There are few things in life I love more than a proper Sunday roast. Crispy potatoes, beautifully cooked meat, an enormous amount of gravy and preferably absolutely no plans afterwards.

On paper, it's a fairly straightforward meal. Meat, potatoes, vegetables, Yorkshire puddings, gravy. Lovely.

And yet, somehow, people keep finding ways to interfere with it.

Now, I'm not claiming to be the ultimate authority on Sunday roasts. I'm simply a woman with some very strongly held opinions about what belongs on my plate, and I'm prepared to make those opinions everybody else's problem.

So, in the interest of public service, let's discuss.

The Meat: Beef Is King

Let's establish something immediately. Beef is the superior roast meat, and I won't be taking questions.

Beautifully pink in the middle, tender and full of flavour. That's what we're aiming for.

When I was little, however, I insisted on having my beef well done. A decision that genuinely makes me question my younger self's judgement.

Although, having reviewed my dating history, perhaps we shouldn't be surprised.

Thankfully, I've since developed better taste in both beef and men. Matt, you're welcome.

To every cow I had desecrated in my younger years, I sincerely apologise.

Now, somewhat controversially, my second favourite roast meat is chicken.

Anyone who knows me will appreciate how extraordinary this admission is, because I generally cannot stand chicken. Roast chicken breast, however, is the exception.

And I mean breast. Not a thigh. Not a wing. And certainly not an entire miniature chicken dumped onto my plate.

Why are restaurants serving whole poussin like we're attending a medieval banquet?

I've come out for Sunday lunch, not an anatomy lesson. I don't want to spend 45 minutes performing surgery on a tiny carcass in pursuit of approximately four mouthfuls of meat.

Just give me some properly carved roast chicken breast, without the bones or unnecessary excavation work, and let me eat my dinner in peace.

Pork and lamb are perfectly respectable options, but beef will always have my heart.

And whatever meat you're serving, the quality needs to be good. Non-negotiable. You can surround a disappointing piece of meat with every accompaniment known to humanity, but you're not fooling anyone.

Roast Potatoes: Stop Trying to Reinvent Them

A roast potato should be delightfully crispy on the outside and beautifully soft and fluffy in the middle.

That's it. That's the assignment.

I don't need Parmesan, truffle oil or anything unnecessarily fancy. A proper, traditional roast potato, cooked brilliantly, is already a thing of beauty.

And can we PLEASE discuss restaurants serving frozen roast potatoes?

We can tell.

They taste like gack, and no amount of gravy is going to convince me otherwise.

If I'm paying good money for a Sunday roast, I don't think expecting an actual roast potato is particularly unreasonable.

While we're here, mashed potato has absolutely no business being on a roast dinner.

None.

I love mash in the appropriate circumstances, but those circumstances do not include sitting next to roast potatoes on a Sunday lunch plate.

We already have potatoes. We've roasted them. The matter is settled.

Yorkshire Puddings Are for EVERY Roast

I know there are people who believe Yorkshire puddings should only accompany beef.

Those people are wrong.

Beef, chicken, pork, lamb. I don't care. If I'm having a roast dinner, I want Yorkshire puddings.

What I don't want, however, is a Yorkshire pudding roughly the size of the O2 Arena.

Some restaurants seem to have turned them into an architectural competition. They're enormous, towering over everything else on the plate, and the tops are inevitably so dry you could use them to exfoliate.

Give me a couple of normal-sized Yorkshires. Golden, beautifully risen and ready to soak up a frankly unreasonable amount of gravy.

Bigger isn't always better.

Yes, I'm aware of how that sounds. Moving on.

The Vegetable Situation Has Gotten Out of Hand

Right. We need to talk about carrots.

I LOVE carrots.

Proper carrots. Normal carrots. Actual, identifiable carrots.

What I don't want is a handful of Chantenay carrots masquerading as a vegetable portion.

And I certainly don't want them covered in honey.

Why are we constantly trying to make savoury food sweet? Carrots are already delicious. They don't need glazing, sweetening or generally interfering with.

I ordered a roast dinner, not a pudding with beef on the side.

But the greatest offence of all?

Carrot and swede crush.

I cannot begin to explain the disappointment of ordering a Sunday roast, expecting carrots, and receiving an orange mound of mashed vegetables where the carrot is apparently making a guest appearance.

Why do restaurants assume this fulfils their carrot obligations?

It does not.

This is not sufficient carrotage, and I will be taking the matter further.

As for the rest of the vegetable department, broccoli is always welcome. Cabbage and leeks with bacon? Absolutely glorious. A Brussels sprout or two? Why not!

Green beans are fine. I'm not exactly writing home about them, but they're perfectly acceptable.

Parsnips, meanwhile, can attend if they must, although I won't be saving them a seat.

I'm really not difficult. I just want vegetables that taste like vegetables, preferably without someone trying to turn them into dessert.

