Spoiler Alert...

They say you shouldn't regret what you do, only what you don't do. Wise words, I guess. I've been sitting back and having a little think (dangerous, I know) about the past seven years of my life; and decided I wish I could write a letter to my 11-year-old self, sharing the pearls of wisdom my 18-year-old self has gained. I think it'd go something a bit like this...

Heyhey Lottie, how's it going? (I just called you Lottie, weird huh? People have only just started calling you that...it sort of catches on, but people at school are going to start calling you Dave. Don't panic, you're not trans-sexual...but the nickname never wears off once they've discovered it...gets a bit weird when the teachers adopt it too...) Another weird thing, I'm writing in full sentences, with punctuation and words spelled fully. You're not going to get a phone with a contract till you're 16, so I can understand that typing 'Hi how r u lol' is more cost effective when you pay 12p every time you write texts with more than about 5 words in them, but seriously, stop saying lol and learn to spell. You'll thank me for this advice. LOL is not cool.

Soon you will be the only representative of the Lollipop Guild

You're in year 7 at the mo, how old does that feel?! (You won't understand it just yet, but everyone hates year 7s.) Look around your classroom, you'll notice you aren't the shortest person there. Take LOTS of mental photos, because you'll grow a whopping 1cm over the next 7 years, so enjoy the time you can spend looking like a member of the lollipop guild with your fellow shorties, instead of being the disproportionately short 13,14,15,16+ year old who just about reaches tit-height in photos (*Spoiler Alert* Give Imi a couple of years and she'll be taller than you. Unless you cut off her legs from the knee down right now, there's nothing you can do. SAVE YOURSELF.)
See that girl called Claudia? Someone's going to be a total bitch to her in a couple of weeks and not give her a slice of their birthday cake. You two will bond over your mutual dislike for the aforementioned person, so go over and chat to her. (Also, you're gunna get in a massive fight with one of your 'friends' and Claudia's going to "accidentally" trip one of them up because she's got your back. How cool is that?? Your own personal hit man! So be sure to make friends with her, you guys are going to have a ball.)
Year 7 is a massive learning curve for everyone, so I won't give you too many spoilers, just a few words of advice...
The cat's going to drop mouse intestines on your Geography exercise book, and try as you might, blood stains don't come out. My advice is to print off a picture of something geographical, possibly a globe, and glue it over the top.

Do you really want to do this to yourself?!

GET RID OF YOUR CENTRAL PARTING. I know you're not really into hair and makeup just yet, but seriously, it looks awful, really, really awful.
Ask Mum to buy you some more nice shoes too, because you don't seem to have a problem with going into school on non-uniform day in your Clarks velcro school shoes...I'll fetch you a straight jacket and book you in for some hypnosis therapy because you NEED TO LEARN that they look awful.
Okay, turquoise corduroy trousers aren't your best look either, but nothing can top the outfits you concoct involving a pink and orange tie-dye skirt. You look like a Sunday School teacher on crack; not cool. Do you actually even know what crack is yet? Google it. Or ask Jacob, he knows more than you give him credit for...
Braces aren't fun. I won't even try and lie to you. But they are SO worth it. Until you lose your retainers and your teeth sorta move again...
Year 8 and 9 are fun, but you're a bit of a dick. I know you think it's funny to take the piss out of your teachers...and admittedly, sometimes it is, but cut them some slack!
You're never, ever going to be good at P.E. and even after 8 or so years, you still won't have grasped the rules of netball, so I give you my full permission to muck around as much as you want in those lessons...Although the 'order marks' you pick up will mean you're not allowed to go on the Alton Towers trip with your friends, which I'm not gunna lie, is shit.
More advice, take better care of your phones ya freak, they don't enjoy arse-screen contact, so DON'T SIT ON THEM.
Now, on to the subject of alcohol. 'Alcohol?!' I hear you cry. Yup, that stuff. One day you're going to have an epiphany, and decide that beer is literally the food of Gods. Wise choice dude. Weirdly, you don't really get into booze till you're about 15. Jacob's going to get you very, very drunk on Rum, Pimms and Fruit Juice one evening, so get your bin ready by your bed, you won't make it to the bathroom...No matter how hard you try, spirits just don't like you. (One day you're going to be faced with a glass full of sambuca...don't do it Lottie, I beg of you don't.) For that matter, take care around some booze you bring back from Brazil (YOU GO TO BRAZIL! Damn, I meant to say 'spoiler alert') It costs you the equivalent of about 80 pence...I'm pretty sure in hindsight that it was paint stripper. That's another night of your life you'll never get back...and remember; never trust gingers. Unless it's Hannah or Gracie. Always trust them, they're like your family.
All girls education has a knack of turning people (you) into social retards. There are these things in the world called men, you may have heard of them? Ahh, yeah you're not likely to forget them in a hurry... THAT sex ed video  in year 8 stays with you for a long, long time, although you totally already knew all that stuff, Mum bought you a book when you were 7 years old, remember? *Shudder*

Take care of Jelly, even if she does drop intestines on your school book

People are going to mess you around. They're going to be rude to you. They're going to make you feel like total and utter crap about yourself. It's harsh, but true. And you've just got to learn to laugh it off. That's one of the most important lessons, don't let people get to you. Keep your sense of humour, you're going to need it.
Take care of Rubydog and Angelica the cat. They won't be around forever, I won't tell you when they go because you've got to learn to cherish every moment you have with them. Once you lose someone, they won't come back, so make lots of happy memories for yourself, one day, they'll be all you have.

