Your lipstick totally brings out the colour of your L'Oreal 'Black Cherry' stained scalp!

I wouldn't be smiling if my hair looked like that, either.

Oh my actual and literal GOD, I just love the 'vintage' scarf which you tied imaginatively around your head and those sepia photographs of your guitar, you're so totally Indie...
I realised that after my last blog I sounded hideously cynical and bitter, so I thought this week I'd ... retain that positive attitude - nothing like a nice bit of continuity after all! Today's rant is one which I felt so strongly about that I presented it to the school in a speech for my Head Girl application. The topic?
'Indie' kids.
Don't be fooled by the name y'all, this rapidly growing generation of people is easy to spot. Counter-intuitively to what one might expect of these 'independent' 'individuals', being 'Indie' seems to involve conforming to a massive stereotype. Before I go any further, I'd just like to clarify that I don't have a problem with people who embrace their genuine individuality. My main issue is with the countless teenage girls who spend hours backcombing their maroon dip-dyed hair before grabbing their guitars, donning some really individual main brand, high-street clothing or T-shirts supporting bands they've never really listened to and heading into a field to take pictures of themselves on polaroid cameras. It's not even the fact that they do this which annoys me, it's the fact they do it because they think they're being DIFFERENT and actually classify themselves as being 'Indie'. Surely, in making a conscious effort to follow a common image *Cue big glasses and several more cans of hairspray* you are defeating the object of being your own person; instead of going against the mainstream, you are joining it?!
So ladies, don your shiny new brogues, grab your sepia photographs of your latest eyeliner tattoo with a soft focus background of an ethereal forest (the tree in your back garden), dye your hair imaginative shades of maroon, burgundy or purple, button your shirts all the way up till you're verging on Edwardian spinster, tie your buns so high that your centre of gravity shifts, pull up your expensive topshop ankle socks (which you definitely could have bought from Tesco) and grab your sharpies to deface your bedroom walls with painfully meaningful lyrics. BUT DON'T PRETEND YOU'RE BEING DIFFERENT. Just put down the 'vintage' M&S jumper that your grandfather died in, and have a little think...

• OMG I love the sexy 'I'm constricting my breathing but I don't care' look you've achieved with your high-necked shirt.
• OMG your white ankle socks really complement your knees.
• OMG those oversized glasses which don't actually contain prescription lenses really bring out your astigmatism.
• OMG I'm totally digging your central parting. 

Really, you're just emulating the unfortunate calculator-bashing, Tolstoy-reading, daylight-deprived virgin which every school contains. Sexy, huh?

Don't you hate it when all your Valentine's cards get lost in the post?

Ah, Valentine's day. The day for receiving anonymous cards, sitting alone listening to Celine Dion, receiving large bunches of roses, crying over pictures of Colin Firth, receiving seasonal boxes of Thornton's chocolates, going out and impulse buying 16 cats, having a quiet evening in with your loved one, admitting to yourself that the card signed '? xxx' is from your mother, setting fire to bunches of flowers, eating the box of Thornton's which was indeed 'seasonal' but left over from Christmas, mentally mutilating the 'happy' couples in magazines, then sitting back in the wedding dress you've never removed and embracing spinsterhood with open arms. Or maybe it's just my life that's worthy of a Carol Ann Duffy poem?... I'm joking of course, my life isn't really like that - for a start I've never been given roses.
Shocking as this may be, I'm spending my Valentine's evening alone in bed with my cat and a glass of Prosecco. Although depressingly, even my cat has had more action than I have today...unfortunately her's came in the form of a rectal thermometer at the vet...but that's another story. I'm keeping her company :)

"Come and get it, boys" - Charles Dickens

I was going to present you lucky people with a brief history of Valentine's day, but I got bored researching it after five minutes. Essentially there were a couple of Christian men whom it is believed this gut-wrenching, over commercialised, 'Clinton Card' flavoured rose-scented-vomit inducing day is dedicated to, they were all killed and lived unhappily ever after. Pre-dating the Christian celebration is the Pagan festival of 'Lupercalia' which was originally celebrated on the 13th, 14th and 15th February. It frankly sounds a whole lot more...interesting, involving young gents getting stark-bollock naked and whipping young women's arses with hand-crafted animal skin whips to 'improve their fertility'. Each to their own, as they say. One can only hope the torture inflicted on the eponymous Christians who helped bring us this vile day involved animal-skin whips and Celine Dion playing on a loop. 
I thought I might try and find some positive things that came out of Valentine's Day, so I looked up notable people's birthdays - nothing of interest. Perhaps the interesting birthdays came 9 months later in November...


Reading back over this blog post, I've realised how psychotic and bitter I sound. I'm not, I promise you, in fact, I'm genuinely pleased and whole-heartedly supportive of all you happy, loved-up, romantic, smug, 'ooh look at my lovely new heart pendant', couples. Genuinely I am. Now, where's my pickaxe? I have some wedding cakes to deface...

Un petit peu about moi

Where to start?! Well, I'm 5'10" and blonde. I'm an avid gym member and when I'm not working out, planning orgies with Abercrombie and Fitch models or drinking wheat-germ smoothies I'm a super-model. You can call me Miss Universe 2012.
According to the above I'm also a pathological liar. Literally everything I just said was untrue...but seriously, if you want to call me Miss Universe you're more than welcome to - otherwise call me Charlotte, or Lottie, or Dave. But not Charlie. Never Charlie. (Unless you're truly special to me...which you aren't.)

I lead a fulfilling life, dodging salad and exercise, fuelling my cake and beer habits and learning long words to crack out during awkward silences. I have acquired many useful life skills over the years, such as being able to type 'antidisestablishmentarianism' with my eyes closed, saying phrases like 'get down now' in a Northern Irish accent and getting an A* in Latin GCSE. One day I hope to learn to do something genuinely useful, like speaking French fluently, eradicating people who intentionally try to be 'Indie' or whistling with my fingers in my mouth. My hobbies include singing, shouting at inanimate objects, singing, making a tit out of myself, singing, sleeping at inappropriate moments, singing, exploring different ways of shouting 'wanker' at fellow drivers, singing, finding objects to stand on so that 12 year olds don't appear taller than me and occasionally doing several of these things at once....
Hopefully after reading my blog you will realise that there will always be someone, somewhere (namely me) who will make you feel better about yourself, because, let's face it there's nothing more depressing than being ID'd when buying 'St Trinian's 2' (certificate '12'). I like to think, however, that I've grown up a lot since then (obviously not literally, I frequently get asked whether I have a growth defect).
If you took the time to read this, then I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you for being bored bollockless on my behalf...If you didn't bother reading this, then, RUDE. (Not that you'd have read that anyway you rude individuals, but feel my wrath, nonetheless.)