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Dottie OddSox, Accrington (2025)

08/10/2025

Moving house.
I’d genuinely rather be sticking pins in my eyes while on hold with the gas company listening to “Vivaldi’s Four Seasons” on repeat.

The stress is biblical. Nothing fits into any of the 47 thousand boxes I have.

The house currently looks like a cardboard themed escape room designed by Satan.
Everywhere I turn, there’s a box labelled “Miscellaneous crap, DO NOT LOSE” that I’ve already lost.
I haven’t seen a clean spoon in three days, and I’m starting to suspect the boxes are whispering to each other when I’m not looking.

Luna Dog (The Cat), meanwhile, is thriving.
She’s in full relocation queen mode rubbing her stupid little cute face on every box like she’s blessing them in some feline baptism.
If I dare leave one open, she’s in there lickity split, curled up and purring like she owns the deeds.
At this point, she’s got more legal claim to the property than I do.

My hair smells like cardboard, my soul smells like packing tape and my sanity’s in a skip, AND if one more person says “it’ll all be worth it in the end,” I might wrap them in bubble wrap and label them “fragile.”

Build a box fort. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

02/10/2025

Moving house is breaking my brain, man!

I had to make a phone call today (this is already enough to send my nervous system into full DEFCON 1). I vaguely remember bumbling through, possibly being charming, possibly sounding like a drunk goat. Who can say.

Anyway, I felt the call wrapping up so my brain started its side quest of planning the perfect goodbye.
I settled on: “Thank you so much, take care.”
Solid. Polite. Professional.

But THEN… the guy says:
“Ok, you enjoy the rest of your day and take care.”

HE STOLE MY LINE.
I panicked.
I thought: “Wow, that’s actually lovely, I should say that too.”

What did my mouth do? Did it cooperate?
Did it graciously say, “You too, take care”?
Did it hell.

I said:
“Yuck.”
And then immediately hung up.

To be clear,this was my brain mashing up you and take. I wasn’t insulting the very kind man. So yeah. That’s a little window into my brain. Please send snacks.

Say goodbye like a normal human. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

23/09/2025

A wasp just invaded my safe space. I say “wasp”, it was more like a flying hypodermic needle with sass.

It flew straight in through the bedroom window and immediately declared war. I shouted for The Boy to come help. His response? He launched a boot vaguely in my direction, then legged it, shutting me in the room with the airborne assassin.

From the other side of the door I could hear:
“I love you Mum!”
“You’ve got this Mum!”
“You’re so brave Mum!”
And finally… “What’s the pin for your bank card, Mum, in case you don’t make it?”

Ladies and gentlemen, my one true heir.

Sacrifice your next of kin to the stingy God of death. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

16/09/2025

I HAVE BEEN ACCOSTED, gang. Straight up ambushed on my own doorstep by a man child who looked like he’d only just fallen out of his mother’s womb and landed in a Topman clearance bin.

There I was, living my life, minding my business, probably radiating middle aged splendour through my PJ’s and over sized hoodie when…knock knock. I open the door to behold: The Embryo Salesman.

This… fetus… just stares at me. For so long I thought maybe I’d died mid step and he was waiting for my soul to float out. Finally, I said, “Can I help you?” You know, like a normal human. And what does he hit me with?
“Hey darling, how have you been?”

DARLING?! DARLING??!! My dude, you still smell of amniotic fluid and you’re calling me darling? The only thing you’ve been is breastfed.

I, naturally, said the only thing a woman of class and composure could say: “Do I know you?” (My brain finished the sentence with “you absolute thumb in skinny jeans” I managed to keep that part internal though).

Then, THEN, he has the audacity, the gall, the sheer testicular confidence to say with his whole milk toothed chest:
“I really like your hair. I’m from…”

AND THAT’S WHERE HE DIED (metaphorically, don’t call Ofcom). Because I unleashed the sacred combo: door slam plus F**K OFF SUNSHINE with the level of fury usually reserved for cold callers, PPI claims, and people who say “calm down” when you’re already calm.

