My Bikini Body Guide

I’m going to talk today about another societal construct that infuriates me no end.

The Bikini Body Guide

There are so many GET YOUR BODY BEACH READY and IT’S HOLIDAY TIME, CAN YOU STILL FIT INTO YOUR BIKINI? memes and magazine articles circulating just now. Just like every other year as the weather (supposedly) starts to brighten and the air gets a little less nippy.

If you know me at all, you’ll know my feelings on these. I can’t stand them.

They force this idea onto society that bikini wearers can only be busty, flat stomached, round hipped, long legged women with perfectly smooth legs, a dazzling smile and not a bead of sweat in sight.

It’s all lies.

Equally, though, I sometimes find the whole “To get a bikini body, put a bikini on” rebuttal a little too simplistic. For some of us, who are perhaps more prone to a lack in body confidence or have never before bared their belly outside the bedroom or bathroom, it is not as easy as slipping into a two piece and running towards the sea Baywatch style, desperately hoping you don’t accidentally flash your tatas to the world.

IMO, there are a couple of steps between deciding to buy a bikini and doing a PamAn along the golden sands. Here’s my 4-step bikini body how to guide for all of you planning your holibobs this summer.

Bigging up your body

The first step to buying a bikini is actually finding the love you have for your body. This may come naturally to you; you may be incredibly comfortable with how you look.

Or you may struggle with that horrible, terrible, oh-so-convincing voice that pipes up every time you start to find your confidence that tells you flat out that you can’t or shouldn’t wear a bikini.

So, to begin your bikini body journey, you need to stand in front of your mirror. You can strip down to your skivvies if you like, there’s no right or wrong way to do this. But you have to look yourself in the eye and find your beauty. Look at the parts of you that make you go “Heck yeah I look good”. Appreciate them. Hug them. Tell yourself you love them.

Then go to the bits you maybe wish weren’t on show when you wore a bikini. Give them a long, hard look. Accept them for how they are. Maybe you’re in the process of changing them, maybe you’re not. Understand that this is the stage they’re at now. And they’re beautiful.

You have likely lived with those parts of you your whole life. They’ve grown with you. Propped you up on exam tables. Been a cushion for someone to rest their head on you. Moved you across a dance floor or acted as a table for your plate when you’re eating dinner in bed. Maybe it’s the source of your obnoxiously loud or mouse-like sneezes. Perhaps they jiggle when you laugh or run.

They’re unique.

And brilliant.

They’re the building blocks that create you – the things that help make the glorious human that you are.

Buying a bikini

This is potentially harder than just rocking up in Primark and picking a pretty pattern. There are shapes, sizes and the whole separates issue to battle through first. I own a pair of breasts. They are quite nice breasts. They tend to fit into a size 14 t-shirt without much complaint.However Primark’s t-shirt sizes for boobs don’t work well for me.

And even if my boobs did fit the size 14 top, there’s no way my butt is squeezing into the same sized bottoms that come in the matching set. It may be £12, but the savings enjoyed by my bank account will soon pale in comparison to the loss in my confidence as I hope that somehow my butt will not burst straight back out those bottoms.

There are lots of different places to buy bikinis from. Shop around, find the style that suits you and make no compromises. You’re going on holiday, you want to feel good. Don’t try and force yourself to wear something you’re not comfortable in.

Hitting the beach

Accept that, if you’re a little short on the body confidence front, you won’t be the only one. When you walk onto that beach or to that poolside, remind yourself that while you’re so busy worrying about how other people see you, many others will be thinking the same. Then there will be those too busy enjoying their holiday to notice who’s wearing a bikini and who’s in a turtleneck.

So much of what those magazines peddle at us is nonsense – but the biggest lie of all is that the general public’s opinion of your looks matter in any way. This couldn’t be further from the truth. When you truly find yourself believing that the only opinion of any value is yours, you’ll start wearing your bikini for you and not the rest of the world.

Self Appreciation Time

Take a selfie. Give yourself a wee hug. Or another mojito. Eat a whole watermelon or have a burger and dessert.Whether you share your love for your body with the world, or just yourself, is up to you. (Personally I’d appreciate you all filling my Instagram feed with your bikini bods, but that’s just me.)

