred Astaire CD inlay underneath to stop any attempts of escape and then I took a closer look. It was only a bloody ladybird wasn't it?! In my defence it was on the yellow side of red and had more spots than is usual. I took it out to the kitchen window and tried to let it out. It wasn't having any of it and decided to stay. At least it was now in the kitchen rather than my bed.

I'm not sure what got into me. Perhaps I was brainwashed by all the Hills chat.

There have been various times when I've been called upon to remove creepy crawlies from the vicinity of real girls. There was the time in halls when I had a frantic call from my friend Nikki to come over to her block to get rid of an insect. I patronisingly rolled my eyes and shook my head feeling a sense of purpose as I wandered over. I saw it and I have to admit I was worried. We had no idea what it was - it looked like something out of Jurassic Park. Although I was pretty scared given its size and dinosaur-esqueness I covered it with Tupperware. Imprisonment, I feel, is as as good as getting something out of a building. At least you know where it is and it can't come crawling back to pounce on you when you least expect it. We went back to look at it a bit later and it had turned into two of the same prehistoric bug!! After that freakish behaviour there was absolutely no way I was going near it. We found out quite some time later that one of the boys had found another one and put it in with the other one. We were sure it was an alien that had multiplied all by itself and was planning to take over the world. We also found out later that it was actually a may bug** and not the end of the world as we knew it.

So that wasn't the best example of my manliness but what about these?...

Once when living in a student house I refused to wash a massive house spider down the plug hole and he lived in our bath for a bit. I named him Archibald and I was quite upset when he left. (I'm under the impression he was actually murdered by one of my housemates.)


When I finished university I did a week's dance course in a London studio and found what I thought was a dung beetle on the toilet floor. I couldn't have found it in a more appropriate place. I wanted to take it to the zoo in case it had escaped but it had been crushed a little bit by the door so I decided to take it with me to nurse it back to health. I did this by sitting it on a bit of cucumber. It didn't work so I laid him to rest in a friend's garden. This same friend stamped on my dreams by informing me it was not a dung beetle but a stag beetle so probably not a zoo fugitive.

I feel I have now restored your faith in my masculinity. If I haven't then I happily challenge you to a duel. Yes I am indeed a medieval man.


* Since I wrote this (N.B. I wrote it a while ago but have only just got round to posting it) I have met two men (straight) who love The Hills. It appears I am more of a man than a man.

**Writing this I learnt that a may bug's official name is a cockchafer. I wonder why this is - a masturbation experiment gone wrong perhaps?

Update with Excuses

Yesterday I moved back to my home town "oop north" with the intention of taking a month to sit down and write. I am fully aware how neglectful I've been of my Toilet Blocker blog (excuses: I was promoted to a job that took up 100% of my working day, had no internet access in my new house and then was made redundant so was in a big head pickle) and with that in mind I've decided that I have to write something for it every day even if it's just: "Today I ate five Weetabix and had a big poo". This will probably be the content of most of my posts so you have that to look forward to.

There's a bit of a backlog of things that I've written in note form that need expanding on which will also be posted. These include the story of babysitting my friend Victoria's boss's baby, poo stories from Cornwall and the story of being terrorised by unknown creatures in my bedroom. It's going to take some real motivation on my part but it's something I've got to do or else my existence is basically pointless. Hello, dramatic!

The amount of procrastination that has already occurred whilst just writing this update is quite something. So far I've looked in my bag about four times, been to talk to the librarian to ask if my library card is out of date when I know full well that having not used it for five years that it is five years out of date and I've also flicked through a three days out of date local newspaper which has either had the majority of its pages pilfered or there's just not much to report. Given the front page story consists of a massive picture of a bus that got stuck in the snow I'm thinking it's the latter.

I will see you tomorrow with something that is hopefully more substantial.

With love and wishes of healthy bowels,

Toilet Blogger

Public Transport Paranoia

When I'm on a bus I get a tiny bit upset when two free seats become available and the person sitting next to me moves. I take it personally and wonder what I did wrong, "Am I unsightly? Do I smell?" when I know full well I showered and deodorised that morning. Unless I'm really pooped and need a window seat to stop my head from lolling about I tend to stay put when the free seat situation arises so not to offend my travelling partner. I am sure they'd prefer me to leave but I'd rather stay put so they feel loved.

