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My Favourite (and only) Subscription Box- Friction Free Shaving Review

September 20, 2017

From dog treats to scarves and beauty to hot chocolate, there's a whole world of monthly subscription boxes available. Despite very nearly committing to a Birchbox a few times (and subsequently deciding I'd be better spending the money a bit more wisely) the only subscription I have is for FFS- Friction Free Shaving, dont'cha know.

The company is super- feminist and fiercely determined; they understand the nuisance that shaving can be. They realise that supermarket blades are flimsy, plastic-y and totally over-priced. Women don't necessarily want for garishly pink , plastic razors that irritate your skin. FFS offers the first razor delivery service designed especially for women; their products are sturdy, chic and there isn't a plastic handle in sight. The tongue-in-cheek company are all about making the boring and annoying process of shaving a little more special- check out the inside of the packaging for a laugh.

Cheeky and recyclable packaging- what more could you ask for?
So it works like this- your razor head comes free with your first delivery and you can choose from between razors. I chose the Samantha head, which cost £7 a month. The Samantha is unfortunately no longer available having been replaced with the sleeker and sexier Rose handle at £9 a month. Rose however, is German engineered, completely rose gold and has six blades for a much closer shave. I've already upgraded but my sub doesn't arrive until the 28th each month.  Once you have chosen your shaviour, you can choose to add their cruelty free shaving cream added to your sub. (I didn't because I'm happy with the old hair conditioner trick) Rose is the more expensive of the two, whilst Frankie, with a 3 bladed head, is the purse friendly one at £5 a month. With Rose, you also receive a razor cap so travelling is made easier.

The Samantha razor is weighted and heavy- more like a fancy, mens razor. My sister uses the Rose and it is equally (if not more) sturdy with a rubber grip and a solid, heavy handle. The results are comparable to waxing and leave your body smooth to the touch. The days of irritated skin and blunt blades are long gone. These ones are waaayyy more hygienic and sharper than their super-market counterparts.

Initially, I did think "would I really spend £7 a month on razors?"if I were just to grab what was on offer at Boots? I'm not a particularly hairy woman, so I don't shave every day. Reverting back to my question- no, I wouldn't. I don't need a blade a week and FFS understand that. In fact, they allow you to pause or cancel your subscription at any time without needing to call a hotline and be persuaded to stay. It's literally the click of a button online. I keep my sub bi-monthly and therefore it works out at only £3.50 a month. A bargain in my book.

She's called Rose for obvious reasons.
What I love about the whole concept is that it does make shaving a little less mundane- I love collecting my parcel from the letterbox each month, a little treat to myself. The two women who found the company genuinely have real women in mind and aren't interested in ripping you off with shoddy products and poor customer service. If you do want to sign up yourself to this little gem of a service, use my referral code and get 25% off your first box!


Link- http://ffs.co.uk/r/?r=4U8Z96

We Need to Talk About Depression- Part 1, Where it All Began

September 17, 2017

Allow me to start from the very beginning...

On a Thursday November morning, I sleepily swatted the alarm on my phone to snooze whilst glancing at the screen, one eye probably still closed. 7.00am. My alarm rang as it habitually would on a work day. It was winter and my flat was bitterly cold so the urge to burrow myself inside my duvet and hide from the outside world wasn't foreign. What followed five minutes later were puddles meandering from my lashes to my lips and panic washing over my body like the tide beating the shore. I looked around the walls of my bedroom- the colour of storm clouds, threatening and angry and I felt alone in the world. Tucked away in a tiny apartment in an unknown street of Ourense, the worth of my existence hit me...

I was a loner. Nobody loved me. I was a burden. I was stupid. People pitied me.

My chest tightened and I struggled to find air. I was choking on my own breath and panic flooded my system. Self-depreciating thoughts fuelled my tears and the taste of salt stung my lips. Minutes passed, each becoming more bearable than the last, and finally, after what felt like a lifetime, I summoned the courage to leave my duvet haven and get ready for the day. Duty called and I hoped my students would distract me. The next two hours were a blur and when my colleague asked if I was okay, I broke down again.

