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Gals on tour: Canterbury Edition

GREAT NEWS, guys. The Gals on Tour series saw its second (and very long overdue) installment last weekend when myself Mills, Fran and Lydia said goodbye to our troubles and headed to Canters. We proceeded to spend 5% of our weekend exploring what Canterbury had to offer (expensive tea, cobbled streets, babein' architecture) and the other 95% drinking wine in our airbnb and stuffing our faces with thai, bolognaise, copious amounts of chocolate, sweets and pancakes. 


First things first: shout out to best friends who spend their entire weekend rolling around like a fat shit with you when life gets too much, who help you eat through more than 6,000 daily calories completely devoid of judgement, who spoon you in the middle of the night without even realising it and, most importantly, who stand behind you in every decision you make even if it involves being dragged around hobbycraft looking for plaster of paris because you've decided you want to make hand sculptures (don't ask - it's been a weird weekend). Laughter really is the best medicine and between the tears and mini mental breakdowns, Lydia - you've been a shining beacon of light, laughter, atrocious smells and questionable fashion choices. I would be a lot thinner without you, but also miserable as fuck. 💛 you a LOT. 

grateful heart #1

I don't even know where to start with this post so I'll just go from the beginning (but keep it as short as poss, don't worry huns - i got u).

So, I've been doing a LOT of self-help reading recently and as part of my attempted ascent to the Positive Vibes Only Zone I decided to start a gratitude journal. With no expectations whatsoever and, to be quite honest, a feeling that gratitude journalling was a bit of wanky exercise to undertake; I assumed I'd give it up in a few days, relegate the notebook back to bottom-drawer status, and return to instastalking instead. Like, who tf sits down and spends precious time writing down that they're grateful for Zac Efron's face anyway?! (...)

a pretty wonderful wednesday

There are a million reasons why I love the shit out of my mum, but by far the most important one is that she can always be relied upon to pour a very large glass of wine at the end of a long day (or a short day for that matter because whatever the question, fermented grapes are probably the answer). It's a de-stressing reflex action that I have enthusiastically enjoyed with her on numerous occasions over the years and one for which she deserves the utmost credit. For real, I have struggled to find another human who embodies the ideology of "wine not?" quite so effortlessly and wholeheartedly as she. If I ever doubt for a second that I'm my mother's daughter, a quick peek in the fridge on a Monday Friday night brings it right back in all its pinot-y, sauvignon blanc-y, glory. 

happy tears > sad tears

It's become frighteningly apparent recently that the only thing I know with any degree of certainty...is that I have absolutely no fucking idea what I'm doing. Which makes it very, very, very nice to know that there are some truly beautiful little people in my life capable of doing some truly beautiful little things. Namely, this little care package that arrived unannounced on my doorstep last Friday from the babe to end all babes that is Mary-Kate Zhoweveryouspellit. I'm getting teary again just typing this so I'll leave you with the reminder that not all heroes wear capes - sometimes heroes really do come in the form of polish pals with a penchant for brunch. MK you are a marvel, thank you for being the absolutely cracking pair of tits person that you are.

2017: it's been emotional

2017; while I can't deny you've been blissfully wonderful for the most part (i.e: the most tanned I have ever and probably will ever be, the taking of my NY virginity, a very boozy birthday weekend in the New Forest)...my god, you've been pretty fucking shite at times too, ahem, mental health I am glaring at you cough cough. I'm hoping and praying that 2018 is a little kinder to my brain while remaining just as full to the brim of gin. So, that said, my New Year's Rezzie's are looking like this:

leave a little sparkle

I hope you had the merriest, minciest and mulled winiest of Christmasses. I also hope that your day was filled with so much bubbly that you barely remember the Queen's speech and fell asleep on the sofa at 4pm because same, hun. 

indulging my inner upper-east sider

One of the things I love most about my relationship with Mikey is the way we've learnt to compromise on the things we disagree on. It goes a little something like this: Mikey doesn't want to do something, I want to do something = we do the thing that I want to do and Mikey just shuts up and gets on with it. Usually with the promise of beer and/or letting him watch the football in peace. 

New York City Part II

WHERE does time go?! And how has it been three and a half weeks since we got back from New York already?! And why is the only thing of note that I've managed to achieve during that time getting to Season 3 of Gossip Girl?! It has been a very, very, very busy few weeks at work so to have spent pretty much every single evening perving over Rufus (largely unsung hero alert) and lonelyboy has not only been acceptable, but necessary. 

Part I: New York City, baby!

We walked so far in New York that we may as well have been auditioning as extras in Nelson Mandela's Long Walk To Freedom. Except we weren't walking to freedom, we were walking to cocktails. And lots of them. Yes, I am truly sorry for my tasteless Nelson Mandela joke, I also appreciate that he didn't literally walk as well, but do you know who did? WE did. For real, we walked over 45km the first day, then over 40km the next day, and we were there for six days. The only time we hopped on a subway was to get to the NFL, so for the first time in Katie Leask holiday history, I actually managed to lose 2 lbs instead of my usual gaining of 500. And if that wasn't enough of a reason to have fallen completely head over heels for NY, I give you this blog post:

i came, i saw, i left early

It's official. I've reached that stage in life where snuggling up at home dressed head to toe in pug paraphenalia (because apparently I'm harbouring quite the pug pyjama collection) has quite aggressively taken over heading out on the piss. Should I be worried that I've reached this stage at the ripe old age of 24? Hell no. To be honest, I'm more worried about this new found granny-status having a negative impact on my thighs cos the only shapes I'm throwing at 11pm on a Saturday night these days are triangular pizza slices into my mouth. Happiness quota exceeded.