Just make sure to take some time to really appreciate the fact that you look good, you feel good and (if you’re like me and rarely go for practical holiday beachwear) you’re going to come home with some interesting tan lines.

The whole point of this 4 step guide to a bikini body is to highlight the hypocrisies of those magazines that promise to get you “beach ready” in 4 weeks. The fact of the matter is that if you have booked your holiday you’re beach ready.

The trick is to find the love for yourself to wear a bikini that those magazines may try and convince you that you’re not allowed to wear them. They are made in all sizes for a reason.

Wear that bikini proudly and loudly.

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Bottoming Out – or why tights are the Devil’s underwear

I wore a dress to work yesterday. I’d been in jeans and leggings all week and my thighs weren’t thanking me for it.

It’s one of my favourite dresses; vintage, knee length and has silver thread through it.

Yesterday started off well. I got up in enough time to brush my freshly washed hair and put make up on – a rare occurrence for sure. I felt on it.

(Slight divergence, but does anyone know what we’re supposed to be On when we’re On It? Like, what is It??)

Anyway, I was wearing my big girl witchy shoes and everything. They are from M&S. They make me feel powerful. They are pointy toed. They have enough of a block heel to make them clip and clop as I cross the office foyer. I love those shoes.

So, I got through the entire day. No casualties, issues or upset. It was a productive day – I mapped two blog posts, created a checklist for the blogging process and managed to contribute in a workshop on buyer personas (look at me learning the new job lingo!)

I even had a shopping list written for the night’s dinner.

The sun was shining as I left the office. I was ready to great the weekend with a smile.

Fast forward to just far enough away from the office to warrant turning round, and the worst thing happened. My tights rolled right over my hips and belly bulge (we had a welcome lunch for the new guy and my food baby was huuuuge).

Now, I’m not talking a wee, easily rectified slip.

No no.

What I experienced was utter betrayal.

Down to my mid-thigh, chafe-inducing, butt-out exposure.

Well fuck me sideways.

How was I supposed to walk to Tesco, round Tesco and then on to Tam’s flat?!

I panicked. Hard.

So of course I messaged Tam in said fit of panic. He was useless.

He sent two laughing emojis and told me there was nothing he could do. What about emotional support, you heartless bastard???

So, I had my hand in my jacket pocket, holding my tights up as high as possible to prevent tripping myself up with tights round my ankles and hobbled as quickly as humanly possible to Tesco.

Once there, I headed for the clothing section, hoping I’d find a changing room or bathroom.

It’s at this point in the story that I’d like to play a game – that childhood favourite Fortunately Unfortunately.

Fortunately – I located both the bathroom and changing room quickly. They were next to each other.

Unfortunately – both were locked and required a member of staff to unlock them.

Fortunately – that was the end of the game. There were no Fortunatelys left.

Unfortunately – I was surrounded by 2 families, had tights now dangerously close to revealing their crotch below the hem of my dress, I was sweating profusely due to the stress of my situation and could see no way out.

So, I did what I had to.

I pretended to be trying a pair of shoes on and whipped the damn things off as quickly and discreetly as possible. Which, from the looks I got from a couple at the end of the aisle, wasn’t discreet enough.

The horror doesn’t end there, though. Oh no. That would be far too easy.

Have you ever tried to slip on a pair of leather shoes that cover the top of your foot when your feet are hot, you’re in panic mode and you have nothing to create a barrier between leather and skin?

If you haven’t, let me tell you – it’s absolutely horrific.

It took me 4 minutes of huffing, puffing, pulling and muttering under my breath to get the first foot in a shoe. The shame was almost too much.

Eventually, after my shoes were on, tights shoved into my handbag with as much contempt as I could muster, I zoomed round Tesco and was on my way.

I’d like to take a moment to apologise to my poor feet. They endured a hell of a beating on the walk from Tesco to Tam’s. I promise never to mistreat you like that ever again.

So, I guess the moral of the story is to always have a pair of back up tights, but really, invest in better quality tights than shitty Primark ones. Those fickle bastards will leave you high and dry in your hour of need.

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Don’t shit on Barry Manilow’s coming out. It makes you a dick.

That’s right, everyone’s favourite Copacabana crooner has come out at the ripe age of 73.

