Pretty sure I’m running late now.

It’s 8.36am , and I’m writing a blog post because I have time to kill before I go to work. I have had a shower, I’m dressed, I’ve had a cup of sweet tea and eaten a breakfast of avocado and tomato on toast. I’m listening to the sweet sounds of Talking Heads. I have been up for two hours.

Mornings like this make me hate myself a little bit.

I was going to do a blog post last night, one that I’d written on the train on Sunday, but then I realised I’d left my notebook in the theatre and I got all annoyed. So this one might not make much sense.

This blog post is about self care.

I am getting better at looking after myself. At least, I think I am. I seem to be developing a routine based around what doesn’t make me feel like shit and I feel a lot better because of it. But I am well aware that this will not last. I am ignoring a couple of things that I have to do pretty soon, and I know that in a day or so I will be lay in bed and my brain will send me into full on panic stress mode because I haven’t kept up to date with the million projects I decided to take on at once. But for now, I am looking after myself.

Self-care is something I only discovered recently. I think that in the arts – speaking mainly about theatre because that’s where I am – people don’t look after themselves.. There is a cult of overworking. Every conversation revolves around your work – what are you working on at the minute? What’ve you been up to with your work? Have you got anything else lined up? And quite often we hang out with other theatre folk or arts folk or people who do more than one job or have a committed hobby and so their answers ping into our brains like a pinball machine of inspiration and panic and suddenly we’re focussing on the fact we’re not doing enough, no matter how much we’re doing.

Taking time out is hard. When you finish a project, you want the next one to be lined up. There’s no reliability to our work. We have to work extra hard now, we have to take on three times the amount of stuff we have time for right now, because we might not get work for the next four months. I think there’s definitely a failure thing there as well. I think the point where you stop being an emerging artist is when you no longer have the fear of getting stuck being a barista forever. I don’t know. I’ve never not been emerging.

Emerging is a stupid term. Emerging artists. What about just artists? What are we emerging from? Behind our parents’ aprons, faces covered in chocolate. Behind the giant triangular silver doors: “Tonight, Matthew, I’m going to be…” Under the ground like a mole, unseeing and shovelling dirt. From the chrysalis of a zero-hour contract, enduring being treated like shit and paid next to nothing because you know – you know – that it’s just temporary and one day you can spread your wings and become the fucking majestic theatrical butterfly you always wanted to be.

Self care is difficult when everything is telling you to doubt yourself, when being proud of yourself is vanity, when taking time off means you’re slipping backwards, where finding time for yourself is selfish. But it’s okay, gang. Self care is important. Self care is essential. Self care is a radical act when capitalism relies on your self-hatred. Self care is cool and desirable and clever and doable and fucking sexy. But this might just be morning Geraghty talking. I haven’t looked at the news yet. I haven’t had to speak to anyone yet. I might hate everyone and everything by the time I get to work.

Have a beautiful day, because you deserve it.


Geraghty out. x.


27 Things.

I’ve not been sleeping recently. Not a lot, anyway. And after reading countless theories and tips online and downloading sleep apps and trying herbal teas and all that shit, I have resorted to keeping a bedtime notebook. The idea is that I get whatever starts whizzing around my brain at night written down before it starts stopping me from sleeping. And it’s kind of working.

So, in lieu of my sleeptime notebook (which is at home, where I’m not – I’m in a cafe in Chorlton, drinking enough tea to float a small canoe) I am going to make a list of things that I have on my mind in an attempt to clear my head. Because these thoughts are not just reserved for bedtime. Some of them may even get a follow up blog post. Most probably won’t. Who knows. Anyway, here’s the list:

  1. Skincare.
  2. Bees. How are they doing? How do they cope? Why Nicholas Cage?
  3. Why can’t I get to sleep?
  4. Climate change. Christ, this is one that I know keeps me awake at night. I’m currently reading “This Changes Everything” by Naomi Klein, and it’s a lot to take in. Brilliant but terrifying. More to do with global economics than I first thought.
  5. Global economics and how to wrap my brain about big number related things.
  6. My sporadic veganism and the ethics that go along with it.
  7. My dog. How is she doing? Does she miss me? Whose socks is she eating?
  8. How to balance my art-self and my family self.
  9. Am I just selfish?
  10. Puns. All the time.
  11. Female representation in books for kids.
  12. Ditto LGBT representation.
  13. Ditto non-white representation.
  14. Being perpetually single and finally being okay with that.
  15. Money. Mostly the money I owe other people.
  16. Should I quit my job?
  17. Writing a book.
  18. Whether it’s okay to start writing another book before finishing the first.
  19. Arts Council Funding.
  20. Feeding internet trolls. Also, angry internet feminists and how awesome they are.
  21. Sex. How female sexuality is still a taboo topic. How little it features in my life.
  22. Body image. This is the big one at the minute, as per my previous blog posts.
  23. Theatre and my future in it. After summer comes the void and all that shit.
  24. What can I cook that’s a)vegan b)tasty c)cheap d)requires minimal effort?
  25. The ever creeping wanderlust that I have versus knowing that planes murder the environment.
  26. How could I acquire a ship?

