Bony πŸ’€πŸ©»πŸ—οΈπŸ‘»πŸŽƒ β€’ YKTN πŸΊπŸ’„πŸ‡ (@coladaclan) header
Bony πŸ’€πŸ©»πŸ—οΈπŸ‘»πŸŽƒ β€’ YKTN πŸΊπŸ’„πŸ‡ (@coladaclan) profile picture

Distractible neurospice girl diaries β€’ Generally looking like a glittering chromatic fart among the sage pilates playsuits

LDN β€’ Digital vagabond
Joined October 2015
Photo by Bony πŸ’€πŸ©»πŸ—οΈπŸ‘»πŸŽƒ β€’ YKTN πŸΊπŸ’„πŸ‡ (@coladaclan)Photo by Bony πŸ’€πŸ©»πŸ—οΈπŸ‘»πŸŽƒ β€’ YKTN πŸΊπŸ’„πŸ‡ (@coladaclan)Photo by Bony πŸ’€πŸ©»πŸ—οΈπŸ‘»πŸŽƒ β€’ YKTN πŸΊπŸ’„πŸ‡ (@coladaclan)Photo by Bony πŸ’€πŸ©»πŸ—οΈπŸ‘»πŸŽƒ β€’ YKTN πŸΊπŸ’„πŸ‡ (@coladaclan)Photo by Bony πŸ’€πŸ©»πŸ—οΈπŸ‘»πŸŽƒ β€’ YKTN πŸΊπŸ’„πŸ‡ (@coladaclan)Photo by Bony πŸ’€πŸ©»πŸ—οΈπŸ‘»πŸŽƒ β€’ YKTN πŸΊπŸ’„πŸ‡ (@coladaclan)Photo by Bony πŸ’€πŸ©»πŸ—οΈπŸ‘»πŸŽƒ β€’ YKTN πŸΊπŸ’„πŸ‡ (@coladaclan)Photo by Bony πŸ’€πŸ©»πŸ—οΈπŸ‘»πŸŽƒ β€’ YKTN πŸΊπŸ’„πŸ‡ (@coladaclan)Photo by Bony πŸ’€πŸ©»πŸ—οΈπŸ‘»πŸŽƒ β€’ YKTN πŸΊπŸ’„πŸ‡ (@coladaclan)Photo by Bony πŸ’€πŸ©»πŸ—οΈπŸ‘»πŸŽƒ β€’ YKTN πŸΊπŸ’„πŸ‡ (@coladaclan)
Watching Wicker, my clearest takeaway is that I would truly and gladly roll that dice on, β€œPeter Dinklage; sort me a husband.”
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On the moodboard of my patronus-building workshop, this certainly forms a central pillar
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Bumped into this cool idea, for graduates moving back in with their folks: β€œfor every Β£ you save for a deposit, we’ll match it.” It’s a fairly solid bet because grads will only make so much in a year, but gives them one heck of an incentive to use the S&S ISA
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And if you can, when the first-time buyer approaches the broker, surprise them with, β€œactually it’s 1:2,” making home ownership that much more possible when they veil is lifted, and they see the business end of the paperwork-marathon
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Would work well with the kids who are already v motivated for home ownership
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Past Nina, Present Nina, and Future Nina are always working in alignment But it’s beautiful when Present Nina gets to see it happening for a moment
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I want @shondarhimes to produce this series of Bridgerton
In November 1817 the only legitimate grandchild of George III, twenty-one years old and carrying the heir to the throne, was bled and starved through her pregnancy by the most fashionable obstetrician in London, left in labour for 50 hours because he did not believe in forceps, and died five hours after delivering a dead nine-pound son, which is the reason Britain ended up with a queen called Victoria. Princess Charlotte was the nation's darling. Her father, the Prince Regent, was fat, extravagant and loathed, and her grandfather was mad. She was the one member of the family the public actually liked: headstrong, funny, married for love to a handsome German prince called Leopold and living with him at Claremont in Surrey. When the pregnancy was announced in the spring of 1817, the bookmakers opened a market on the sex of the baby. Her care went to Sir Richard Croft, the leading man-midwife of the day, and he did exactly what the best medicine of the day prescribed. It was called the lowering treatment. A pregnant woman was thought to be dangerously full of blood and nourishment, so she was bled to prevent haemorrhage and kept on a thin diet so the baby would not grow too large. Charlotte had begun the year robust. She was bled repeatedly and fed sparingly for months, and by the autumn she was weak and anaemic. She went into labour in the first days of November, two weeks late. The first stage lasted 26 hours. Croft could tell the baby was lying badly. The profession held that a natural labour should be left to nature and that forceps were a vulgar interference, so he left it. The second stage lasted another 24 hours, without pain relief, because none was given to labouring women. On the evening of the 5th she delivered a boy, nine pounds and dead. Around midnight she began to bleed, and in the small hours of the 6th she died. Britain mourned her on a scale nobody would see again until Diana. Shops shut for a fortnight. An inquiry cleared Croft, and everyone else blamed him. Three months later, attending another long labour, he took his own life. Then the kingdom looked at the succession and found nothing. George III had fifteen children and not one legitimate grandchild left alive. His middle-aged sons, most of them with mistresses and families on the side, were packed off to find German princesses and produce an heir. The Duke of Kent married a widowed princess, and in May 1819 she had a daughter. Her name was Victoria. The obstetricians took the lesson, slowly. Forceps came back. The lowering treatment faded out of the textbooks. A young, healthy woman was weakened for months on the orders of the best physician in the land, because the best physicians in the land agreed, and when she was dying in front of them, the same agreement told them to keep their hands in their pockets. The settled science of 1817 decided who would sit on the throne for most of the next century, in a bedroom in Surrey, and it was only ever tested on the people who could not argue with it.