Before you scoff and start up with your duhs and obviouslys, think about why this is important.

Barry Manilow married a man in 2014. Manilow, while camp as a row of tents and flamboyant to boot, never once addressed his homosexuality to the press or public. He and his husband have been in a relationship since 1978.

His courage may give others the confidence they need to be true to themselves and their loved ones about who they really are.

What I really can’t stand about this story is that people are shooting down his courage. I don’t care if you think your gaydar is 100% accurate (which it can’t be, btw, because sexuality is fluid and far from static – but that’s another rant for another day). You have no right to take this defining moment from anyone, regardless of their celebrity status.

Jezebel published a sarcastic, patronising article about Manilow’s coming out and it pissed me the hell off. I’ll tell you something, Babe, you can take your judgemental attitude and omnipotent gaydar and shove it. Downplaying the importance of any person’s public coming out makes you a dick. End of story.

There he was, a “rich white gay man” as Jezebel dubbed him, and yet he couldn’t be honest with the world about the love he felt for this man because, as he opened up in an interview with People, he thought he would “disappoint fans” if they knew he was gay. I don’t know about you, but I find that heartbreaking.

Coming out at any age is a big deal. My new favourite Netflix show, Grace and Frankie, is testament to that. As Robert, who came out as gay after 40 years of marriage, notes in episode 4  “I’m never not going to come out, am I?” This speaks a great deal to a stigma and unavoidable eventuality for older people and their sexuality.

Sexuality, gender and identity among the older generations are beginning to receive more attention in the press and media. In 2010, Ewan McGregor played the supportive son of Christopher Plummer in the film Beginners, where Plummer’s character comes out as gay. Amazon debuted Transparent in 2014. It follows the story of retired college professor Maura Pfefferman (Jeremy Tambor) and her family’s journey after she opens up about having always identified as a woman.

More recently, Patricia Davis made the headlines in March after publicly declaring her transition at 90 years old. The WWII veteran explained that her late wife was very supportive when she explained her identity and bought Patricia jewellery to wear in private. Now, there’s no stopping Patricia living her life as her true self and advises to others “Don’t worry, as long as you’re happy”.

There has been an increasing visibility in the media about non-hetero-normative relationships and non-binary gender identities, much to my delight. We need to continue shining a light on these stories of people accepting themselves and their identities to encourage others to do the same.

Not everyone realises how daunting coming out can be, even if your peers already think they know how you identity. Barry Manilow is a prime example of that. To reach 73 and finally feel ready to publicly announce that he is gay is courageous and heartwarming. He grew up in a time far less outwardly liberal and with a support network for those of the LGBTQIA community largely muffled by larger society.

We are now seeing individuality, sexuality, gender and identity celebrated in all their vibrant, brilliant, beautiful forms. So much so that the man who brought us Mandy and Can’t Smile Without You is ready to tell the world, not just let them assume, about his sexuality.

Live your best life, Barry.

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The Truth Will Set You Free…if you’re prepared to cry, curse and work your butt off.

A year ago I had the metaphorical rug pulled out from under me. I confronted a lie and learned the truth. A reality that seemed so alien to me I couldn’t believe it, but I knew it couldn’t not be true. It was a horrible, devastating truth that broke my heart and left me reeling.

They say the truth will set you free. I call bullshit. The truth is a kick in the teeth. It’s what you do with the truth that determines your freedom from whatever shackles your lie locked you in.

Truth isn’t freeing. Truth has you believing that you will never put your complete trust in another human ever again. Not even your own mother. Turns out that’s utter nonsense and if your mother is anything like my Mummy Manda, you’ll lean on that woman more than you could ever imagine in the weeks that follow having removed that lie-ridden wool that was pulled over your eyes for six months.

Crying is certainly more cathartic than the truth. So is getting angry. And punching pillows. Just don’t go to town too hard on your decorative cushions or the stuffing will escape and that’s a hell of a mess to clean up. Although you can add it to the list of reasons why you despise the person who made you punch your pillow. You also now have a legitimate reason for retail therapy, so it’s not all bad.

Reaching milestones is absolutely better for confidence building after feeling insecure or unwanted or less than. The truth sits there loud, obnoxious and unfaltering. Realising you’ve gone a whole day without crying or checking your phone or obsessively looking at their social media accounts as if somehow those will give your answers that counter what you know to be true is a much stronger sign that you’ll get past your hurt.

