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Dottie OddSox, Accrington (2025)

10/12/2025

Greetings, peasants.

Allow me to explain the incident that occurred yesterday, since the human version of events was, as usual dramatic, inaccurate, and deeply disrespectful to my skills as a warrior.

Picture it:
The living room. Peaceful. Cosy. Smelling faintly of pasta and questionable life choices. I sensed a lack of Tuna in my dish. The rumblings of hanger starting to arise. It had been precisely 67 minutes since the anxious one gave me snackies.

I was sat elegantly on the windowsill, surveying my kingdom, when I spotted it.

THE ENEMY.

A dark figure. Silent. Menacing. Matching my every movement with eerie precision.

Was it the neighbour’s cat? Was it a demon? Was it MY OWN REFLECTION? Irrelevant. I do not take chances.

So naturally, I puffed up to three times my size like a microwave ready marshmallow of death and launched into Combat Mode.

I went for a warning strike.

The Christmas snowballs? Collateral damage. They knew the risks when they became décor.

Then the pine branches grabbed me. Did I panic? No. I made it fashion.

Meanwhile the human, who does NOTHING around here except feed me, house me, and adore me, stood there gasping, she is useless. Honestly. Standards.

Anyway, the threat was neutralised.
(I think. Hard to tell. It disappeared when I blinked.)

Please send praise, treats, and a formal apology for doubting my bravery. Or don’t. I’m not your cat.

Signed,
Luna Dog (The Cat)
Protector of Windows
Slayer of Snowballs
Enemy of… whatever that thing was

09/12/2025

All was calm.
All was bright.
I was in full Festive relax mode, tree twinkling, candles glowing, pasta masterpiece simmering away like I’m Nigella but with more panic and fewer cleavage based close ups.

And then…

THE BEAST AWOKE.

Luna Dog (The Cat) suddenly went from being a pretty window silhouette to a WAR CRIMINAL IN A FUR COAT in 0.0003 seconds.

One minute she’s admiring the ambience.
The next she’s EXPLODING in puff mode, shrieking at either:

A) Her own reflection
B) The neighbour’s cat
C) My Christmas décor
D) All of the above because she thrives on chaos

My innocent decorative snowballs?
SCATTERED.
They weren’t ready. I wasn’t ready. The retired Elf certainly wasn’t ready.

She launched herself like a festive ninja, got her claws stuck in the fake pine branches, and in true Luna Dog (The Cat) fashion STYLED. IT. OUT.
As if she meant to perform an aerial assault on my garland at 7pm on a Tuesday.

Honestly, this house is 90% twinkle lights and 10% pure trauma.

Merry December, everyone.
May your baubles stay attached and your cats remain…
Well.
Cats.

🎄✨ Secure your snowballs. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum. ✨🎄

P.S Please see the comments for video evidence

01/12/2025

Merry December ya filthy animals!

Let the surviving on cheese, chocolate and fairy dust commence.

Here’s to never really knowing what day it is!

25/11/2025

📣 BREAKING NEWS: LUNA DOG (THE CAT) HAS BEEN CAUGHT IN 4K BEING… CUTE.

I repeat: CUTE.
Soft. Fluffy. Belly-out adorable. She rolled over like a tiny monochrome sea lion and demanded tummy rubs like she pays rent.

Pic 1: “Hello hooman, please admire my splendour.”
Pic 2: “Yes, right there, scratch the tum. You may continue.”
Pic 3: “DELETE. THAT. RIGHT. NOW.”

Honestly the switch was IMMEDIATE. One second she was “rub my belly, peasant,” the next she was giving full witness protection programme panic, eyes screaming:

👁️ “I HAVE A REPUTATION.”
👁️ “I AM HARD. I AM FEARED.”
👁️ “THIS FOOTAGE CANNOT GET OUT.”

Im confident she’s now in talks with her cat lawyers, with a cease and desist on the way titled:
“Stop Spreading Lies About My Softness.”

Anyway, enjoy this rare sighting of Luna Dog (The Cat) being affectionate… before she remembers she’s plotting world domination and tries to bite my kneecaps again.

Take pictures of your pet precariously. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

22/11/2025

Ladies, gentlemen, and emotionally unstable houseplants…
(Strap in, this is a long read)
As of today, I have officially turned 45 years old.

FORTY. FIVE.

That’s halfway to 90.

I am now older than the age I once considered “basically ancient.”
19 year old me would look at current me and whisper:
“…wow… she’s still ALIVE?”

The Boy celebrated this milestone by crossing out “Mum” on my birthday card and replacing it with:

“OLD PERSON.”

Shmebecca informed me I’ve been moved into a new age bracket on questionnaires.