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Bony πŸ’€πŸ©»πŸ—οΈπŸ‘»πŸŽƒ β€’ YKTN πŸΊπŸ’„πŸ‡ retweeted
Replying to @favwontmiss
I absolutely thought I would do this when I became a millionaire. Now I am a millionaire, and actually thinking through the decision of when to part with the money and for who, when the actual money is on the line, is very different. "At random" doesn't actually feel that good? Because like, some people are more in need of their debt paid off than others. Like what if you just go around accidentally paying off debt of people who aren't financially struggling, or people who were never planning on paying it anyway/aren't really suffering from it? And then I realized my own motivations were sorta weird. I wanted to do good for others, but like, mostly in ways that made me feel good? Like medical debt and pet fees are really salient things that give me warm fuzzies. Giving big bills to homeless people (which I have done) is very warm fuzzies. Then i was like - am I just charitily masturbating here? Am I tryin to be putting myself into the storyline where I'm the clear hero and there's someone to look me in the eyes and go 'wow thank you so much'? And THEN I had this whole thing like 'wait, if I'm gonna be spending a limited amount, I want it to go to people where it will legitimately like, be the change of their entire lives, not just a temporary relief for two weeks and in the long term make no difference for them at all. I want like the guy who just got fired from his job at the same time he got diagnosed with a health condition and he has three kids and just needs to make it into the next month so he doesn't have to sell his house, I DON'T want the guy who's terrible with money and his car broke down but he doesn't have savings but it's kind of his own fault because he spent it all on pokemon cards last month and now he's begging for help and sure I could help fix his car but next month it's just gonna be a different thing. But that requires way more knowledge than you can reasonably have! This made me rethink everything quite a lot, and I did not actually do all the noble charity-type stuff I thought i would have, when I was poorer. I've ended up donating money in two ways: 1. Occasionally helping friends. I know them well, I know their situations well, I have a good sense of when money would be genuinely useful instead of plugging a hole. 2. Donating to cost-effective charities. I donate to Give Directly, which does at least some research into people who can benefit the most from my money in ways that are actually life-changing for them. 3. Donating to things I've benefited from, that I think I would have happily paid for if they'd been charging. For example, community space stuff, where I have derived a huge benefit from them, and I think they should be paid in hindsight for the value they've provided me.
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Stunning use of one’s platform. RIP Peaches
Bob Geldof knew. Russell Brand tried it on with his daughter. Well done to all of Brand’s victims for speaking up and getting this convictionπŸ§˜β€β™€οΈβœŒοΈπŸ’š
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β€œYour mum’s a fungible sock.” β€” Me, rifling around the drawer
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β€œBrace yourself; I’m going to sing you a lullaby.” β€” Me
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Audible narration seems wild, but woof:
Today I sat for 45 minutes in meditation. While doing so, I narrated my experience. I then asked an LLM to animate what I saw and felt. Here's the result
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I am so proud of my bio-family. They’ve fully got on board with my being a godmother, and my parents treat the girls like grandchildren. Today, Mum showed me a deep drawer where she keeps presents β€˜for the girlies’ 🀍
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Fellas if you get the curvy, muscular 5’10” to fall asleep and fart next to you Just know that you’re one of the chosen few; do not fumble that baddie *parp*
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I am such a fan of Walkies (in most weathers), and sleeping with the window open snuggled under the duvet with two hot water bottles
I wonder how much seasonal affective disorder is due to people taking in too much CO2 indoors and getting less fresh air
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Bony πŸ’€πŸ©»πŸ—οΈπŸ‘»πŸŽƒ β€’ YKTN πŸΊπŸ’„πŸ‡ retweeted
You aren't growing to take over the world or save it from itself. You're growing in order to bear more of the world right along with everyone else, here and now, so that each of us can all grow and bear more of reality exactly as it is.
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Charity shops are the natural foraging ground of godmothers; it is where we rummage and rustle for that smashing pair of dungarees for a two year old. Wildly indulging these children in a resource-mindful fashion β€” everyone is delighted
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