Good god, I could go on forever. It’s a bit scary actually. I don’t know how humans cope with so many things in their minds.

That’s it. That’s the blog post. It’s not all that interesting, but I can’t fascinate all of the time, can I?

27. The long list of books I want to read, mostly female authors. Attempting to diversify my reading list to include a lot more non-white, non-male, non-dead, non-Western authors. Dickens will have to wait.

Geraghty out.

This post is about my legs.

To steal the FB status of a good friend: “Happy International Women’s Day. Yes we do need one. Yes there is actually, it’s November 19th.”

This post maybe has something to do with IWD, maybe not. It’s carrying on the theme of my last post – Body Positivity: Or, How I Learned To Stop Weighing Myself and Attempt Self-Love.

This post is about my legs.

I love my legs. They are two of my favourite features on my body. They are muscly and look toned as fuck, which is cool because none of the rest of my body is. I used to do a lot of swimming, and I walk nearly everywhere, and so yeah. Leg muscles. Hell yes.

I used to be really self conscious about not having slim legs. I wanted dancers legs, I was cautious about wearing skinny jeans, was unsure about going swimming because I was stocky, not sleek.

My legs were the first things on my body I learned to love. I wear chunky heeled boots with skinny jeans or tights and I run my hand down my leg and feel the hard curve of calf muscles and I love them. My legs aren’t slim – they never will be – but they are powerful. I am solid when I stand. My strong legs root me and I love them for it. I live in short skirts mainly because I love my legs.

Summer will be a different story. I love my legs when they are covered up because they can be hairy. Hairy legs are great. They make me feel comfortable and safe. But I will make efforts to keep them hairless in summer because I haven’t reached that level of self-confidence and I want to wear shorts. One step at a time.

I’m going to a spa tomorrow with my mum and my little sis, and so today I shaved the lower halves of my legs. Jesus christ. What an effort. I might love my muscly legs but there is a LOT of surface area to cover. If I had the money I would probably go and have them waxed or something but when it’s just me with my foot up on the sink with Morrison’s Own Brand shaving foam and a Bic razor… I’m ready for a lie down. And I hate the little bumps you get after shaving. And I wish I didn’t have to do it (have to for me, not because there are rules or anything), but my hair is dark and it looks like I am wearing odd footless tights if I don’t take the time to shave them. Depending on how knackered I am after work tonight I will embark on the Shaving of the Thighs. Probably with a beer.

But then they will be Smooth and Sleek and feel amazing… for a few days. But I can go to this spa day tomorrow and not feel entirely self-conscious. And if I get looks in the summer for having my legs out, then I will say I don’t care because I have fucking great legs. I love my legs. And I’m determined to get there with the rest of me as well.

That’s about it, to be honest. I’m waiting for the moisturiser on my legs to sink in so I wrote this.

Happy International Women’s Day.

Geraghty out. x.

This post is about my body.

This post is about my body.

I’ve been reading through old notebooks quite a lot recently, trying to organise previous bits of writing into ones that are worth keeping. I was looking for stories, for starts of fictions that I never carried on with, but most of what I found were old snippets of myself. I wasn’t surprised by what I found, but I didn’t recognise a lot of the thoughts I had scribbled down. At first I thought they might be character writing – you know, writing in the voice of someone fictional. But the more I read, the more it started coming back to me. This is what I used to think. About the world, about the future, and mostly about myself. Echoes of someone with so little self confidence it’s hard to reconcile her with the person I am now.

So I’m revisiting this girl, this young woman, this person that I used to be, and I’m trying to see things through her eyes again, but it’s difficult. I have changed so much since then. And it’s something I want to talk about. I want to address the way that I used to feel, because even though I don’t feel that way anymore, I haven’t really looked back on it and worked out why I was like that. So this is me sharing and talking and addressing.


For a good few years, I longed to have an eating disorder. Or rather, I wanted the control over my life and my body that I thought an eating disorder would give. I’d read stories about girls losing so much weight in so little time and I’d think – that would be ideal. It was very fucked up. I know that. I hated my body and was convinced that if I could lose weight, then everything would be fine.