And yet…Despite being spiritually 97, physically 112 and emotionally one spider away from a care home…

I am still here.
Still chaotic.
Still inappropriate.
Still Dottie.

So, to honour this historic, slightly dusty occasion…
Here are 45 things about me you may or may not know.

1. I cannot stand golden syrup. If it’s in the room, I’m out of the room.

2. I always wear odd socks. Life’s too short to pair your socks.

3. I broke my leg at 2 and spent my 3rd birthday in hospital, which is why I don’t trust those stupid relighting candles. Witchcraft.

4. Crisp butties are elite foodage. As are bacon butties with HP sauce. My love language.

5. I have NEVER been happy with my hair. Not once. Not even for five minutes.

6. Born in Blackburn in 1980. You’re welcome, Earth.

7. I’ve done two skydives, which is wild considering I get nervous answering the phone.

8. I am EXTREMELY sarcastic. Like Olympic level.

9. My fingers are shaped like chipolatas and I have accepted my fate.

10. My toes? Cashew nuts. Glamorous.

11. My dream job until age 10 was Tonka Truck driver. Peak ambition.

12. I have a deep fear of being buried alive, so please don’t.

13. When pregnant I craved banana milkshake and ice-cold KitKat Chunkies and had to eat them with my back teeth.

14. My favourite childhood goldfish was called “Cheesecake.” May he rest.

15. I have survived THREE house fires, which means I’m either very lucky or extremely flammable.

16. I am wildly unorganised. My brain is basically a tumble dryer full of socks and panic.

17. I am a self taught photographer. No idea how, but I did it.

18. I LOVE the cold and snow. Burr! Frostbite me up, baby.

19. I can do an incredible Irish accent. To be sure.

20. I LOVE to laugh. It’s my cardio.

21. Chronic pain/Fibromyalgia warrior, powered by grit and sarcasm.

22. I would love naturally curly hair.

23. Superhero and comedy movies are my church.

24. My favourite sound in the WORLD is The Boy laughing. Untouchable.

25. I try every day to make at least one person laugh. Mission usually accomplished.

26. I have ZERO regrets. Not a single one.

27. I love teeny tiny feet. Don’t question it.

28. My intuition has NEVER failed me. Freaky accurate.

29. I love to sing. Loudly. Badly. Operatically.

30. I’m attempting to write a book.

31. I don’t have a favourite colour.

32. I have a tattoo of a ferret wearing a police siren hat, sitting in an exploding tyre.

33. I have a very quick temper but I contain it like a responsible adult slash volcano.

34. I am unbelievably proud of everything Heartfelt and Cherished achieved. It saved me.

35. Me and my best friend once swapped identities during a police stop. We got away with it. Don’t tell my mum. Or the police.

36. I literally cannot imagine my life without Braeden “The Boy” McGloine. He is my whole heart.

37. I am an EXTREMELY good listener. Unless there’s soup.

38. I live/cope/deal with anxiety every day. Still laughing though.

39. I have a genuine emotional relationship with soup. I don’t just eat it. I connect with it.

40. Schitt’s Creek is my favourite show ever. Fold in the cheese.

41. I was once on CBeebies’ “Treasure Champs,” proving I’m basically a celebrity.

42. I cannot say the word ANONYMITY. I physically can’t. Stop asking.

43. If TikTok existed when I was 15–23, I’d either be a millionaire or a missing person through shame.

44. My cat is a secret agent plotting world domination and honestly? I respect her hustle.

45. Despite being 45 (which is basically 97 spiritually), I am still chaotic, still hilarious, still oversharing on t’interweb and genuinely, unapologetically proud of the woman I’ve become.

Age responsibly. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

22/11/2025

Hello.

I am The Duvet. Yes that duvet. Let me begin by saying: I did NOT sign up for this.

One minute I’m minding my own business, lying peacefully on The Boy’s bed, dreaming of being washed sometime before 2027…
The next minute, an eight legged intruder sits upon me like he owns the place.

I didn’t panic. I’ve hosted worse.
(There was a crisp sandwich incident in 2022 we do not talk about.)

Then…
The screaming started.

The Boy burst into the room like a man discovering his bed is haunted which technically, at that moment, it was. He pointed at me like I had personally invited the spider. Offensive, but whatever.

Then SHE arrived.

Mother. The woman of chaos. The human whirlwind with a messy bun and the emotional stability of a tower of Jenga blocks.

She took one look at the spider sitting on me and unleashed a level of drama unseen since the Great Nutella Melt of 2015.

Suddenly I was:

• grabbed
• shaken
• flapped
• twirled
• weaponised

I haven’t been moved that fast since the day she changed the bedding late at night and got stuck inside my cover like a trapped spectre.

