Miranda Hart Quotes

Look in the mirror and say, 'There is none other like you and for that reason alone you are beautiful.

Live in hope. Because things do happen. Things do change. Worry really is futile. Don't fear the future. Dreams do come true.

If I did better... I'd be God.

Manicures: Which are basically just holding hands with a stranger for forty-five minutes whilst listening to Enya.

I have written the only diet book that I believe needs to exist, and here it is: CHAPTER ONE: Eat a bit less. CHAPTER TWO: Move about a bit more. THE END.

We all have our worries about our bodies and our looks. We just need to make the best of our lovely, wonky selves. The key is never to compare and try to be something you're not.

I think it's sad when people stop dreaming, or start losing hope. Because holding onto the bonkers dream might just turn out to be the most marvellous thing you ever did.

Life is a series of embarrassing moments which leave you feeling alone in your confusion and shame

There are some wonderful aspects to Christmas. It's magical. And each year, from at least November, well, September, well, if I'm honest, May, I look forward to it hugely.

We are all unique, which makes us beautiful; so never despair, and just chill the hell out about it all.

Never go to the supermarket when you're hungry.' There you go. Doesn't get wiser than that. Fact.

Very important to celebrate victories, however tiny, I always say.

To varying degrees, we all feel awkward. Whether we hide it with arrogance, shyness, modesty; whether we play the clown or the trendsetter, everyone struggles.

You need to know that even as life develops in superficially disappointing ways, there is still fun to be had.

some of my happiest funniest times have been spent in offices. Perhaps because the work was mudane, even the tiniest of distractions become wildly hilarious and wonderful. Actually, I'd say that 90 per cent of my doubled-over-gasping-with-laughther-laughing-so-much-that-you-can't-breathe-and-you-think-you-might-die laughing has occurred during slow days in offices.

But for now, Little Miranda, know this: we all have our worries about our bodies and our looks. We just need to make the best of our lovely, wonky selves. The key is never to compare and try to be something you're not.

And may I just make my position very clear on this – there is no such thing as a FUN RUN as, even if you are dressed as an elephant, you still have to RUN. 'Fun' and 'run' are two words which, when the wonderful laws of Miranda-Land come into play, will be illegal to put together. I thank you. And relax.

I hope your dreams have come or will come true. Or you feel inspired to down tools on what you wrongly thought was making you happy and follow the real dream.

I tried to be grown up but I have no interest in abiding by the adult rulebook. I want to do fun things that make me happy [...] You might call me a child. Good. For if adults had even the slightest in-the-moment joy of a child then frankly the world would be a better place.

Numero uno: you realise pretty quickly that you're never going to get what one of the viler magazines might refer to as a 'bikini body' so, instead of doing a hundred sit-ups twice a day, you can opt out of all that perfectionist malarkey. And you can spend your energy developing other personal qualities. Like being funny. And galloping. And learning complex dance routines, which become suddenly hilarious when you whack on a leotard and try to perform them. All that lovely stuff.

(Note to anyone considering joining a class: there is no need to turn up in full Strictly Come Dancing salsa outfit including fake tan. Everyone just wears jeans. Briefly awkward.)

Have I finally convinced you that it's always best to be who you are?

By now it's March, and it's too late to start another new year's resolution: you'll simply have to wait until December 31st again. Everybody knows you can't start something new in March. That would be ridiculous. Similar to starting a diet on a Thursday. Madness. (All diets start on a Monday, as on the Thursday before you start you have to eat everything out of your fridge and cupboards for the following Monday. It's a marvellous system.)

Imagine for a moment playing by children's rules. If you were at a party and saw someone you liked, you could just go and hold their hand. If they then try to kiss you and you don't like it, you can push them over. If your aunty gives you a Christmas present that you're not too keen on, you can throw it back in her face and burst into tears. You can gallop freely. You can skip. Children have got it right. The tragedy is, none of this is permissible as an adult. Although one thing surely is – and I'll bet you know what I'm going to say – that's right, the galloping. Such fun!

My Dear Reader Chum, a very hearty hello to you. What an honour and privilege it is to have you perusing my written word.