And sitting on your boyfriend’s bed telling him the shit show that you thought would break you happened a whole year ago today only to hear him responding that “We should thank him” is 100% more freeing and affirming than any truth or version of it that was stuffed down your throat by those who didn’t care enough about you to matter anymore.

We’ve all been through something. We’ve all been hurt by those we considered closest to us. We’ve had things said that, no matter how many apologies or excuses we hear, we’ll never truly get over. We’ve all learned things about people we thought we knew that turned our opinions on their head. It’s how we deal with those moments after those truths that free us.


I’ve cried. I’ve stalked social media profiles. I’ve punched pillows. I’ve necked a bottle of prosecco naked because I was told it wasn’t socially acceptable to get drunk in my pjs (how’s that for logic). I even wrote letters that would never see an envelope or stamp. I’ve catharted all over the place. The truth has nothing to do with me rebuilding my confidence or ability to trust in people or have faith in myself that I was worthy of love. It was facing those insecurities and doubts and pushing through. It was surrounding myself with those who truly matter and leaving behind those who don’t.


So, no – the truth doesn’t set you free. It’s just the vessel that gets you to the place that you need to start rebuilding from. Rome wasn’t built in a day and neither will your faith be, but perseverance, tears and people who love you are a good place to start.

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Cross Stitching – Approach With Caution

Today I was hit with the Spring Clean vibe really hard and decided to gut my bedroom. Don’t ask me why it had to happen on the sunniest day of the week or why I didn’t think to postpone until the weather turned for the worse. It was nice letting the natural light in through the patio door right enough, and I did open windows to air the flat out a bit (which felt like a very grown up thing to do).

The Spring Clean of 2017 is still a work in progress, but my desk is now a workable area which is really exciting (if you’re excited by things like giving objects a specific home on/under a desk, which I am) and I have set up my laptop so I feel more in the zone for writing and generally more productive with less clutter in my space.

As part of the clear out, I have created my own little craft corner which houses everything from photography books to knitting needles, my sewing box, colouring books and my calligraphy set:

Ain’t it cute?! And super tidy, considering it’s my stuff we’re talking about, and the ridiculous volume of things there were to find a home for. I have all my sheet music hidden at the back too. It’s a very handy wee hidey hole!

Although my love for crafts and arty ways to pass time span a whole variety of activities, my newest hobby is cross stitching. And I must admit, it is bloody marvelous.

My sister got me hooked with this wonderful kit she gave me for Christmas:

(kit available from the Geeky Stitching Co)

Cute, right!?

Cross stitch is a great way for me to spend my time for several reasons – it’s a creative outlet, it’s plannable (I now have a square paper jotter to sketch potential designs in *squee*) and it keeps both my hands and mind busy. It’s also great when partnered with a bingeable series on Netflix.

(available here)

So, cross stitching is my latest craft love. I won’t lie, I went a little crazy at Hobbycraft this week, buying hoops, cloth and this:


And just because it’s so darn beautiful, here is my collection in rainbow fashion.


This particular set of 100 threads was £16 and worth every penny. So, yes, I have well and truly caught the cross stitch bug.

However, it is not a hobby without peril. Please, folks, tackle the stitching with caution.

You see, a lot of my cross stitching is done while I’m lying in bed. This is a prime location for many reasons; not least comfort and space to spread out all materials while exerting as little energy as possible for retrieval (I can now reach my sewing box without having to physically leave my bed – result!)

It is a pretty safe bet that if I am working from my bed, I will be in pjs or some other form of loungewear. I detest lying in bed in jeans after 7pm and the bra comes off as soon as humanly possible – if I was wearing one at all to begin with.

It is at this precise moment that cross stitching transforms into something of a safety hazard for me.

What you have to understand is that I am not the most elegant of people. Nor the most coordinated. I approach most things with gusto and grace just waltzes on out the door before I get a look in. This doesn’t really affect me in everyday life. Just don’t ask me to slice a bagel or sidle up to the barre.

When my klutzy tendencies do affect me, though, is the moment my bra comes off and the embroidery hoop is picked up.

