It's Wednesday afternoon. Ryan has departed to Abs Club with the final words "Your fashion sense reminds me of Topman circa 2007". I don't know what this means, but it's made me really crave listening to The Klaxons. This is also a rare sentence from Ryan as usually we only talk to eachother entirely in Bring It On references, which is a small sign of how Ecole Gaulier is slowly turning us mad. As perhaps evidenced by this week's blog post. Enjoy. LAST FRIDAY'S AUTOCOUR As a

Right people... I'm back. The laundry has been done, the coffee pot has been refilled, I've bought some chocolate and I've hoovered. So, work time! Since returning from Australia I've been in a daze. A daze of denial mainly. Mainly about my supposed 'tan'. Every morning for the past fortnight I have woken up, looked upon my arms and body and noticed the summer freckles slowly disappearing one by one, becoming ghosts on my body, causing me to question my mental stability: 'Did

I have not written for four days. My excuse: Paris. My friend Alex and I chose to celebrate the end of dreary January with an adventure to the land of art galleries, inexpensive wine and infinite numbers of women in polo necks. By 8pm on Thursdawy we had already opened two bottles of Proseco on the Eurostar from Kings Cross (causing a few people to jump as we popped the cork). We were both in our best parisian garb, both insatiably excited. We both needed this break. Our mant

I should have probably written this blog entry about an hour ago. But I got distracted watching dance clips of Dirty Dancing on the internet before then choosing to see if I could master Swayze's infamous hip movements in the comfort of my own bedroom (I can't). Nothing like a a failed attempt at the cha-cha before bed. In three days time I am whizzing off to Paris with my dear friend, Alex (I met him when I checked his bag in at a nightclub when I worked the cloakroom). I'm