We said together, wistfully, 'Life, eh?' It says everything without having to say anything: that we all experience moments of joyful or painful reflection, sometimes alone, sometimes sharing laughs and tears with others; that we all know and appreciate that however wonderful and precious life is, it can equally be a terribly confusing and mysterious beast. 'Life, eh?

I do love a hotel room: adore it. What's not to love about everything you need in one room? Would you have a kettle on a tea tray with biscuits in a packet in your bedroom at home? No, you very likely wouldn't. And – please excuse me, MDRC, I'm getting a little giddy here – the kettle. The little tiny kettle on a little tiny stand! Admittedly it's hard to fill as it never quite fits under the basin taps, but that's all just part of the fun.

Mine was something along the lines of 'This is who I am, and this is the level at which I'm going to present myself, I feel fine, and if you don't like it then you're more than welcome to look away, thank you very much.' I decided, quite simply, not to care very much at all. As long as my rear-end and stomach were hidden from the public gaze, then I considered any outfit a roaring success. People are either going to like the look of me, or they're not. And apart from remaining vaguely clean and healthy, there's not very much I can do to control that. Is an eye-lash tint, a facial and the right handbag really going to make all that much difference? With this decision, I think I've spared myself a lot of misery. You may look at me and see a slightly frayed, wool-clad woman with an inexplicably hefty rucksack, but I look in the mirror and simply give thanks for all I've opted out of.

Ever feel like you deserve some royal treatment? You should do, you’re amazing. Don’t go forgetting that now, will you? I will have no beating yourself up on my watch! Pretend

I have a fantastic method for anti-ageing. It's eating. Plumps out your skin beautifully.

Art is subjective and art as a form of entertainment escapism is as high art as any.

Look in the mirror and say, ‘There is none other like you and for that reason alone you are beautiful.

... it takes courage to be cheerful too. Life isn’t always easy and it sometimes takes strength to see the happy side.

A PICNIC IS NOT AN ADVENTURE! Excuse me, but at thirty-eight and over six foot, trying to sit cross-legged on the ground to eat a meal is a total adventure. Have you ever attempted to eat with a plastic knife and fork, off a paper plate, while balancing the plate on your knee? And in company? That's an adventure. I tried to cut into my pork pie and the knife broke, then my Scotch egg rolled off the plate and into some mud. What does one do in that situation? Wipe off the mud, and eat it anyway? Risky. I peeled off the meaty outside and ate the boiled egg. Result. And, once, on the beach, I sat down with fish and chips (not strictly a picnic, but still hardcore al fresco eating) and a seagull swooped down and took the whole fish from my box! It was terrifying. So don't you go telling me that picnics aren't an adventure, thanking you muchly.

The sitting-next-to-me-when-there-are-free-seats part was unaccaptable enough. In this country, we never sit next to each other unless absolutely necessary. In the waiting room, we'll dot ourselves about and always have a chair-sized gap between us. That gap must never be filled: people simply must not encroach on our personal space. That's just how it is.

It is far, far better never to have been beautiful. If you're gorgeous you're going to get by absolutely fine everyone will always want you in the room and you'll be lavished with attention, which you'll do very little to earn. Whereas, if you look like a sack of offal thats been dropkicked down a lift-shaft into a pond, you're going to spend many of your formative years alone. this may seem miserable - but you'll have space, space that you can constructively use to discover and hone your skills, learn a language, develop an interest in cosmology, practice the oboe, do whatever you fancy, really, so long as it doesn't involve being looked at or snogging anyone. And you'll very likely emerge from your chrysalis aged twenty-five as a highly accomplished young thing ready to take on the world. meanwhile, The Beautiful Ones will have been so busy having boyfriends and brushing their hair that they'll just be . . . who they always were.