And, for the avoidance of doubt, proper carrots.

Stuffing, Gravy and the Sauce Situation

Stuffing is another accompaniment that shouldn't be restricted to one particular meat.

Poultry? Yes. Pork? Absolutely. Beef? Go on, then.

With lamb, however, we have something called munch, a herby, breadcrumb-like coating that deserves its own little moment of appreciation.

And then there's gravy.

Gravy is not the time for restraint.

I want plenty of it. Enough to coat the meat, get into the potatoes and fill every available Yorkshire pudding.

It needs some body, too. Thick-ish, with enough substance to actually cling to the food, but not so thick you could use it to repoint the patio.

Watery gravy?

Absolutely not.

That's just beef-flavoured disappointment.

And don't come at me with one of those tiny gravy boats containing approximately three tablespoons. What exactly am I supposed to do with that?

Now, sauces.

Firstly, absolutely nothing sweet.

Apple sauce? No. Cranberry sauce? Also no.

I don't want jam interfering with my Sunday dinner, thank you very much.

Mint sauce, however, is welcome with practically everything.

And before anyone gets clever, I mean proper mint sauce. NOT mint jelly. They're not interchangeable, and I won't hear otherwise.

Horseradish makes the occasional appearance, as does English mustard or Dijon, depending on my mood.

But mint sauce is the reliable favourite. She turns up, does her job and doesn't try to be dessert.

Pigs in Blankets: A Gift From God

I'm not a particularly religious woman, but if there is a God, pigs in blankets might be his finest work.

A tiny sausage wrapped in bacon?

Inspired. Revolutionary. Frankly, thank you for your service.

The problem is that I could quite comfortably demolish a packet of 12 PIBs without a moment's hesitation.

Not a particularly proud admission, but an important one.

So, for my own wellbeing, I've had to introduce some boundaries.

PIBs are reserved for occasion roasts. Christmas, Easter, a particularly special Sunday.

Not because they don't deserve a permanent place on the plate, but because I cannot be trusted around them.

Someone has to be the adult in this relationship, and unfortunately, it's me.

The Pub Roast Problem

I love going out for a Sunday roast. There's something wonderful about somebody else doing all the cooking and, more importantly, all the washing-up.

But here's the thing.

Most pub roasts are just... okay.

Not awful. Not particularly memorable. Just okay.

And when you're paying a decent amount for a Sunday lunch, okay feels a bit disappointing.

Of course, there are exceptions. The Pembroke Arms, Chapter House and Heligan Gardens Kitchen have all delivered roasts worthy of recognition.

The rest of the industry should consider this a gentle nudge.

For me, though, nothing quite beats a proper homemade roast.

You can cook the beef exactly how you like it, get the potatoes gloriously crispy, make gravy by the bucketload and serve portions that actually constitute a meal.

Nobody's sneaking swede into your carrots.

Nobody's presenting you with a miniature chicken carcass.

Nobody's trying to distract you from disappointing meat with a Yorkshire pudding large enough to accommodate a family of four.

And nobody's charging you £25 for the privilege.

So, What Makes the Perfect Sunday Roast?

For me, it's beautifully pink roast beef, proper crispy potatoes, normal-sized Yorkshire puddings, generous helpings of vegetables and enough gravy to cause a minor flooding incident.

A bit of stuffing. Proper mint sauce. Maybe some PIBs if the occasion warrants it.

Nothing overly fancy. Nothing sweet where sweet things don't belong. Just good-quality ingredients, cooked properly, served generously.

Because that's the thing about a Sunday roast. It doesn't need reinventing.

It just needs doing well. 

And if you're a restaurant reading this, I have one final request.

Please, for the love of everything, ensure there is sufficient carrotage.

Molly

I've come to realise that I have a rather impressive collection of things that irritate me.

Some are perfectly reasonable. Others are so ridiculously specific that I appreciate I probably need to get a grip. But I'm in my thirties now, and rather than developing a more relaxed attitude towards the world, I seem to be collecting new grievances like they're loyalty points.

And before anyone suggests I'm just a miserable cow, I'm actually a very happy person. I just have some questions about the way certain people choose to conduct themselves.

So, here are a few things I have absolutely no business having such strong opinions about.

Supermarket Aisles Are Not Social Venues

Why do people insist on stopping in the middle of a supermarket aisle to have a full-blown catch-up?

I appreciate you haven't seen Sandra since 2019, and I'm thrilled that her youngest has started secondary school, but some of us are trying to get to the pasta.

And it's never just two people having a quick conversation, is it? There are trolleys involved. Sometimes three generations of the same family. A complete blockade.

MOVE.

While we're discussing public spaces, can we also address slow walkers? Particularly those who somehow manage to occupy the entire pavement while travelling at approximately half a mile per hour.