Days like that became the norm over the next four months. I spent December in Australia calling home and crying, feeling cast away on an asteroid. In my heart, I knew I had everything anybody could want and more. In fact, when my friend Emily came to visit me in April, I recounted my struggles to her. They left her dumbfounded... "But you have the perfect life... I see it on your Instagram." she stumbled. I was living the life I had always dreamed of but I felt as if I were frozen in a block of ice; I knew people were trying to chisel away at the prison I was encased in but to no avail. I felt cold and alone. My heart longed to feel the embraces from the people around me but I'd been trapped and nothing could penetrate that distance between the world and I. Slowly, I start backing away from society- I stop accepting invitations to social engagements, I burrow myself away at home and days pass when I only speak when spoken to. Let's remember that I'm living away from my family- the people who know me inside out. Sometimes, I have to pinch myself to make sure I’m still alive. A mould has grown and made my soul home and I’m hopeless to fight it.

Let's skip forward three months... It's February and I have to go to England due to a family emergency. Here, I visit a doctor and he prescribes me with a daily dose of Sertraline. 50mg. An alarm rings through my head as I recall stories of feeling akin to a zombie, the stigma surrounding antidepressants and the supposed addiction. Am I crazy? Aren't antidepressants for depressed people? Like, seriously depressed people? It was my Mum who reassured me that it was fine, "a low dosage, nothing to worry about" are her soothing words. Mother knows best. I swallowed my first pill.

There are a few misunderstandings/ misconceptions about antidepressants-

1. They’re only for the desperate.

A huge percentage of people are on them. In 2016, 64.7 million antidepressants were prescribed on the NHS according to NHS Digital. A decade ago, it was half that amount. They are the medicinal area with the largest increase in prescriptions of 2016. I say that this speaks volumes about the mental state of the UK and how we are tackling this problem as a nation.

2. Taking anti-depressants is a sign of weakness.

There’s this horribly judgemental idea that antidepressants are the easy way out. “Keep your pills, you just need fresh air and exercise” I see incessantly on supposedly inspirational Facebook posts. I know these people mean well but seriously, fuck off. Believe me when I tell you that they are not a quick fix (see next paragraph). Of course lying in my bed all day is going to do nothing for me, but trivialising my illness by suggesting that I'm just in need of a few laps around the park is insulting.

Don't be That person.
If there was a way to just flick that small switch off in my brain with a tiny pill, damn right I’d do it... You're committing yourself to a treatment that could last a month, a year or even a decade whereupon chemicals are pumped into your brain on a daily basis... and let's not even think about the side effects! And by the way, it's not even a hundred percent certain that they will help.

3. You’re instantly going to feel better.

I remember seeing an episode of The Simpsons when Lisa was prescribed some anti-depressants and she just started seeing smiley faces and rainbows. Whilst sometimes, our favourite fictional family can indeed teach us some life lessons, this isn’t one of them. On my particular drug, Sertraline, things have to get worse before they can get better. And boy, did they get worse...

I was already having up to eight panic attacks a day. I had to completely cut out caffeine and chocolate (as if life wasn’t already hard enough!) for fear of a sudden attack in the street. Sertraline made me feel suicidal. I’d wake up some mornings wondering if I had any type of medicine in my cupboard that could end it all. I feel so ashamed to type those words which I suppose is a sure sign that I’ve come a long way.

Two weeks later and those thoughts were gone, but I felt devoid of emotion still. I’d still find myself crying for no reason but less frequently, my panic attacks were just an ugly memory now and I no longer woke up wondering why I was still here. Yet, life was floating past me, like a boat on the current, but I was just grateful that I no longer felt like I wanted to end it all.

There’s this nasty and unwelcome opinion fluttering around society that suicide is the coward’s option. Depression is a parasite that hides itself in your brain, feeding on your happiness until there’s no more left to absorb and before you even can realise, you’ve been consumed by it. It’s a parasite that can make anybody’s soul habitable- I believe it’s imperative to understand, as a society, that suicide is not selfish. It’s not the easy way out; it’s the last resort when you’ve no hope left. It’s nobody’s fault and certainly nobody’s first choice- but I seriously believe that society needs to form a far more understanding and educated view towards not only suicide but depression in general. You never know who is suffering.

I felt compelled to write this account- and any future diaries that I write- in order to try and tackle the stigma surrounding mental health. I want you to know that recovery is an arduous process and that a mental heath problem is every bit as important as a physical problem. Maybe us sufferers are crazy or maybe we do have a screw-loose- call it what you like- yet this is a path that so many people are walking along and one day, it could be you. 

Marks and Sparks are killing it! My top picks from A/W 2017.

