google-site-verification: google935433b691795853.html KRISTY BERRIDGE: 2016-09-04

Friday, 9 September 2016

In the past I have written numerous blogs regarding my dalliances with children and the effects they've had on me over the years and to be fair, my opinions have altered slightly. These tiny creatures of see-sawing emotion both terrify me and sometimes thrill me.

Since I've been in the UK I have been surrounded by the little tykes thanks to The Cockney's ever-expanding family; today was no different.
A jam-packed morning in London followed by a botched high tea saw me crossing paths with a toddler running through a plethora of emotions ranging from anger to happiness, hunger to bloated mess and satisfaction to unsettled.

Laughing or sympathising only bore horrifying results and thus it ended up being safer simply to pretend the child didn't exist which of course came quite naturally to me.

Phase one: Hunger.
Phase two: Satisfaction - I would be too after eating all the leftover cakes the vegan (me) couldn't eat at the high tea.
Phase three: Anger - a sibling stole the two cent yoyo that he might have played with once or twice since his inception.
Phase four: Satisfaction again - mummy made it all better again with a few choice words directed at the older sibling. Bi-product? Little one gets his yoyo back but now doesn't have the foggiest what to do with it.
Phase five: Hunger.
Phase six: Anger - mum said no to more pointless gobbling. 
Phase seven: Nuclear Meltdown - he ran into a street pole and everyone laughed.

I had to respect this little demon for always being honest about what he was thinking or feeling. Although comparative to split personality disorder, I couldn't help but notice that as adults we hide over half of these emotions from those around us to appear 'normal' and that is a terrible shame. Imagine how much more interesting life would be if everyone said exactly what they meant.

Needless to say, although I did develop a fondness for this child with whiplash emotions, my ovaries still protest at the very thought of reproduction. I strongly believe that these misunderstood creatures are not properly researched or packaged before delivery. Every child should come with a set of instructions and warning labels, but in my case, a receipt so you can return it if you find it's faulty.

Kristy ;)

Monday, 5 September 2016

I've recently decided to become a vegan, possibly not for the most common reason which is save animals etcetera etcetera. 
I'm doing it because I used to be a flat blob and now care considerably about my health. Being a vegan is a challenge; no meat, seafood or any form of dairy. I've had to make some major changes to all facets of life but I think it's ultimately worth it now that my stomach is washboard flat, I don't fart incessantly and my skin looks as smooth as a baby's rear end.

Currently I'm in Europe. The French thought I was a bit queer, the most common response being; 'Butteer? Vot do you mean you don't eat butteer?' (Note the attempted accent).
Now I'm back in London and people are generally accommodating. 
However, we went to High Tea yesterday, something booked months in advance and reconfirmed twice noting the experience contained a vegan participant (aka me).
So, we arrived and I was excited. After all, months of notice should have resulted in something spectacular for the non-meat-eating, dairy-dissing queen of horror fiction.


I had a bloody hummus sandwich with the crusts cut off because the booking was never entered and they had forgotten my dietary requirements. 

To give me my due, I didn't explode in a champagne spew of fury. I sat calmly, smiling brightly while everyone else had their delicious cakes and pastries and I ingested chickpea paste and plotted a hotel bombing.

But to every low there is a high and to be fair I didn't die and saved my waistline, so we'll take it as a win for today even if I still dream of shoving a corkscrew up the unorganised staff's asses and twisting until they pop.

Kristy ;)