Let me clarify – needles are sharp, my boobs are unprotected; injuries ensue.

I won’t lie, blood has been drawn a handful of times and my boobs are not the only victim. My fingers, thighs and elbow (I don’t even know) have endured the stabby stabby from my cross stitching attempts. My boyfriend’s eye has had a few close calls too – he knows to swerve when my arm starts extending to pull through a long thread. (Personally I blame him – it’s not my fault that I’m left handed and he sits on my left…)

I suppose the moral of the story here is to:

1. wear protective clothing when handling sharp objects, especially embroidery needles, and

2. work out seating arrangements before readying said sharp object for stitches to avoid other casualties.

As much as I detest wearing padded bras, it would seem they are part of the uniform necessary to keep my poor wee tatas safe from the evil pointy stabber.

I’m sure there’s some poetic irony to be pulled from a needle creating beauty despite its cold, painful composition, but it’s too late in the day to deduce it.

Currently, I’m working on a piece inspired by a stall I’ve fallen in love with in the Royal Mile Market at the Tron Kirk. I bought a wonderful little ring from the stall and ever since I’ve been more determined to spend time refining my witchy side.

This hoop is going to be magical and I’m attempting to channel my best moonchild vibes to give it the mystical edge I’m desperate to create.

Updates to follow!

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There’s No Place Like Home

Today I say goodbye to the place I have called home for nearly 14 years.

In 2003 we moved into this house. Among other things, it has seen me through primary school, high school, university, losing our wonderful Chocolate Labrador; Fudge, and entering the big ole world of work.

Moving took a lot of adjusting. For one thing, I’d only ever been on a school bus once or twice, now I’d be taking one every day of primary school. Boys were another adjustment. I’d been to an all-girls school in Glasgow – I was not prepared to deal with boys and their teasing or hair pulling or smell. Some things you just never fully adapt to.

As I grew older, I remember being so ready to leave the tiny town and explore pastures new. But the night before I left for uni I was in floods of tears; the move was incredibly daunting. 150 miles away from my family, no friends going with me. I was comforted with Mamma Mia and popcorn, and the promise of being brought back home once my stuff was moved into halls. After flitting my gear from Oban to Edinburgh the following day, my parents snuck out without saying goodbye to make sure I didn’t jump in the car with them. Soon after, they were the ones asking me when I’d next be home, while I was busy galavanting and studying (yes, really, I did study…sometimes).

Maya Angelou said something that fits my relationship with this house, and Oban, perfectly:

The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.

I’ve grown up here; played dress up, forged friendships, learned scripts, practiced dances, sprained ankles falling down rabbit holes (not some of my finest moments) and mended broken hearts.

The sea views and home comforts have seen me through many tear fests and giggle fits, sleepovers and all nighters.

From wearing bridesmaids dresses and parading up and down the stairs to hiding in the Tiggy-Winkle cupboard (aptly named after the Beatrix Potter paper that adorned the walls) playing Sardines; I have so many wonderful memories.

I’m still too scared to walk up the stairs to bed in the dark and I will always find that attic creepy as hell. Too many badly lit corners and sloping ceilings and cobwebs. Perfect hiding place for monsters and baddies from storybooks. I have done my best to avoid spending time at there at all costs. Not today, Satan, not today.

Every time my chimney threw down stones in stormy weather I’d get the fright of my life, even when I remembered beforehand that it was bound to happen.

The wee nook in my bedroom window with my beanbag saw many books devoured.

The cupboard by the fireplace hoarded treasures and keepsakes of milestones gone by; from my signed leavers Park Primary polo shirt to painted pottery to photographs of musicals I’ve been in.

I mended my broken heart from within that bedroom. My pillow soaked up so many tears and it was cocooned in that duvet that I wrote my frustrations and hurt and anguish away. I overcame loneliness and hurt and loss of important friendships in that room. Those four walls were the safest of havens in some of my darkest moments.

Now empty, the den holds some wonderful memories too. Phone calls with Cal, Grease singalongs and painting the walls with colours that definitely didn’t match the curtains or carpets.

The front door handle that always came flying out if you didn’t turn it the right way provided lots of entertainment. I always laughed watching others do it and seeing their faces contort in horror, thinking they’d broken our door and locked us in. I still did it myself, even this morning as I was filling up the car.