September 10, 2017

Marks and Spencer has always been a classic British brand yet during my lifetime, more associated with my Nana and her generation rather than mine- in fact, I'd only stepped foot into the store for school trousers for my younger sister. Suddenly I found myself searching for dull nylon trousers in Aladdin's cave- everywhere I looked were would-be Gucci bags, Mui-Mui duplicates and Marc Jacobs wannabes. Having not entered the store since before I left the UK, I was astounded. I'm guessing that teams Marks and Sparks have new buyers, and if so- give them all a pay rise!

Now, look along the high street and you'll find a number of stores copying designer looks (because of course, taking inspiration from the catwalk has been done since the dawn of time, but the difference is here is that the items are sturdy, well-made and have a touch of luxe to them. Take for example those red-tassled heels; the tassles aren't cut nastily, the heel is a comfortable height and the soles are cushioned. Would you find that in Primark? Smh.

Looking at the price points for these items, I am pleasantly surprised! Along the same price point as Spanish retailer Zara, £35 for a pair of shoes from Zara, £30 for a shirt or £40 for a handbag does not sound out of the question. Very affordable, I believe. In my opinion, there are certain places on the HS that have upped their prices over the past year or two and the quality has actually decreased (not naming names...) so to pay such an economical price for good quality items, well you're onto a winner, aren't you?

Real dead ringers for Manolo Blahnik- at a fraction on the price!

I swear come November, I'll have those shoes in every.colour.available.

Such a dream dress- something a Tarot card reading Princess would wear. (Me.)

Bit of a Dolce vibe going on. I'm in love,

Without further ado, here's my top picks from the new M&S collection. Use the arrows to slide right and see more favourites!




The above bag, as seen on abbey_hearts_ insta page (check out her blog here) is one I couldn't find find through the ShopStyle page (which allows me to add the badass widget as seen above).  With a structure akin to Gucci's Dionysus and embroidery to match, it's a real steal at only £45. When my Student Loan comes in, you already know what I'm spending it on. 

Ken Bruce Presents Tracks of My Years

September 03, 2017

Driving my trusty old black Ford Fiesta to university in time for an 11.00 am lecture, I would tune in to Ken Bruce’s radio show on Radio 2 to indulge in the ‘Tracks of my years’ segment. Other than that, I don’t care much for his show (maybe Pop Master if I’m feeling musically savvy) yet I really enjoyed listening to how music has shaped people’s lives. Here, I write about the music that has shaped mine…

First song I remember hearing- The Ramones, ‘Baby I Love You’

It’s not quite the original version, but I remember falling asleep to the sound of my Mum singing this soft-punk tune. Originally a Motown classic, unexpectedly, The Ramones took this song and put their own fantastic spin on it and I adore it. It wasn’t until hearing it on the radio a few years back that I remembered how I knew all the words and a smile grew across my face. I love that my Mum shunned rocking me to sleep to the words of classic lullabies and opted instead to soothe me with the words of Deedee and the gang. It always makes me smile when I listen to the lyrics and reminds me of my Mum’s wonderfully alternative attitude to life.

The song I wish I’d written- Don McLean, ‘American Pie’

I could listen to this song all day every day. An eight-and-a-half-minute history lesson, ample with literary delights and a catchy chorus, this song really makes me think of a time when life was chirpier for people- the good old days and it mourns the passing of an era. The lyrics are so thought provoking, “when Lenin read a book on Marx…” John Lennon or Vladmir, the communist revolutionary? I suppose it could be either and the ambiguity fascinates me. My parents used to play this around the house, and I remember singing it in the bathroom at school with a friend aged 5, so it’s been in my life for a long time. I was obsessed and I still am. In fact, writing this, I’m reminded of Don McLean’s ‘Vincent’ and wish I’d written that too. Both songs are just so so beautiful, inspiring and meaningful.

The best concert I’ve been to- Jake Bugg, 2015/ Vengaboys 2016

This is such a difficult one- my favourite was when I went to see the Vengaboys last summer at a throwback festival with my sister and some friends. We made a conga-line of the Vengabus when they sang ‘We like to Party!’. I’ll never forget looking back and seeing around 200 people linking behind us, conga-ing to an 90s guilty pleasure. However, I know the Vengaboys is hardly a credible gig, so aside from them, my favourite concert was Jake Bugg, when I saw him in Nottingham. His vocals were absolutely incredible and the show wasn’t in your face; just him, a guitar and his band. I thought it was so great, that I saw him twice on that particular tour.