WHO TRAINED THIS TODDLER? Who looked at this man sized newborn and said: “Yes Timothy, here’s a clipboard, go compliment random women at their homes, it’ll definitely end well”?

I wish I’d heard what company he was from just so I could… well, let’s be honest, I’d have done nothing. Because he’s right. My hair IS fabulous.

But the principle! The nerve! The audacity of it all! My flabbers are well and truly ghasted!

Anyway. It’s officially 100 sleeps until Christmas.
You. Are. Welcome. Ya filthy animals. 🎄

Slam doors with passion. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

07/09/2025

Who exactly gave pigeons all the audacity!?

I was driving home earlier today, minding my own business, when a pigeon the size of a small dog dives across my windscreen so close I swear I saw its teeth.
It’s actual teeth. I screamed. Out loud. In my own car.

And I’m pretty sure the flappy frippet flipped me the bird on its way past (say that three times fast!)

Somewhere right now, that pigeon is sat on Accrington Broadway, eating a Greggs sausage roll, retelling the story to his mates like:
“Oi lads, you should’ve seen her face, nearly shat herself!”

Prick.

Remain calm when the pigeons attack. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

03/09/2025

I’ve always been a terrible sleeper. We’re talking broken hours, night terrors, the kind of dreams that make you wake up sweating and question your entire existence.

But recently… I’ve cracked the code.
A few life hacks, some well timed melatonin, a solid pillow situation… and boom. Sleep and I? We’re mates now.

These days, I climb into bed like an excited toddler at Christmas. Can’t wait to rest my big giant head on that pillow and begin the drooling process.

The night terrors? Gone. The nightmares? Yeeted.

But the dreams I have now? Dude. We’re talking feature length films. Dolby surround sound. Full cast and crew.

Last night I was on a Skiing holiday with Ryan Reynolds and Samuel L. Jackson.

Ryan’s teaching me to ski. I look majestic.
Samuel’s yelling “MOTHER F**KER” every time he falls over and is vexed because the ski lift cost £82.

I’m pretty sure there’s a sequel planned for next week.

Share your dreams mother fu***rs. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

01/09/2025

Well folks. That’s yet another September 1st over with without a letter from Hogwarts!

I’ve practised Alohomora on every locked door I’ve ever met. I’ve said Lumos before flicking every light switch since 1999.

I’ve even run full speed at every brick wall I’ve passed, hoping to emerge on Platform 9¾. All I’ve got to show for it is a bruised shoulder, a restraining order from Accrington train station, and some very concerned glances from strangers.

But here I am.
A muggle.
With chin hairs and council tax.

Expelliarmus my dreams. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

29/08/2025

The other night I decided to pluck my eyebrows. In bed. Without my glasses on. Because apparently, I like to live dangerously.

Did I get up, put my glasses back on, and use a mirror like a functioning human?
No. No I did not.

I used the front facing camera on my phone. Video mode. Bedside lighting. Pure glamour and genius.

You probably think you know where this story is going. You don’t.

Eyebrows done.
Top lip? Sorted. Because yes, I am growing a small moustache now. Menopause is the gift that keeps on giving. Then… I spotted them.

Three.

THREE thick, black hairs under my chin.
The kind that could anchor a small boat in a storm.

So there I am, phone in one hand, tweezers in the other, trying to pluck at this impossible angle… no glasses, camera in reverse, screen blurring like an early 00s we**am.

Now… I don’t know if you know this… but if you tap your phone screen, it focuses the camera.

Did I do that? No. No I did not.

I tapped my actual face.
Multiple times.
Crying because it wouldn’t focus.

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

22/08/2025

I’ve entered my Lego Hogwarts Era.

This is not a drill, gang. I am officially obsessed. We’re talking up till 2am putting tiny grey bricks together while whispering “Wingardium leather sofa” under my breath obsessed.

Last night I was in the middle of building the Great Hall when Braeden walked past, shook his head and said,

“It’s just plastic bricks, Mum.”

Plastic. Bricks. Plastic bricks, he says while I’m sat here crafting an architectural masterpiece with moving staircases and stained glass windows!