I’ll especially miss the kitchen. That hob though. And that oven produced some of my finest baking over the years. The corner by the cook book and CD player was a particular favourite of mine. I would thumb through one of the many Jamie Olivers or occasionally Nigella’s latest book, belting out Nina Simone or Harry Connick Jr. Latterly Adele and Elbow made the playlist too.

Takeaways and late nights singing and making memories in the conservatory. Camping in the garden that one time. Naming the back road Sweetie Lane because it came out at the Old Fashioned Sweet shop – I was definitely one of their best (by which I mean most frequent) customers. Managing to sleep 9 people in the house at once.

This house has been the common ground for so many memories, so much happiness and personal peace.

I am truly sad to be closing this front door for the final time.

However, I’m also incredibly excited to not have to travel for 5 hours for snuggles with my dog. I’ll just have to walk down the hill and she’ll be there for walks and naps. (Having my parents closer will be great too, obvs.)

My mum’s family are still in Oban. I will always have ties to this wonderful town. The family I’ve made here, too, from Spotlight and school and other places are just as much a reason to return.

I can’t let go of the sea. I’m a west coaster at heart. I will forever yearn to be by it, be seduced by the serenity of it and miss it massively when I’m away.

It won’t be long before I’m back visiting, but this new chapter is itching to be lived out and I’m ready to see what the future holds for the King family in Edinburgh. New city, new adventure.

Can you believe the three of them copied me, upped sticks and moved to my city? I am a trendsetter, evidently.

No matter where I am in the world, part of me will forever be tied to this little coastal town and I will continue to miss it terribly when I’m not here – pesky seagulls and all.

Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave,

and grow old waiting to get back to.

– John Ed Pearce

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Top 5 Fave Females

It’s International Women’s Day!

In celebration of all the women out there who work hard, fight the patriarchy and are generally just Girl Bosses, I’ve put together a list of 5 of my biggest role models and current inspirational women to in my life.

Some who didn’t make the top 5 but are more than deserving of a mention: actual Girlboss Sophia Amoruso, Fearne Cotton (her style though), the unstoppable Viola Davis, Carrie Fisher – may she rest in peace, the fierce and fabulous transgender rights activist Laverne Cox and actor, activist and all round great gal Emma Watson.

There are so many more women I could have mentioned, but I’ve have been here for days. I’ll try and cover some more of my heroes in another post soon!

Anyhow, here they are – my top 5 favourite females:


5. Victoria Beckham

Clichéd? Yes. But I have a hell of a lot of time for this woman. As a kid I was often referred to as The Posh One because of my accent and being a city girl. Spice Girls taught me a lot of things, including the lesson that Posh isn’t negative. Her letter to her younger self published in Vogue really spoke to me, too. Her openness about her lack of confidence, self-image issues and knockbacks sounded a lot like the sorts of feelings I go through in cycles. To hear from someone as accomplished and beautiful as her gave me hope that one day I’ll get over my insecurities, too. She’s a cool, funny lady who adores her kids, creates clothes that are outta this world and she’s totally down to earth. Also her instagram is bangin.


4. Dame Stephanie “Steve” Shirley

If you haven’t already, you need to watch Dame Stephanie Shirley’s TED Talk. It’s hugely inspirational and motivational. (AND THAT SHIRT!!)

She reminds me that I can aim high and that I need to keep working hard to get to where I want to be. But that I should also have fun while I’m at it. Her life hasn’t been without its hardships, but she never let anything slow her, she only ever approached life in a positive manner and I admire her greatly for that alone. I’m really tempted to apply for a job under a male name to see what happens…


3. Malala Yousafzai

Unless you’ve been living in a hole these past few years, you’ll have heard of how incredible Malala is.

Published by the BBC at 11 on her experiences of living in Taliban-occupied Swat, nominated for the International Children’s Peace Prize by Desmond Tutu and nearly assassinated aged 14; Malala has literally been through the wars. She’s one of the most inspirational young women in the world. She’s a world-renowned education rights activist and was co-awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. She blows me away with her determination and passion for education. She more than qualifies as one of my fave females.


2. Michelle Obama

A woman who needs no introduction.