She was shouting things like:

“THE BED BELONGS TO THE SPIDER NOW!”
“SHAKE THE DUVET!”
“I CAN’T FEEL MY HANDS!”
“IS IT ON ME?!”
“THIS IS WHY YOU GET MARRIED!”

Meanwhile, I’m being YEETED through the air like a budget exorcism tool.

Then Luna Dog (The Cat) strolls in, gives everyone a look that says “embarrassing,” and leaves.

After what felt like 45 years but was probably 18 seconds the spider was defeated, The Boy was pale, Mother was sweating, and I was traumatised but still queen of the bed.

I am now in recovery. Please do not sit on me until further notice.

Signed,
The Duvet
Sole Survivor
Support Needed, Preferably Fabric Softener

Sprinkle peppermint essential oil to prevent spider visits. Or don’t. I’m not your duvet.

22/11/2025

Greetings, humans.
It is I… Aragog Junior the Third.
I would first like to make it abundantly clear that I DID NOT EXPECT THIS LEVEL OF DRAMA.

All I wanted…
Was a quiet place to decompress after a long night of terrifying literally no one, because apparently the new generation of humans scream before I even move. I thought, “Ah yes, this bed seems soft. I shall sit here. I shall vibe.”

Enter: the tall one.
The boy. The one who eats toast at 2am and drops crumbs like confetti. He walks in, sees me, and IMMEDIATELY performs a banshee scream so loud my eight knees buckled.

Then comes the mother. The unhinged one. The one who smells faintly of soup and fear. She charges in, screaming, sweating, possibly praying, shouting things like:

“THE BED BELONGS TO THE SPIDER NOW!”
(Thank you, finally someone acknowledges my property rights.)

“HOW FAST CAN WE FASHION A BLOW TORCH?”
(Overkill, ma’am.)

“IS IT ON ME?! I FEEL LIKE IT’S ON ME!!”
(No. I was sitting still. Literally not even blinking.)

At this point I realised: These two are not just frightened. They are Olympic level hysterical.

Then the cat arrives. The black and white one. The one who looks like she pays taxes and hates everyone.

She sits.
She looks at me.
She sighs.

Suddenly it clicks:

This was all her idea. She brought me here. She placed me on the bed. She set the stage for maximum chaos.

And she KNEW these two muppets would combust on sight. Honestly? Iconic behaviour.

Anyway, long story short:

I’m dead now. Crushed by adrenaline, panic, and a rolled up duvet swung like a medieval weapon.

But please know this:

I died as I lived…
Confused.
Slightly offended.
And absolutely minding my own business.

Signed,
Aragog Junior the Third
(Former resident of Your Son’s Bed)

Use a cup and a piece of paper. Or don’t. I’m not your spider.

21/11/2025

Greetings, peasants.
It is I.
Luna Dog (The Cat).
Victim. Martyr. Sole Voice of Reason in this household.

Let me walk you through the series of events that unfolded today, events that, once again, highlight the incompetence of the humans I supervise.

I had sourced, personally sourced a delightful eight legged snack for myself. A handsome specimen. Thick legs. Bold posture. A real beefcake of a spider. I brought him home as a gift to my kingdom.

Naturally, I placed him on The Boy’s bed.
A treat.
A delicacy.
A test of character.

Then chaos erupted.

The Boy screamed like someone had unplugged his Xbox mid game. Mother came galloping down the hallway like a panicked wildebeest wearing a Primark vest top.
They stood pointing at my gifted spider like it was Voldemort himself.

Honestly? Embarrassing behaviour.

Mother shouted things like:
“THE BED BELONGS TO THE SPIDER NOW!”
and
“THIS IS WHY YOU GET MARRIED!”

Meanwhile, I sat nearby, judging them both with every fibre of my being.
They did not appreciate my offering.
They did not praise my hunting skills.
They did not honour me with treats or applause.

Instead, they embarked on a dramatic ritual of duvet shaking, shrieking, and accusing ME of treason.

I watched the performance with boredom so intense I nearly ascended to another realm.

Anyway, the spider is now dead (rude).
The Boy still has all his limbs.
Mother has trauma.
I remain flawless.

And yes for the record I brought the spider home.
I’ll probably do it again. Let’s see her use the pipette of doom again any time soon.

You are welcome.

Rule the world with spiders. Or don’t. I’m not your cat.

21/11/2025

STOP. EVERYTHING.

Never in my life have I experienced the level of drama I’ve just survived.

I was peacefully wrapping Christmas presents in the living room, living my best elf on overtime life, when suddenly from the depths of the new house I hear:

“MUUUUUM!!! WHERE ARE YOU!!??”

Gang…
My soul left my body.

