As a self confessed shopaholic how on earth did I give up shopping for a year?!

If I had to sum myself up on a car bumper sticker it would be a toss up between Born to shop or Born to eat (it certainly wouldn’t be Honk if you’re horny that’s for sure). So with my bumper-sticker-motto in mind you’ll understand how challenging giving up shopping for a year would be, impossible even, but that is exactly what I did, 13 months to be exact.

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"But do you get two lots of presents??"

Hands on buzzers… What do Helena Christensen, Annie Lennox, Ryan Seacrest, Dido, Humphrey Bogart, The Veronica’s and I all have in common? Anyone? Give-up? Well for those of you playing at home we were all born on Christmas Day.

 I was actually due on New Year’s Eve but out I popped, seven days early, which as it turns out was the very first and last time I’ve been early for anything in my life.  Was the change in my predicted birth date the reason I love Christmas as much as Will Ferrell in Elf, I don’t know. What I do know is I LOVE being born on Christmas Day. I wouldn’t change it for the world, trust me it’s a bloody brilliant day to have a birthday.

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What's In a Name.... well don't get me started

Names have always been a ‘thing’ for me, it started way back in 1974 on Christmas morning. I was a week early, I popped out fully cooked before the turkey roasting in the oven did and my folks decided I was Cathrine without an ‘e’. This decision has caused me years of grief and ever since I was old enough I’ve had to correct the spelling of my name. The past 35 or so years have gone a bit like this…..

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I don’t know about you but bloody hell I have been lucky when it has come to my career. Hands down I feel like I’ve had some of the best jobs in the world…  okay maybe with the exception of my stint as a dish pig when I was 14 at a restaurant (and I use that term loosely) at a motorway services in South Wales. Anyway as well as feeling like I have hit the employment jackpot I have also been pretty lucky not to get the sack on several occasions.

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So as it turns out size does matter... oh and moving house sucks.

So here I am again for what feels like the 100th time in four years. I am surrounded by boxes, sheets of butchers’ paper, sat crossed legged on the floor and hopelessly trying to find the sodding end of the packing tape. Yep moving, you officially suck.

This time though I am packing up to move in with a really rather amazing man so all the time spent on hold to call centers around the world trying to disconnect and then reconnect utilities is worth it. As I am working out piles of things to keep, give to St Vinnie’s and possessions to throw out my thoughts take me back to a home a few moves ago...

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Ever since I can remember I’ve been windy. In life you either seem to be a mouth burper or a bottom popper. I was a card-carrying member of the later group. I can’t belch for the life of me, although some people can burp the entire national anthem - imagine that!

Much to my Mothers horror my wind was so infamous it was referenced in two of the four wedding speeches on my big day…. actually make that three I just remembered I referenced it.

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Being a parent is hard. Really, really, really, really hard.

I found adult’ing (I may have made that word up but hey it’s kind of cool) bloody difficult enough. Let alone looking after another human.

Then I got knocked up and next thing I know, well technically nine months on, me and my partner were handed this squishy slightly alien bundle, and life as we knew it disappeared in a puff of smoke and feeding schedules. Welcome to the world of sore backs, sleepless nights and leaky nipples – and that’s just the Dad’s.

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