Former First Lady, mother, activist, fashion icon and incredible Mom Dancer, this lady doesn’t stop at glass ceilings – she smashes through them time and time again.

There’s also the fact that she can belt it out with James Corden in a car round the White House grounds and KILL IT.

Need I say more?


1. My Mum

Yes, it’s predictable. Yes, it’s true. Mummy Manda is my number one role model. Camera shy, passionate, emotional and the best listener I’ve ever known. Gardening mad, lover of a good smelling candle and sofa napper extraordinaire; she has taught me so much and still has more lessons to impart (not least in the kitchen). I know she’s always there at the end of the phone. Or the end of the road come next week. I love that woman with all my heart.

Mum, you are so incredibly special. Thank you for all your love and support, even when I didn’t really deserve it. I can’t wait to drink too much gin and never look at bubble wrap ever again with you.

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This Little Piggy Went and Made Herself a Website!

Welcome to my brand spanking new website!

Here you will find a collection of thoughts, self-discovery and nonsense written by yours truly.

About me
I’m Amy – an Edinburgh-based Linguistics graduate with a penchant for good grammar, better brownies and the best mojitos (which can be found in El Barrio).

By day I work in marketing – specifically creating social media and blog content – and by night I cross stitch, binge-watch Brooklyn Nine-Nine and rapidly grow my addiction to Castle Crushers thanks to my wonderful boyfriend. (I always play the cute pink one whose magic is literally rainbows and penguins.)

A huge fan of feminism, body positivity, sex education and open discussions about mental health, there will undoubtedly be posts about these topics popping up around the blog. I thrive on sarcasm, sugar and cute animal GIFs so there will be plenty of that sparkly stuff featured here too.

Blogging, and writing more generally, is a therapeutic avenue for soul searching. It also provides me a space to talk about things I’m interested in, share some sweet pig GIFs and generally just have a one-sided chat with anyone listening.

About the name
When I was born, I was small. I also snuffled in my sleep. I was as small as some of my teddies, including Piglet from Winnie the Pooh. You can guess the rest.

More recently, my unique laugh has been compared to a little piggy’s squeals and I’m none too ashamed to admit that I’m okay with this comparison.

It’s also true that I’ve often likened myself to a pig because *surprise reveal* I sometimes have a wonky body image. This is something I occasionally find tricky to pinpoint, so to get a better idea of how my own brain works and to boost the old self-confidence, I’ve been making more of a conscious effort to turn negatives into positives. It was during this endeavour and the encouragement from some dear friends that The Squealing Piglet was born.

Fun fact: I was originally going to name this blog The Fat Unicorn, but I’m saving that for my autobiography when I’m 90 and wrinkly and fabulous like Baddiewinkle. I just drew a Copyright sign in the air to make that idea officially mine. Y’all better not steal it.

About the blog
The views I post about are my own, unless otherwise stated. The Linguistics student in me will ensure references are cited because that’s a hard habit to break.

This Little Piggy will host all the random things like entertaining face mask reviews, feminist musings, baking fails, crafty projects and piglet GIFs because they make me happy and it would be criminal to not share the cuteness around.

Grad life is new and exciting and scary. It’s also an inevitable eventuality for students. I’ll be dropping anecdotes, adulting updates and my hints and tips for preparing to join the working world.

I am a massive word nerd, which is lucky or my degree could have been painful, so there is a section dedicated to language facts, thoughts and epiphanies – largely thanks to my Ling Ladies from uni and Susie Dent who is my idol.

I’ll also be chatting about mental health because I’m not afraid of it. Most of the time. There are some really powerful campaigns running just now to improve understanding and conversation around mental health and I’m excited to get more involved with that – discussing my own and others’ experiences.

Piggy Pics is exactly what it says – I’ll be sharing my favourite pig-related GIFs and memes here because who doesn’t love watching a piglet twerk or a good pig pun?

Lastly, I should say that this blog is a constant work in progress. It’s my first website, so curation could get a little hairy. I’m learning on the job which is the best way to go but with no guidance except some tutorials online (which can be super dodgy or have really annoying background music like the track that played during art creation segments of Art Attack), you’ll have to be patient.

I also love feedback (another Linguistics student thing) so if you have any, drop me a line! My contact details are on the homepage.

Much love

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