The song that makes me happy- Neil Diamond, ‘Sweet Caroline’

Sweet Caroline is probably the sound track to every holiday car journey we ever made when I was a child. I remember my Mum used to have a tape with this song on and my siblings and I would all join in on the chorus in the back of our apple-red Ford Escort, arms in the air. To this day, we still listen to this song on a car journey (even though we don’t travel together anymore) and reminisce about the good old days. In fact, my sister requested it recently on Simon Mayo’s Drive Time and he played it! You can guarantee that you’ll hear this at any Till family party.

The song that makes me want to dance- The Black Keys, ‘Lonely Boy’

I didn’t even have to think twice about this one- it’s one of those songs that has you dancing without even realising. Despite being released in 2011, I first heard this song on my ERASMUS year in Spain, 2016 and fell in love with it; it soon became our Saturday night anthem. Many a time have my boyfriend and I danced ‘The Carlton’ to this round our bedroom. It’s a callous song and the lyrics bear little meaning for me but oh, that rhythm… (love-eyes emoji)

Karaoke songs- Elvis ‘Suspicious Minds’, Dolly Parton ‘Islands in the Stream’

I’ve never been one to shy away from the lime-light so it probably comes as no surprise that I adore karaoke. My parents bought my older sister and I a karaoke machine for Christmas when we were younger and it’s probably my favourite present ever. We’d duet Elvis’ “Suspicious Minds” and swing our microphones like The King himself. Another one you’d hear us shrieking from upstairs was “Underneath Your Clothes” by Shakira (I genuinely convinced myself at one point that I was going to apply for “Stars in Their Eyes Kids” and perform that). But anyway, as technology developed, Singstar soon became our karaoke machine of choice and here’s where it gets super interesting… This is where we realised I can do a bad-ass tribute to Dolly Parton (my older sister is still insanely jealous of this, right, Beth?). So anyway, ‘Islands in the Stream”, “9-5” “Jolene”… you name it and I’m on it. You never know- if this writing career doesn’t take off, then I’m off to the rodeo.

Song that reminds me of home- The Stone Roses, ‘She Bangs the Drums’

Again, another song that turned into an anthem for my family and I. When I first turned eighteen (and until the pub got a bit shit), my siblings, friends and I would go to this place in Derby called ‘The Blessington Carriage’ at the end of a Saturday night and request this from the DJ. We’d chant our hearts out and dance in our drunken stupor. It’s a song I can sing with my Mum around the house too (after-all, she was the one who introduced me to The Stone Roses). Because I live away from home so much, sometimes I put this gem on Spotify to remember a time of physical unity and the memories I share with my siblings.

Least favourite song- Corinne Bailey Ray, ‘Put Your Records On’

I wouldn’t say that there’s a certain genre of music that I absolutely hate, rather a few songs here and there that I really cant stand. One example of this would be Corinne Bailey Ray’s “Put Your Records On”. I don’t know why, but I’ve never liked it since it’s first release; I skip it every time it appears on a Spotify playlist. I just find it so boring and dull. I wouldn’t particularly say I have a least favourite song, but it’s up there with my dislikes. (Along with Kate Nash’s ‘Foundations’ and anything Enter Shakiri.)

Ultimate desert island disc- Pink Floyd, ‘Dark Side of the Moon’

I only heard this album a few years ago and I fell in love upon first listen. The way the songs can play into one another and it sound like one extended piece is marvellous, yet each song is so different. Whenever I feel stressed or pent up, just listening to this album helps me to relax and understand my emotions better. When I listen, I’m at one with myself and it allows me time to really relax- I suppose my own kind of meditation. Brain Damage’s line ‘there’s someone in my head and it’s not me’ really resounded with me in recent months when I was suffering with depression and it made me realise that I’m not alone, and my feelings weren’t normal. I’d reference this line to people to explain how I felt. The album is a masterpiece and I don’t think I could ever bring myself to skip it on my playlist.

I’ve made a Spotify playlist which you can find here of all these tracks. Hope you enjoyed!

Down Under, week one.