Meanwhile, Luna Dog (The Cat) is living her best life, because in her mind this isn’t Hogwarts… it’s Lunawarts School of Brickcraft and Chaos and she is Headmistress. Her favourite subject? Knocking Hagrid’s Hut into the Forbidden Forest.

By Christmas, my lounge will either look like the Great Hall or the aftermath of a Dementor attack. There will be no in between.

🪄 Accio more Lego sets.

Let’s build Lego together. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

19/08/2025

Three. Hours. 180 minutes of my life were spent the other day chasing a LIVE mouse that Luna Dog (The Cat) so kindly gifted us.

Did Luna help? Did she chuff. She flopped dramatically across the floor with pretend heat stroke, while I dismantled the entire living room and The Boy ran catch a mouse in a dish operations with military precision.

At one point we had Jerry cornered. It was tense. Sweaty. The Boy, quick thinking genius, grabbed Luna Dog ( The Cat ) and plonked her right in front of Jerry. Surely now nature would take its course?

Nah. She just sat there. Staring. Honestly, I think Jerry had some sort of rodent Jedi powers. Because the way Luna zoned out, I swear I heard that mouse whisper: “These aren’t the snacks you’re looking for.”

Anyway. Jerry is gone now. Probably on his laptop leaving a one star TripAdvisor review:

“Room service was aggressive, decor was chaotic, staff were loud and unhelpful. Cat was useless. Would not recommend. 0/10, escaped through the skirting board.”

Move in with a mouse. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

13/08/2025

Last night, me and The Boy sprawled out on a blanket in the yard, hunting for shooting stars.
We laughed until our cheeks hurt, talked about space, aliens, and the moon landing.
We wondered how many other Mums and Sons were lying under the same sky at that moment, doing the exact same thing.

Neither of us had ever seen a shooting star, I spotted two, The Boy spotted seven.
We both made wishes. We made core memories. My heart is happy.

Oh, also, I laid on a slug.
Just to keep the universe balanced. ✨🐌

Squash a space slug. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

08/08/2025

Fifty shades of frostbite. Face down. Arse up. Foot tied.
(All in a Volkswagen Golf)

So picture it: I’d been teaching a photography club at the local park. It was December. There’d been a little snow. It was 11pm by the time I left. Peaceful. Serene. Picturesque.

I got to my car. Frozen solid. Three out of 4 doors locked tight with icy malice. The rear driver’s side door opened. Just that one. Like a smug little trapdoor of doom.
“Perfect,” I thought, “I’ll just climb through.”

🔋Side note: My phone battery was dead from earlier photo demos. So this is a no rescue mission scenario.

Anyway, I yeeted my gear into the back seat, took one glance at the situation, less than a second of decision making and began “confidently” clambering over the seats like the flexible ninja I imagined I was.

Except I’m built more like a baby hippo in a fluffy coat with the flexibility of a concrete slab.

Somehow, don’t ask how, I ended up face down in the passenger seat footwell. Hips wedged between the two front seat headrests. Arse pressed against the roof And my right foot? Gracefully ensnared in the back seat’s seatbelt like some kind of festive hogtie.

I. COULD. NOT. MOVE.

I just stayed there for ten minutes… thinking. Reflecting. Mulling over my life choices. Considering if I should just accept my fate and die in this car shaped ice box. Would my obituary read “Died as she lived: stuck in a series of unfortunate decisions”?

Eventually I decided I’d rather die trying. The thought of being discovered in this position spurred me on. It took FORTY MINUTES of squirming, swearing, sweating, sobbing, and partially reinventing yoga before I managed to right myself.

By the time I made it to the driver’s seat, the car had defrosted itself completely. I was exhausted, bruised and humbled. But I was alive!

Carry de icier in your bag. Or don’t. I’m not your Mum.

Dottie OddSox

08/10/2025

02/10/2025

23/09/2025

16/09/2025

07/09/2025

03/09/2025

01/09/2025

29/08/2025

22/08/2025

19/08/2025

13/08/2025

08/08/2025

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