This morning I had the most wonderful bus experience I think I've ever had, on London transport at least. I was next to the window and a beany-hatted, plaid-trouser-wearing, guitar-holding man sat next to me. An excellent experience in itself but wait, it gets better. This fellow forfeited SEVEN sets of free seats by the end of the journey. I have never seen the phenomenon of that many free seats on a morning bus journey but that is besides the point. I was so happy I nearly told him I loved his trousers (they reminded me of my favourite pair of pyjama bottoms) and wondered if it would be inappropriate to hold his hand. You'll be pleased to know I settled for prolonging the leg to leg contact that occurred when the bus turned a sharp corner (this may have been when the driver nearly ran over a little girl). This is what I have to resort to these days to get male physical contact - either touching them on public transport or going to partnered dance classes where you get held by a multitude of men without them expecting to get in your pants. Ideal.

Sadly he didn't get off at my stop but I smiled at him as he let me out and then we had a moment through the window. Aah.

I regret not complimenting his trousers.

50 Quid and All for a Bit of Free Cake...

The news about The London Paper has inspired me have a root around in my old Facebook notes.

In April 2008 I wrote my first 300 word article for The London Paper's reader column (here is my second offering) but they never published it. I told myself it's because they can't print the word blowjob. So I published it on Facebook instead and now I'm publishing it here as well. Ha! That'll teach them for rejecting my ramblings. And now onto the main event...

50 Quid and All for a Bit of Free Cake...
April 2008

Two years ago I signed up to an escort agency, somewhat naively it turns out. Having graduated from university and getting nowhere on the job front I thought it’d be the perfect solution and all I’d have to do is accompany men to weddings and that meant free cake. Brilliant. After paying the £50 joining fee I was contacted saying there’d been a lot of interest in my profile and I’d get £1000 for an evening. I was amazed.

‘And I don’t have to have sex with them?’

‘Of course you do,’ the man scoffed.

‘Oh, but on the website it said no sex.’

‘We have to say that because it’s illegal,’ he replied patronisingly.

He then attempted to persuade me to ‘touch’ men if I wasn’t going to have sex with them. I told him I wouldn’t even if I was offered a million pounds. I was left feeling a bit silly and £1,000,050 out of pocket.

I had a few calls after that from clients themselves to whom I explained the no sex deal. They liked to barter, suggesting that perhaps we’d like each other. I wanted to reply, ‘If you’re needing to pay for sex I’m thinking that’s unlikely.’

Things went quiet.

A couple of months ago I had a missed call from a number I didn’t recognise so I called it back. ‘Do you do massage?’ Um no. Then the other weekend I received a text referring to me by my escort name asking if I’d be free for a date anytime soon. Instead of ignoring it I replied explaining how I’d naively joined the site. The negotiations began on his part and I had to explain that I don’t do physical contact and am purely company to which he replied, ‘So would that rule out some kissing and touching?’ I text back, ‘That would entail physical contact.’ I then received this: ‘So would a blow job or hand job be out of the question?’ Hmm let me see…

This week I have had two other men get in contact and yet I only paid for a year’s membership. Perhaps the website feels guilty about the false advertising. Tonight I decided to log on and on my profile it said, ‘I am signed up on a no sex basis.’ It appears men willing to pay for sex are not willing to pay for an eye test.

Secret Squirrel

If there is one thing you should know about me it’s that I cannot sleep on an empty stomach. I was already aware of this information and yet last night I attempted to embark on slumber with a gurgling stomach. On the rare occasions that this has happened in the past I have waited it out fooling myself that sleep will battle it out and defeat hunger; four hours later I’d crumble and then go and eat some (haha).

So last night I gave in within 15 minutes of having been horizontal instead of wasting hours lying awake with only my chattering stomach for company. Like a secret squirrel operating under the cover of nightfall off I went foraging for nuts. I felt nuts would be less offensive to my toothbrush than BBQ Pringles or a clove of garlic so I stood in the kitchen in my pants and ate 45 grams of cashews. I wasn’t fully satisfied after my ‘feast’ but short of eating the Pringles and the garlic there’s not a lot I could do about it. At least my flatmates didn’t catch me with my boobs out popping nuts in my mouth.

And with a brush of her teeth and a sigh of relief the secret squirrel fell asleep.

The Prince's Rainforest Project