The Tinder Tales


So let’s talk Tinder. Because that happened recently!

And using this app in the modern-day quest for love (or, in my case, a human – hotwater bottle for the Winter months!) is proving to be an amusing (or bemusing even?) affair.

I had to talk to you guys about it. All the weird pec pics, the grown-men behind the snapchat filters, the endless small talk…

And then there’s me. And the funny theories I use to make the rapid judgement between a swipe left and a swipe right (though I’m still not sure which way is which! lol)

So get ready with me and prepare for Real Talk. Candid-stylee. From a grown-ass woman, (whom struggles to pronounce the words ‘Financial Analysis’ in a sentence – but does enjoy the occasional profanity. – (You have been warned! lol))

I laughed a lot whilst filming this, longer-than average Tale of Tinder woes. I also cringed a fair amount.

And then I deleted the app. Content with extracting only material to amuse. The quest for Winter Warmth continues! hahaha

If you enjoy this video please hit the Thumbs Up button and don’t forget to Subscribe to my Youtube Channel for more!

I mean. How could you not want more?! lol

Love to all!

Thanks for watching!




White Noise

Much of this world exists to me as white noise;
Static energy.
Interference from the masses.

White noise.
An all too apt name for this game.

Just the relentless and infinite popping and crackling of darkness and light.

Relentless and infinite and loud. Because it is loud, in all its varying shades of human grey.

Yet we see in technicolour, most of us, most of the time. Transmitters of energy ourselves, we instinctively know there’s more than just snow. More to be seen. Infinitely more.

Do you see me? Or just my appearance? Are you tuned into my channel? Or lost in interference? Flick, pop, crackle.

Maybe you tried banging on the set? Maybe you’ve even thought to turn the damn thing off.

Maybe you’ve forgotten you hold the remote?
Yep! You had it all along! You can switch from the default whenever you want.

Because that’s all the white noise is really. The default setting. Pre-set to someone elses frequency.

But rest assured, the screen is yours. You the antenna. The programming of your own design. Because you, my friend, have sole control of the remote.

You choose your frequency, how you program yourself, what you channel and more what you transmit.

You can switch off the white noise whenever you’re ready. And tune in to yourself some more.


A twisting turning, (occasionally) turbulent journey, one may suddenly find oneself embarking on; whereby a soul with unknown intent or forces incarnates into a tiny body, that we carry for a period of 9 months, (and worry about for the rest of our lives.)

And though it is often the fathers, whom are invited to severe the umbilical cord at birth, you can bet your bottom dollar that Love has already woven her own invisible binding between Mother and Child. And that shit is strong. Unbreakable. Fierce.

And from hereon acts as the undercurrent that keeps us sailing these unchartered waters.

A journey we take with just one half-decent navigational device, which we have to dig for. Because often it is shrouded in BS, (other people’s ideas and bullshit) and we’re not encouraged to trust it.

But trust it we must. Because our INSTINCTS are about the strongest tool we possess for surviving this journey.

It’s taken me 14 years of parenting, 6 pregnancies, 4 experiences of child birth, 3 children and many a sleepless night to discover this.

Your instincts; that internal pull, the ‘feeling in your waters’ as my Nan would say, is literally the only navigational device worth using.

Because no matter what the media tells you about being a Mother, no matter what preconditioned ideas society sells you; only you will know, as you get to grow with your child, what forces you are working with.

We have all these ideas before they’re born. About what they’re gonna look like, who they’re gonna be. We buy them pink or blue accordingly.

We ponder which genes will be more prominent, which attributes they may inherit, whose eyes, whose hair, whose smile…?

Even the ritual of naming our children is accompanied by at least some kind of preconceived notion of who we think they might grow to be.

And we might have an ego that’s seen and judged and criticised all the other parents, including our own, before concluding that we ourselves would do a much better job. So we ‘know’ which kind of parents we’re gonna be too.