December 20, 2016

My eyes ache and I feel my lids begin to drop as I stare at the seat in front of me and its stripes, violet and grey. I'm not sure where I am, nor what the time is but know that I am 40.000 feet above the majestic world below. My second long haul flight in two days is coming to an end and I'm glad. I've only ever flown long-haul once in my life- a moderate nine hours to the west coast of America- and now I've indulged myself in a 21 hour flight to Sydney. I'm craving a deep sleep, outstretched on a human size mattress, and whilst I'm appreciative of Olive from seat 60A sharing her Waitrose Mint Crumbles with me, I'm longing to shut my eyes once more and let the world pass me by. Literally.
Sydney Opera House

Four hours later, a couple of trains and a long wait by the luggage carousel, I find myself at my destination. The warmth greets me like an old friend and I suddenly realise how much I miss the summer. Stepping outside the station, I'm faced with a small town, the early 20th century fascias staring at me like a five year old who's missing his front teeth. There's a certain shabby charm to the town and it's antiquity and I'm yearning to explore. My friend, Nicole, who's been unable to reach me since I arrived in Sydney hugs me with relief when I come into view. With no idea if I was even on the train, she's overwhelmed with relief to see me, the sweaty, jumper-clad foreigner, finally here in Morrisset, NSW. 
Sydney Opera House on a grey day.
I'm insured on Nicole's car, so she asks if I would like to drive home. Having not driven for a year and a half, I felt like she was offering Christmas Day. I always loved driving and when I sold my car before moving to Spain, I felt like I had said goodbye to my freedom. She gestures at a huge Mitsubishi 4x4 and suddenly the nerves of my first driving lesson come back. I'll be driving what?! It's automatic, so I'm constantly searching for the gear stick and trying to drop the clutch. Furthermore, the indicators are on the wrong side, so when I go to turn into a road, my wipers come on instead. It's okay, I've got this. I've got 4 weeks to perfect driving a bumper car on speed, piece of piss. By the time we arrive home, I've only made the mistake about 4 times and drove through one stop sign. Like I said, I've got this.
By the Sydney Harbour Bridge
Four days later and my friend, Holly, from the UK arrives, also. We do the anticipated trip to the supermarket, marvelling at the produce unavailable in the UK, marvelling at how much produce is available in the UK. I haven't been back to England since September, so the sight of Maltesers, stuffing and cordial is a welcome one indeed. In the basket they all go. Although whilst similar to England in many ways, a difference I noted in the supermarket was that alcohol is sold in separate liquor stores, something more reminiscent of America. We leave the supermarket anticipating a barbecue that evening, although a damper is put on that when I open the BBQ lid to see a cockroach the size of my finger running along the wall behind. Maybe another night.
Catherine's Bay and a surfing compeition
Like most foreigners, when landing up the turf of Oz, we were eager to see some kangaroos. Only a five minute drive away, Morrisett Kangaroo park is next on our agenda.(Note that I changed tense and put "were eager to see some kangaroos"?) That's because upon arriving at the park we saw well over two hundred kangaroos , eating peacefully amongst themselves, not jumping. We pull up by the side of the road, grab our bags of bread and head towards and area where a mother is eating with her two babies. It transpires however, that feeding the kangaroos is a similar experience to feeding the seagulls or any other gannet that can smell food from a million miles away; before we know it, the buggers and their giant claws are bouncing towards us from all angles. In this situation, there was only one thing to do- we threw the bags and ran. They weren't vicious creatures in the slightest, however it was incredibly daunting to see the creatures bouncing towards you like characters in a cartoon strip. This week however, I'm eager to return and feed the beasts from my hand and not flee like the Road Runner. When it's illegal to pet a koala I'm New South Wales, I feel like petting a kangaroo is the next best thing. Come on, Mayah, you can do this.

Sydney Harbour Bridge
Between dilatory days at the beach and serene sunsets, our first week has sped to an end. So far, we've had zero road collisions nor any insect bites, so I suspect we're doing quite well. With the next few weeks holding Christmas Day and New Year's Eve, I can't wait to see what adventures Australia has in store for us.

If you look closely, you can spy the bag of bread we threw.

Interrail Diaries- Prague, Vienna, Bratislava and Budapest Gallery

October 19, 2016
Stefan Basilica, Budapest
It seemed that the further east we went, the more enticing the food. Whilst the prices dropped, the temperatures soared and we were in heaven. People had told me beforehand about the wonders of Prague and Budapest, and they were not wrong. The East was enchanting; fairytale cities veiled in orange rooftops, archaic architecture and rambling trams.  As a self confessed history buff, I was more excited about learning about the communist regimes than taking advantage of the party atmosphere that is widely advertised. (Of course I did both, but you get what I'm saying...) Fascinating relics and mementos are omnipresent in the former Eastern Bloc, both pleasant and no quite so. 