I tried every diet under the sun before I hit eighteen years old. No carbs, no dairy, the five-two, meal replacements, appetite suppressors, the Special K diet, something to do with protein, I dunno, I can’t remember them all. The problem was simple. I liked food. I liked eating. I hated exercise. I’d get up in the morning before school and do aerobics for half an hour before walking an hour to my high school. For a few weeks, I didn’t eat or drink between sunrise or sunset. Ramadan rules. Which, in my Roman Catholic high school, may have seemed odd.

I tried to put my body through hell in the hope that I would lose enough weight. But how much is enough? Enough that I would enjoy shopping trips with my friends. Enough that I might be able to talk about fancying someone without people reacting with sympathy or disgust. Enough that I would be able to go swimming and not think that everyone was staring at me.

University. I got heaps of self-confidence when I was there, reinventing myself, but it was fake. I knew it was fake. Fake it till you make it was the idea, and I made it for quite a while. I was loud and deflected everything with humour. I got good grades, I got very drunk, I kissed random guys, I had fun. I had a three month relationship with a guy, not because I liked him, but because it was the first time that someone had shown proper interest in me that way. When he suggested getting engaged I dumped him, and he stalked me for about a year. But hey. Shit happens.

I hit another low when I came out of uni because I wasn’t in a relationship and I was convinced that nobody would ever find me attractive. I didn’t find myself attractive. I never had done. Attractive was magazine covers and the girls who didn’t have to go to a special section of New Look to buy their clothes. Attractive was girls with slimmer hips. Attractive had fuck all to do with personality and everything to do with what kind of body you had.

There are some bits of writing in the notebooks that made me cry at the time, and make me feel hollow reading them now.

I don’t want to be the fat friend any more. I don’t want to be the sidekick, the comic relief. I want to be the love interest. I want to be seen for more than comic value. But it’ll never happen. Maybe the reason I don’t want to get married or have kids is because I don’t actually think it’s possible for me. I’m not the kind of person someone can love. Might as well just deal with it. Or just focus and lose the weight. Or just carry on being fat. 


I have changed. Thankfully. The way I see myself has improved so much. I follow body confidence Instagram feeds and read important articles about loving yourself. Watching drag queens helps a lot. I practice self care. I surround myself with people who I know don’t see my weight as a thing. And if they do, if anyone does, I want them to see it. To see my weight, my softness, my curves, for what they are. My body, my rules, and fuck anyone who says any different. I still have blips. I will avoid social events because I “can’t look right”, I find meeting new people terrifying because of my appearance. When chatting to people on dating sites I will make sure they know I am plus-size before we start chatting properly. But I have changed, and it’s important to acknowledge that.

It’s alright to feel like shit sometimes. It’s okay to not like yourself all of the time. But you have to bounce back, you have to embrace, you have to reconcile with yourself. Fat and gorgeous are not mutually exclusive. Size doesn’t matter the way you think it does. It’s taken me twenty five years to get to this point.

I tore out the pages that this stuff was written on. They’re in a folder in a drawer in my room. I don’t want to get rid of them, because one day I will need them to remind me how far I have come. How much I’ve changed.

And if you want to talk, if anyone wants to talk, I’m here. It’s important to address these things.

Geraghty out. x.



Review – 5 Encounters on a Site called Craigslist, by YesYesNoNo

Work in Progress, Camden People’s Theatre

Sam wants to talk to you about Five Encounters he had on a Site Called Craigslist. This work-in-progress has a desperation to it, a rawness that should carry through to whatever the final iteration of this piece is. The stories themselves are quite ordinary, but it is Sam himself who draws you in and leaves you wanting more. Not necessarily more of the show, but more of his company. He seems like the kind of person you feel safe around.

Five Encounters uses anecdotes and a lot of audience participation to question how we as people can forge meaningful relationships. Something that kept coming up was the work by Arthur and Elaine Aron, The Experimental Generation of Interpersonal Closeness. Thirty-six questions that are aimed to study emotional connection between two people. This study was originally sparked by the two researchers falling in love, and it’s used in this piece to explore connections between complete strangers.

Sam talks openly about the culture of casual sex perpetuated by advances in technology. The usage of online dating has tripled for under 25s in the last three years. More than 60 million people use Craigslist each month in the US alone. Does this mean we’re getting less capable of experiencing “interpersonal closeness”, as Arthur and Elaine Aron call it? Is it easier to be close with strangers than partners? Who knows. One of the great things about this show is that it doesn’t attempt to answer any of these things. It just gives you questions, the kind of which you may only come across whilst in the midst of an existential crisis.

