I hate watched the film when it was on here recently, just to see if it was really as awful and I remembered, and it was WORSE. There was NOTHING that wasn't horrifically grating about it (except the hilarious creepy bloke dancing at the one main girl).

That bewildered me, too. I thought it was about him saying he liked women who were a) fat and b) thick! I lived in the US for a million years but I never learnt "thick" to mean anything different… and I use it constantly, so people may well have been bewildered by me the whole time.

I LOVE that drink. But I had to stop ordering it in America because no one could understand me saying it.

If only I knew anyone who could do it without the uptalk (and condescension, and hilariously inflated sense of self importance)… it's rampant in the office where I spend a lot of time, and none of those British girls sound at all delicious. My ears will bleed one day.

Just the words "home ec" make me shudder. I was very happy to finish school. Textile technology was a term spent sewing baby blankets, and food technology was a term spent studying nutrition for pregnant women. We also got our sex education in home ec, right before the baby blanket bit – the teacher handed out a piece…

I never owned an iron! I only do know because I live with my husband and he has stuff that needs ironing. (He frequently expresses amazement at my clothes, and how they just magically don't need ironing. I'd never given it any thought till then, but it's true. I just only have stuff that doesn't need ironing!)

Exactly. I could spend several hours cleaning my flat… or I could use a little of the money I earned spending loads and loads of hours working and have someone else do it. They get money, I get to come home and start on my second job instead of cleaning. Everybody wins.

Yep, my husband was going to throw out a brilliant wool hoodie because it came apart at a seam, and was *amazed* that I sewed it back together. (I was amazed too, though, because I thought I really couldn't do like that. My textile tech teacher was a wicked person who really disliked me, so I'm quite against sewing to…

Oh, that music thing happened for me aaaages ago. I quite often feel ancient on the internet when I realise I'm talking with people who were born in 2000!

It does seem totally backwards for it to be quicker, doesn't it?! Texting's also silent and invisible, which helps while I'm at work, *and* doesn't rely on me having a phone signal – which is somehow weirdly difficult despite me being in London!

My outgoing message says I'll get emails and texts far quicker than voicemails; almost no one leaves me voicemails now. Hurray!

The difference for me is that I'd see the text really quickly and reply, via text, immediately, whereas with a voicemail I'd see that my phone had a missed call, not listen to the voicemail because I'm at work, then not listen to the voicemail because I'm on the tube and have no reception… if someone I know left me a…

Right?! The shape of the leotard was like this at the front:

Ohhh, lucky. I have ghost-pale skin and hair as black as midnight on a moonless night, and plenty of it. And aged 14 I was forced into horrifically high-cut leotards that were my school's PE uniform, and the resulting inches of hair revelation were enough to make me willing to first bleed, then pay for waxing, then…

It's not like that when I go – I think it depends *massively* on the person, and how they feel about that type of pain. I can't function properly if I have a paper cut on my little finger, but I can merrily chat through a Brazilian.

Lasers? I HATE shaving and am rubbish at it (So much blood! Every time!) but waxing's expensive and difficult to schedule, so I just got the laser stuff and life is brilliant.

YES. Behind the ankles is far, far worse than any part of a Hollywood.

My accent changes wildly depending on whom I'm talking to. It's awful! Everyone thought I was Australian when I was newly arrived back in London, but thankfully it's not that bad now.

It's not that he's being ok with a stereotype presented to him by English people, though, it's him cringing whenever he hears an American accent! (I was the same when I lived in California. I immediately made escape plans from whatever room I was in when I heard someone English.)

I had a dream I was photographing Mariah Carey's wedding the other night. It was awful. The dream ended with me on the roof of a mall in a fountain weeping after she fired me. Except she didn't actually fire me, she just walked off and pretended she couldn't here me.