I'm not asking everyone to power-walk everywhere. I just want to get past you without having to step into oncoming traffic.

Personal Space Is Not a Suggestion

There is absolutely no reason for a stranger to stand so close to me in a queue that we're practically sharing a postcode.

If I can feel you breathing down my neck, you're too close.

Moving closer to me will not make the queue move faster. It will, however, make me increasingly irritated.

And while we're discussing basic manners, can we talk about drivers who don't acknowledge you when you've let them through?

I've stopped my car, given you right of way and patiently waited while you drive past. Would a little wave of acknowledgement really be too much to ask?

I'm not expecting a handwritten thank-you card. A raised finger from the steering wheel will suffice.

But absolutely nothing? Not even a nod?

You're welcome, YOUR MAJESTY.

The General Public Needs to Turn the Volume Down

I love going out for dinner. What I don't love is having to listen to somebody three tables away laughing like they're auditioning for a pantomime.

There's having a good time, and then there's making sure everybody within a 40-metre radius knows you're having a good time.

The same applies to people watching TikToks on full volume in public.

Headphones exist. They've existed for quite some time. This is not new technology.

I don't need to hear the same 12-second audio clip seventeen times while you're scrolling through your For You Page.

And repetitive noises in general? Absolutely not. Once I've noticed a sound, my brain apparently decides to give it its undivided attention until either the noise stops or I leave the building.

Someone repeatedly tapping a pen, for example, could genuinely send me over the edge.

Some Things Shouldn't Happen While People Are Eating

Here's one that might be slightly unreasonable.

I cannot stand watching people eat while standing up.

I don't know why. It just feels lazy to me. Which makes absolutely no sense, because sitting down arguably requires less effort.

I understand the contradiction. I have no intention of resolving it.

Another thing: please don't blow your nose anywhere near me while I'm eating.

I know noses need blowing. I'm aware this is a perfectly normal bodily function. I simply don't want to be involved in it while I'm halfway through my dinner.

And burping at the table?

No. Absolutely not. Take your digestive announcements elsewhere.

While we're here, don't eat my food.

I ordered what I wanted. You ordered what you wanted. Why are you now helping yourself to mine?

If you wanted chips, you should have ordered chips. This is not a communal buffet.

I'm Not Financing Your Lobster

I have absolutely no problem splitting a restaurant bill equally when everyone's had roughly the same amount.

But if you've ordered lobster, steak and six cocktails while I've had a sandwich and a Diet Coke, we're not dividing the total by two.

I'm your friend, not your financial sponsor.

And somehow, it's always the person who's ordered the most who cheerfully suggests, "Shall we just split it?"

What a fabulous idea. For you.

Words Mean Things, People

I appreciate that nobody's perfect, and autocorrect has a lot to answer for, but some grammatical mistakes really do make my eye twitch.

Your and you're. Their, there and they're.

And don't even get me started on "could of".

But my absolute favourite has to be people saying "pacifically" when they mean "specifically".

It's not an ocean, hun.

I'm not expecting everyone to speak like they've swallowed a dictionary. I just think we should collectively agree that the Pacific Ocean has no business appearing in a conversation about something specific.

Lateness Is Not a Personality Trait

I'm not talking about genuinely unavoidable circumstances. Traffic happens. Trains get cancelled. Life gets in the way.

I'm talking about people who are consistently late and seem to think it's an adorable little personality quirk.

It isn't.

If we've agreed to meet at seven, I don't want to receive a message at 7:05 saying you're just getting in the shower.

My time is valuable too, thank you very much.

And now I'm standing around looking like someone who's been stood up, which is not the evening I had planned.

Why Is Everything Life-Changing?

Can we have a little chat about influencers?

Specifically, why every single product, purchase and minor lifestyle decision is apparently LIFE-CHANGING.

A new moisturiser? Life-changing.

A water bottle? Life-changing.

A slightly different way of organising your sock drawer? Your life will NEVER be the same.

At this point, I'm genuinely concerned about how some of these people were functioning beforehand.

Not everything needs to be revolutionary. Sometimes a moisturiser is just quite good.

And that's okay.

A Few Honourable Mentions

There are a handful of other things that deserve recognition, although I'm conscious this is rapidly becoming a formal complaint against society.

People who don't pick up after their dogs. I regularly look after our family dog, Winnie, and I cannot understand this. If you're taking a dog out for a walk, picking up after them is part of the deal. It's disgusting to leave it for somebody else to deal with. And before anyone says they didn't see it happen, I'm not buying it.

People who leave cupboard doors open. Why? You opened it. You got what you needed. Was closing it simply a step too far?

And children.

Look, I appreciate they're part of society. I understand they have every right to exist in public spaces. I just wish some of them would exercise that right a little more quietly.

Particularly in restaurants. I'm trying to enjoy my dinner, not experience the acoustics of a primary school playground.