There was a point in Five Encounters where I felt uncomfortable. Not uncomfortable being in the audience, but uncomfortable being with Sam in that situation. I didn’t want to be there with him, wanted him to get out, to be safe, even though what he was telling us had already happened. His delivery open and honest, every word and action welcoming you into the stories he tells. He brings you with him to every encounter.

After the first encounter, the first time Sam ever met anyone from online for a casual encounter, Sam talks about the walk back to campus. He mentions that he has to adjust his rucksack because the hammer he brought with him is knocking against his back. And it’s the little details like that which jolt you out of the place of comfort he settles you in as an audience member. No matter how much you’re enjoying the piece, there is an element of danger. We’ve all heard the statistics, just most of the time we don’t choose to acknowledge them.

As much as I hate the term, it’s a very brave piece. It’s bare. It’s openly admitting to something that there’s still a taboo around and saying that it’s okay to not be open with people. It’s okay to not know what your sexuality is right now, it’s okay to seek out physical intimacy with no strings attached. You do you.

Sam deals with a lot in this piece, and I left with questions buzzing around my head. More questions for myself than anything else. And I’m intrigued to see what Sam does with it now. It’s funny, it’s intimate, and it brings you achingly close to people you may have never known had it not been for this show.




On Tears

I hate crying.

Let me get one thing straight – I am a very emotional human. I cry at films a lot, books quite a bit, and I find it hard to watch live music because it gives me such a profound kick in the feelings I cannot help but unleash the waterworks. But that is good crying, predictable crying. But there’s that other crying. The one you do when you’re sad or frustrated or angry, and I hate it. It gives me a headache. It makes my throat hurt and my voice wobble and my eyes go bloodshot. And it doesn’t help. Not me, anyway.

I’ve always seen crying as a sign of weakness. I know it isn’t, I know that people who cry aren’t weak, but for me that is what it signifies. And I have no idea where that stems from. This typically masculine thing of not letting myself cry, I don’t know when it became such a set thing in my mind, and now I find it really hard to get rid of it. Especially now, when I need to cry.

On Wednesday 5th October, my Grandad died. My stepdad Nige’s dad. He had been in hospital for five weeks and he had been really ill, every phone call I got during that time I expected to hear the news that he’d passed away. But then he started to recover, and he was meant to be coming home on the weekend. So it was a shock. My mum called me. She was in bits, and when she said Grandad had died my reaction was “fuck” and then I tried to calm her down, I was rational and practical “I’m coming over. I’ll go home now and get some stuff and you can pick me up. Take ten minutes and have some water and calm down. See you in a bit.” And I went back into the lounge where my dad and his mum were, and they looked at me.

“My Grandad’s dead.” My tears came like a punch in the lungs, all at once and for about ten seconds, and then I stopped. I was shaking. I went and splashed my face. I was fine. I was fine.

Mum picked me up. She had been crying, was still crying, and I got in the car and made silly jokes on the way to Grandma’s and swore and was generally daft, but there were no tears. And I got to Grandma’s and hugged her and she was crying and I went and saw my little brother Sam in the back room and he wasn’t crying so we sat together and ate McDonalds and didn’t cry together.

All through Wednesday, I held it together. I made endless cups of tea and coffee and kept conversations going and answered the phone and kept things normal. I had a bit of a cry when my sister came over after work, and so did Sam and Grandma and Nige. And when I bedded down on the sofa that night, I listened to an audiobook for hours. I think I slept a bit. And when I went to Nige’s flat the next day my brother Joe was there and we had a hug and didn’t cry.

I haven’t really cried at all.

But tonight, I’m writing something to read out at Grandad’s funeral on Thursday. And I’m going through memories and noting them down and I can feel a constant threat of tears on the edges of my eyes, and I’m tamping them down with deep breaths and hard swallows. I’m terrified about Thursday. I’m terrified because I haven’t let myself remember Grandad yet, haven’t let myself feel the fact that he’s gone, and as I’m typing these words my eyes are blurring with tears and the back of the roof of my mouth hurts because I miss him so fucking much it is painful, and I can’t actually deal with it I thought writing about it would help but it isn’t and now I don’t know how I’m supposed to be dealing with whatever it is that I’m feeling because writing was always my way out but maybe that’s why, I can’t escape reality with this one, this is just something that I have to deal with and I don’t know how to and I’m scared.

I’m going to go for a cigarette on the steps outside the front door and let myself be sad for a bit. I don’t do that. When I told my mate Josh, he said that I should let myself be sad. That I didn’t have to be strong for people. That I’m allowed to be sad as well. But I don’t do that. I’ll just have to work out how to, I guess.


Miss you, Grandad.