Life lesson number 1- Landlords are universally greedy

October 16, 2016
The last time in which I blogged, things were looking up- I’d found a new place, my Spanish was improving and I was getting back into the swing of the Iberian lifestyle. Fast forward three weeks, and whilst my life has been tilted on it’s axis, I’m happier than ever. The biggest lesson that I have learnt in these past few weeks is that no matter where in the world you go, land lords are, on the whole, greedy, thieving bastards. 

The first problem began to surface when I left Ourense in June, for the summer. My flat last year was all I could’ve wished for and more; my double room had an ensuite and walk in wardrobe whilst the kitchen had an american fridge freezer complete with an ice and water dispenser (I’m easy to please, I know). Our landlady, despite having adapted the mañana mañana attitude as her life mantra (she took my broken toilet seat in the October of 2015 and returned it at the end of February 2016..) was an amiable woman. That was, of course, until I, the final occupier of the flat, had left and she decided to take our whole deposit. Within ten minutes of me boarding the plane home, she’d sent us WhatsApp messages, saying she’d conducted an inspection and the outcome was that we’d have to purchase her a new washing machine, table and even new windows. She even requested more money. The worst part of it was that I was supposed to be renting the flat this year. After threatening her with legal action, she finally relented and refunded us half of our deposits. She then proceeded told me that I couldn’t have the flat upon my return, as if it was’t fucking obvious already.

Under the impression that I’d be spending the following year in the flat, I’d left many of my belongings there; things that wouldn’t have been so easy to transfer home, such as kitchenware and home furnishings. Desperate for some sort of kitchen equipment so I could cook the food I’d previously bought, I enquired about picking up my belongings,  When she finally allowed me to collect them from the flat, she’d suspiciously moved it all into one room and claimed that was all that remained. It does’t take a genius to work out that she was hiding many things. hoping that I would’t remember. Not me, fool, not me... I spent a good while looking for my bed sheets whilst she insisted she’d never seen them- until I noticed she was using them on her bed. Having sent me packing with half of my possessions, it took a further two attempts and what felt like 508974905 read WhatsApp messages until I finally managed to reclaim all of my goods. Finally, she was out of my life for good.

My next problem reared it’s ugly head just when I thought everything was going well; upon viewing my new flat, the Landlord had promised me that I’d be living with Spanish students from the nearby university. Fast forward a week, and you can imagine my surprise when I arrived home late one night to find a 55 year old cleaner in the neighbouring bedroom. Dressed in a house coat and holding a mop, you can understand why I presumed she was the cleaner. The following day, another vacant room was occupied by 36 year-old Lourdes and on weekends, her seven year old daughter. Yes, he had lied through his front teeth. And why wouldn’t he? I had been so desperate to find a new home and have some sort of stability that I probably would’ve believed most things.

Now it isn’t that I didn’t like my new flat mates, nor was I ageist- it was more that we didn’t have much in common. They weren’t the type of women who I could go to the cinema with, or dance until six o’clock with at the weekend. In fact, we barely saw each other and when we did, we didn’t act like flat mates; we all had our own cleaning supplies, keys to our bedrooms and own kitchen equipment. Having been the first to move in, I found it extremely bizarre when they refused my offer of sharing- after all, we all needed washing up liquid, and I’d already bought some…  It felt more like a women’s hostel than a home. I began to dread going home, fearing the awkward conversations and the evenings confined to my room, wifi-less and bored to tears.

Reader, I do hope you’ve noticed that I’ve been talking in the past tense because here is my big news- I now have my own flat. A whole apartment all to myself. I feel like Bridget Jones (big pants and all). Perhaps you’re thinking that I was hasty in my decision to move so quickly, but the truth is, I could’t bear to spend a year of my life living with women who took their toilet paper back to their rooms after using the bathroom. Having been offered a second job this year, I decided to cut my losses and become an independent girl. I've been in my apartment for a week now and I feel like an adult;  I spent Saturday night cleaning the flat instead of partying, I've made my guest bedroom look pretty and I own an Airwick air freshener. If Mum's not proud of me now, I don't know if she ever will be. 

So my month in numbers goes as follows-
Room mates-3
Landlord problems-93489382
Apartments with wifi- 0

Fingers crossed for a smoother second month.

Update- my landlord of the care home told me he'd refund me my whole deposit then only gave me 60€ back. Tosser. I'm glad I threw away the lampshade that he keeps messaging me about.