I'll give you a quick summary because you'll probably have forgotten everything I've said already; too busy worrying that your Maths colouring in homework won't be in on time for tomorrow's lesson. Put down your 'trendy' pink flip up phone and just think before you say LOL in future. Don't let the cat drop guts on your school books. Do something about your horrendous central parting. BURN your school shoes. Don't buy the tie-dyed skirt just because it's on sale in GAP. Learn what crack is and impress your friends with your new vocabulary (although some people don't like swearing, would you believe that?!) Don't be such a cocky little shit to your teachers, at the end of the day they're only trying to help you, and some day you're going to need them on your side. Don't break your phones. Don't mix Rum, Pimms and Tropical Juice together in a cup, regardless of what Jacob says. Don't drink a glass full of sambuca. BEHAVE at Reading Festival, watch out for Brazilian alcohol. Love your pets like there's no tomorrow, because you can't ever get them back once they're gone. Above all Lottie, don't let the bastards get you down. You won't listen to the last bit of advice, no one does. But please, for my sake, try.
That's all for now kiddo, good luck with everything.
Love, the older and wiser, Lottie.
P.S. In your year seven end of year Latin test, make sure you notice before the exam is half over that all the vocabulary you haven't covered in class is written at the bottom of the exam paper. Oh, and learn how to do half equations, you'll kick yourself when you get into the GCSE Chemistry exam and can't remember how to do them.
P.P.S. Your friends and family are always going to be there for you, so take advantage of that, they give pretty amazing advice.

Have you ever wondered if there was more to life, other than being really, really, ridiculously good looking?

10/10 women agree that I'm beautiful, if not a Goddess.

I've just finished reading Samantha Brick's article; "Why women hate me for being pretty" (see link). I can totally empathise with her, it's just so hard being really, really good looking. 
She details how men frequently order her bottles of Champagne or wine, *yawn* how cliche - aren't we all? Hop off your high-horse Samantha, I was once lucky enough when out clubbing with my frankly mediocre-looking counterparts, to be given half a plastic cup of Vodka and Redbull - jealous? I thought so. Big Whoop, someone once presented you with a 'beautiful bunch of flowers' in London's Portobello Road Market! I get accosted on a weekly basis by men practically imploring me to buy their Big Issues, blatantly because of my irresistible appearance in my provocative Primark jumper and flattering, slightly-too-long sixth form trousers. So, okay, I'm no Megan Fox, but that's because I'm frankly far more attractive. The only reason I haven't been approached by modelling companies is because I'd prove so devastatingly sexy that I'd distract potential customers from any products I'd be advertising.

I find whenever I'm in group photos or singing at concerts I'm often begged to stand right at the front. I'm told it's because I'm "too short" to be seen, but I know that really, it's because no one wants my astounding looks to be wasted, but are too polite to admit that to all my ugly or at best, mildly hideous, friends. Teachers at school regularly victimise me for wearing 'inappropriate' length skirts to school, under the pretense that they 'don't conform to school regulations' - bollocks. It's purely because they are old, ugly, and jealous of my disproportionately fat arse and short legs. Well, that, and because they know that the coded doors at school simply aren't enough to prevent men breaking in and falling at my feet, desperate to tell me how incredible I am.

It took a lot to work up such a radiant pink complexion .

Night clubs are often dark and full of dry ice when I go out - probably because bouncers give the managers a tip off when I come in, to make visibility difficult so that their doggish female clientele don't feel threatened by my presence. On nights out, I find people throwing themselves out of my way as I stagger my way on to the dance floor. They are literally blown over by my bloodshot eyes, smudged mascara and toned-down, devil-may-care attitude to eloquence and coherence.

Beer is the secret to my beauty

People should not be shunning me for my looks, but lauding me for my motivation and dedication in preserving my excellent appearance. It takes one heck of a lot of will power to sit at home on Facebook, resisting the tempting allure of a 10 mile power-walk in the pouring rain. I rarely allow myself to overcome my natural urge to eat a low-fat salad of lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber AND a glass of mineral water if instead I can have a curry, naan bread, rice, poppadoms and a beer. My love-handles don't feed themselves you know!

So come on guys, enough of the hate, we rare to find, super-hot Goddesses should be celebrated, nay, worshiped for our modesty and charm. All together now, 'I'm sexy and I know it!'
....
(By 'I'm sexy' - you obviously mean; 'Charlotte's sexy')

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.)