I know, I know, all I seem to do these days is post about food and trainers but, in my defense, on a micro-level they’re both massive contributors to my remaining sane. I am, like many of my generation, chasing that illusive dream of having it all and by ‘all’ I mean: the all singing, all dancing career that has me telling people ‘I genuinely don’t feel like it’s work, I just love what I do’, that perfectly flawed white knight, the well rounded offspring and then stepping back and being smugly euphoric when I am that rare statistic that can effortlessly juggle it all resulting in the aforementioned smug sense of Zen.

On the other hand, fuck statistics, unrealistic ideals, fighting tooth and nail just to get a foot in the door, only to have it slammed shut resulting in your toenail going black and falling off, kissing frogs convincing yourself they could be ‘the one’ when really they’re just another emotionally disabled warty toad with more game than sense. Some days all I want to do is pop on a pinny, morph into a Stepford Wife who wears Air Force 1′s, spend hours pottering in the kitchen like a kid in a sandpit, listen to music and pretend that cruel and competitive world of ‘trying to have it all’ isn’t clawing at my front door vying for more blood.

Until I figure out the perfect recipe for conventional notions of ‘success’ or denounce it all to go and live a monk-like existence in Tibet, when times get tough and nothing makes sense to me, I will simply seek solace in my kitchen and get very good at baking and, more than likely, get a little chubby as I console myself with cake.