The panic in The Boy’s voice?
Instant cardiac event.
My brain?
Already writing the eulogy.
Remember: the new house is approximately the size of a cereal box, so if he couldn’t find me in it, something HAD to be catastrophically wrong.

I sprint (okay… briskly waddle with purpose) into his room only to find him stood on the spot like a weird statue pointing at his bed.

I follow his trembling finger.

And there it sat.
Brazen.
Bold.
Unafraid.

A spider the size of a small dog. I swear I could see its teeth. It just stared at me like, “Alright mate?”

Chaos erupted IMMEDIATELY.

Here are some direct quotes from the Great Spider Chase of 2025:

🕷️ “Well love… the bed belongs to the spider now.”
🕷️ “How fast can we fashion a blowtorch?”
🕷️ “I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DOOOOOO!!”
🕷️ “THIS IS WHY YOU GET MARRIED!”
🕷️ “Is it on me?? I feel like it’s on me.”
🕷️ “You shake the duvet and I’ll…..wait, I can’t feel my right hand and I’m seeing spots.”
🕷️ “At least we’re staying calm”

Things we learned today:

✨ Braeden is JUST as scared of spiders as me.
✨ Luna Dog (The Cat) is absolutely useless and offered zero emotional support.
✨ The spider is dead (RIP and good riddance).
✨ I’m now seriously considering adopting a pet chicken. They eat spiders and honestly? That’s the kind of energy I need in my home.

I’m exhausted.
I’ve aged 14 years.
And the bed is currently in quarantine.

Spider proof responsibly. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

18/11/2025

Ladies, gentlemen, and soup enthusiasts…
Look what arrived for my birthday from… me.

Yes. I bought myself a Ninja soup maker.
Happy early birthday, Dottie. Lots of love, from Dottie. 💁🏻‍♀️🎉

Now listen…
Will I spend the next four weeks making soup excessively, precisely, and exclusively?
Yes. Yes I will.
Will I then forget this machine exists and spend the next year saying, “I really should make soup again… such a waste…”
Yes. Yes I will.

But for now?
I am entering my SOUP ERA.
My broth based personality arc.
My simmering self discovery.

I’ve already warned the neighbours: If they hear blending at 10pm, that’s just me living my best chunky veg fantasy.

Soup recipes are now my entire personality, so if you’ve got any bangers, hand them over.
Bonus points if they involve:
• cheese
• bread
• zero effort
• emotional support vegetables

Send soup recipes. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

17/11/2025

I’ve discovered a weird little pathway down the side of the new house.

And when I say little, I mean it’s basically a passive aggressive corridor built to remind me that my hips enter a room 3 seconds before I do.
It requires that sideways waddling manoeuvre, the kind where you’re half convinced you look like a sexy agent dressed all in black from Mission Impossible when in reality you actually resemble a panicked crab trying to avoid being eaten by seagulls on a beach.

Of course, the passage way is the route to take the bins out. So bin day now feels like I’m competing on Ninja Warrior: Wheelie Bin Edition.
One wrong lean to the left and I’m wedged like Winnie the Pooh in a post honey binge.

The fun doesn’t end there though gang…
THE GATE.
This useless, flimsy wooden drama queen at the end of the path.

Every time the wind blows, it SLAMS.
LOUD.
Violent.
Relentless.

This morning I genuinely thought my thighs were clapping in admiration of my bin moving skills.
Nope.
Just the gate.
Mocking me.
Again.

Storm Whatever Her Name Is has clearly decided the gate is her personal drum kit. Every gust of wind is: BANG. BANG. BANG.
I’m sat inside like, “Is this the weather… or am I being hunted for thigh meat?”

Between the skinny pathway and the percussion gate, my house has far too much personality for my liking.

Enjoy a body that claps for you. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

14/11/2025

Had a friend round to the new gaff last night for tea. For the sake of anonymity let’s call her Shmebecca…

We were moments away from serving sausage, mash, Yorkshire puds and gravy when she suddenly announces:
“We need snacks for the TV binge. I’ll go to the shop. Where is it?”

So I give her directions to the local shop.
A shop that is…
One minute away.
In a car.
You could sneeze and overshoot it.

Off she pops.
Keys jangled. Confidence high.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER…
My phone rings.

She’s lost.
No clue where she is.
No clue how to get back.
No idea how to get off the estate she’s somehow driven into.
And her phone has decided she’s in London.

Right. Well. I don’t really know what to do with any of that information, love. Shall I keep your tea warm int th’oven, or are you planning to move to the capital now? Should I alert someone? Send a note to your loved ones?

Navigate responsibly. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

Dottie OddSox

10/12/2025

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25/11/2025

22/11/2025

22/11/2025

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21/11/2025

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