Writer, photographer, "rapper" and general technophobe takes on the internet in what could be a very, very messy fight. But it's alright: she's harder than she looks, and she's wearing every single ring she could get her hands on.


Tuesday, 16 November 2010


Ten hours, and only because for nine of them everybody was asleep.

I`m not telling anyone, Grandad emailed. Especially not your grandma. Although, for the record, learning to ride a motorbike makes you a better driver. And he used to be Chief Constable of Hertfordshire: he should know.

Mum went predictably bonkers. Never mind your father. He`s a pussycat compared to what I`m about to do to you. Followed by three pages of a lot of allusions to God and praying, even though I`m not absolutely convinced mum is religious. She only appears to be religious when I`m trying to drive motorbikes. Oh, and I`m ringing your dad right now, she added. Right this second. Hold on to your seat.

Dad, however, is worryingly silent. Zero. Nada. Which leaves me to wonder: is, perhaps, there a tiny part of my father that`s proud of me for wanting a motorbike? We`re peas in a pod, after all, so if I want to drive one, isn`t there a small chance that my dad has always secretly wanted to drive one too? Maybe - under all the fatherly terror - there is a little bit of him thinking that`s my girl. Maybe there`s a little bit of him thinking: go Hol.

Or maybe he`s just busy warming up his vocal chords so he doesn`t strain anything on our next phone call.

Perhaps motorbikes are dangerous after all.