All well and good until these children of ours show up, with forces as unique as the lines etched on their skin.

Their own eyes from which to see this world. Their own voices, albeit minus the guarantee they’ll get to use them. Their own internal compass drawing them to a destination we cannot yet know.

And suddenly the foundations upon which we built our expectations start to feel a little rocky, to say the least.

And much like the ever-changing phases in the moon meeting the relentless roll of the tide, our children change and grow. Dance through phases, bloom and shrivel like the darling buds of may.

They like to keep us on our toes.

Honestly without our instincts we’d drown.

But as they reveal themselves to us, our children, with all their phases, in all their states of glory they also hold up mirrors for us.

Reflections of ourselves.

And if we can just quieten those voices of judgement, the preconceived notions and ideas, the bs ingrained in us… if we have the right binoculars onboard, we can see those reflections.

Add them to instinct and it’s *plain sailing ahead!

*Sort of 😂

But once you see yourself, not just through the eyes of another soul, but through the lessons they gift you, you start to see the bits that need throwing overboard.

The parts of ourselves that exist only because someone else put them there. The stuff that anchors us to waters we don’t wish to dwell in. And if you’re having trouble discerning which parts of you to release INSTINCT will help with this too.

Three beacons of light, holders of my heart, truth bounce-backers were sent to join me in this life. 3 different voices that call me Mumma. 3 bearers of much of my love and indeed fear.

3 cubs. 1 Lioness.

But who is raising whom?

Motherhood: An ocean abundant in opportunities to evolve.

I grow, they grow.

And instinct is the only light house we need.

Turkey Love

Sensitive, curious and gentle. He wears his heart on his snood, (that’s the dangly piece of skin above his beak) It acts as a mood ring, alternating in colour; red, white or blue to tell you how he’s feeling.

His song is unique. A fascinating call, humans call it a gobble. He’s been perfecting it since way back when he was a fluffy chick.

And when it’s time to make his contribution to the planet, he’ll use his gentle call and turn his snood a strong scarlet, to entice the Hen of his dreams.

I imagine part of his dream includes nesting up in the trees, which is his favourite place to seek sanctuary and rest his weary head. He’ll fly up there, Turkey’s love to fly. But not too far. If he needs to make a run for it he can do that too, at speeds of up to 35mph.

But he will not hurt you.

He came here with the same intention. To live in peace.

Benjamin Franklin was apparently a big Turkey fan. He favoured the Turkey over the bald Eagle as the national bird. And now the mass genocide of indigenous people is celebrated every year in the States by the mass genocide of this indigenous bird.

The only time most people get to connect with this creature is when they have their hands up his arse, or they’re tearing at his torso.

In the UK we have one of the biggest slaughter houses of the Turkey, under the familiar name of Bernard Matthews. (Bird flu? Anyone?) We don’t celebrate Thanksgiving here. But we do slaughter 2.2 million Turkey’s in the run up to celebrating the birthday of a white guy, that would have been black, if we even believe in his existence in the first place.

But we don’t actually enjoy the taste of Turkey. It’s dry. And needs a fuck load of trimmings; maybe some fat from a duck, or the flesh of a pig, to make it palatable.

And so it is that this handsome, regal creature; beak and toes painfully severed, so he cannot defend himself. Body pumped unnaturally to keep him so heavy, he couldn’t fly now if he wanted to. Wings unable to unfold, let alone carry him. Skin burning from the ammonia of sitting in his own piss, is crammed into a cage with thousands of his friends.

His ultimate destination? Some dried up boxing -day sandwich. With pickle. To disguise the taste.

Only arrogance and greed will tell you your life is worth more than his. Don’t listen.



New video on a topic that concerns me… Bullshit Beauty Standards and the impact they have on some of the most beautiful women I know.

I hope the vid reaches those for whom it is intended. And that it serves as a gentle reminder to know your worth. ❤

#RememberWhoYouAre #SetYourOwnStandards