And before anyone comes for me, I know children make noise. I'm not expecting complete silence. But there's a difference between a child being a child and a child treating the entire restaurant like their personal soft play while their parents enjoy a leisurely glass of Sauvignon Blanc.

I should also clarify that I absolutely adore my nephews. They're wonderful, and naturally, none of this applies to them.

Is that hypocritical? Probably. But they're my nephews, and I make the rules.

Anyway. Moving swiftly on before I become the subject of a Mumsnet thread.

Before Anyone Calls Me a Hypocrite...

I should probably acknowledge that I'm not entirely innocent when it comes to irritating habits.

For starters, I'm absolutely the person who sends a cheerful "Hi, how are you?" on Teams before getting to the actual point.

In my defence, I do immediately start typing my question. Unfortunately, the question occasionally takes me 15 minutes to compose.

So from the recipient's perspective, I've essentially knocked on their virtual door, asked how they're doing and then stood silently in the doorway for a quarter of an hour.

I'm also a serial voice-note sender.

And I don't mean a quick 30-second update. I mean a full-length audio production, complete with tangents, unnecessary background information and occasionally a conclusion that bears very little resemblance to the original subject.

I've even been known to end my voice notes with "Thank you for listening to my podcast."

My friend Danny has named the series Meet the Burys.

Nobody has requested an episode. There's no subscription service. No regular release schedule. Just me, talking at length, whenever I feel the need.

So yes, I fully appreciate that there are people out there who probably find me every bit as irritating as I find someone having a family reunion in the middle of Tesco.

But this is my blog, and we're discussing everyone else's shortcomings today, thank you very much.

In Conclusion, I'm Probably the Problem

Look, I'm fully aware that most of these things are incredibly minor.

The world isn't going to end because somebody says "pacifically", leaves a cupboard open or watches a TikTok without headphones.

Although, admittedly, it might feel like it for a moment.

I don't expect everyone to live according to my very specific set of entirely unofficial rules. That would be ridiculous.

Convenient, but ridiculous.

And despite everything I've just written, I promise I'm actually quite pleasant company.

Just arrive on time, respect my personal space, don't touch my chips and, for the love of everything, let me get to the pasta aisle.

We'll get along beautifully.

Molly

I love a good beauty product as much as the next person, but I have absolutely no interest in a 47-step skincare routine or spending half my salary on something that promises to make me look like I've had eight hours of sleep. 

I'm very much a creature of habit when it comes to beauty. Once I find something that works, it takes a minor miracle to convince me to change it. So, rather than sharing a list of products I've tried twice and decided are life-changing, here's what I actually use. 

Skincare Without the Song and Dance

My skincare routine is fairly straightforward. I've got combination skin that's prone to redness, so the last thing I want is to throw seventeen different products at my face and hope for the best.

CeraVe is a regular fixture in my bathroom. I use their cleanser morning and evening, followed by hyaluronic acid, and their PM moisturiser at night. I skip moisturiser in the mornings because my face has a tendency to produce enough oil without any encouragement.

Another firm favourite is my Medicube PDRN, which I've been using under my eyes. It's officially earned its place in my skincare routine, alongside my Grace & Stella eye patches, which I particularly enjoy straight from the fridge. A little under-eye maintenance never hurt anyone.

And before anyone suggests micellar water or cleansing balms, I've tried them. We're not compatible. I don't want an oily film in my eyes, thank you very much.

Makeup for When I Can Be Bothered

I don't wear makeup every day. In fact, most weeks it's probably once or twice, so when I do make the effort, I want products I know I can rely on.

My Clinique powder foundation has earned its place in my makeup bag. I love a matte finish, and I'm not particularly interested in looking like I've been glazed.

I'm also loyal to my Benefit brow gel and Huda Beauty lip products, particularly the shade Venus. Some things just work, and I see no reason to start an unnecessary investigation into alternatives.

I prefer powder products over creams, too. Cream blush and bronzer might be having their moment, but I'm perfectly happy sitting that particular trend out.

Haircare: The Bleached Blonde Edition

Being a bleached blonde means my hair requires a little more attention than I'd ideally like to give it.

My Redken Acidic Bonding Concentrate shampoo, conditioner and leave-in treatment are firmly in the rotation. I always double shampoo, and occasionally treat my hair to what I affectionately call the full kahuna.

Am I washing my hair every other day? Absolutely not. My hair and I have reached an understanding, and frequent washing isn't part of it.

If It Works, It Stays

I think that's the thing about beauty products. It's very easy to get swept up in whatever everyone's recommending this week, but sometimes the best products are the boring ones you keep buying.

I'm not against trying something new, but I don't need every product in my bathroom to be viral, expensive or revolutionary.

I just want skincare that behaves, makeup that stays put and blonde hair that doesn't resemble a hay bale.

Surely that's not too much to ask?

Molly