The only acceptable hobby, throughout all stages of life, is cookery. As a child: adorable baked items. Twenties: much appreciated spag bol and fry-ups. Thirties and forties: lovely stuff with butternut squash and chorizo from the Guardian food section. Fifties and sixties: beef wellington from the Sunday Telegraph magazine. Seventies and eighties: back to the adorable baked items. Perfect. The only teeny tiny downside of this hobby is that I HATE COOKING. Don't get me wrong; I absolutely adore the eating of the food. It's just the awful boring, frightening putting together of it that makes me want to shove my own fists in my mouth. It's a lovely idea: follow the recipe and you'll end up with something exactly like the pretty picture in the book, only even more delicious. But the reality's rather different. Within fifteen minutes of embarking on a dish I generally find myself in tears in the middle of what appears to be a bombsite, looking like a mentally unstable art teacher in a butter-splattered apron, wondering a) just how I am supposed to get hold of a thimble and a half of FairTrade hazelnut oil (why is there always the one impossible-to-find recipe ingredient? Sesame paste, anyone?) and b) just how I managed to get flour through two closed doors onto the living-room curtains, when I don't recall having used any flour and oh-this-is-terrible-let's-just-go-out-and-get-a-Wagamama's-and-to-hell-with-the-cost, dammit.

Cat spots breast cancer missed by the finest doctor in the land. Llama successfully pilots crashing plane to a safe and happy landing (I might have made one of those up).

To be upset over what you don’t have is to waste what you do have.’ Ken S. Keyes

Consider the boundaries you need to conserve your energy and operate at your best.

I only really and truly fully relax on my own. Give me a sun lounger, a pool and a sea view, and I'm happy.

don’t know how you cope. You must bump into

we may want to isolate ourselves in tough times but what we actually need is comfort through community and thinking outwards.

And then, knowing I could meet my needs and stop listening at any time, I felt a freedom to listen. I wanted to listen.

Looking towards joy is the most important of rewiring the stress response

I knew i would step back into having a faith at the centre of my life. I couldn't be bothered to question any more. I would rather have a Peggy-like faith than not. Simple. Forget theological debate, I'll just believe, because it makes me fell safer, connected, in purpose, loved and approved. Life and loved can be pretty blooming messy sometimes. Humiliating even. And maybe that's the point. Relationships are meant to disrupt you, shake you up, cause upheaval. We're meant to love people, to be chaotically interconnected. It's what makes life worth living.

The importance of nature. The feeding it gives the soul. The sense it gives of a whole world out there reminding you that you are but a speck, so pop your worries back into the futile box.

I’m not sure I’m up for going to the moon. I’d rather go to Antigua as far as holiday destinations go. Well, they all went mental didn’t they, astronauts? Perhaps it’s very helpful because you’re reminded that you have a very short life and really there’s nothing to worry about at all. But then you might come back to earth and not give a sh*t about anything." - Stylist.co.uk, 2012

With this decision I think I've spared myself a lot of misery. You may look at me and see a slightly frayed, wool-clad woman with an inexplicably hefty rucksack, but I look in the mirror and simply give thanks for all I've opted out of.

Of all the books on the shelf, just look what you’ve gone and bought. Give yourself a round of applause, even if you’re in public. I dare you. Actually I tell you what, as this would make me very happy: if you’re in public and see someone else reading this book, why don’t you applaud each other? What a lovely moment that would be. I advocate that as much as I advocate adults galloping, or people randomly wandering into an optician to try on the most unflattering and amusing glasses for no good reason. It’s what I call ‘making your own fun’. Because you have to, really, don’t you? As, let’s face it; life does have a tendency to throw up difficulties, depressions, moments of boredom, loneliness or grind. I don’t know. Life, eh?

I was deeply moved by this, moved by how tremendous it felt to be so simply trusted, and I found myself thinking about the notion of God. I know this is getting a bit ... well, deep, but I really thought - if there is a God, this is how he'd want humans to behave. He (or She or It) would want us to really trust, to stay close, to have faith in our instincts, to go where Life takes us, even at times it feels dark and difficult, all in sure and certain hope that we're being taken somewhere good.

Personally, I think on leaving school we aren't prepared to deal with the seriousness the work place presents. Indeed, the formality of the real world, full stop. School was seven glorious years of anarchy. Rules were there to be broken. Surely anything 'serious' was just a blank canvas onto which we could project our jolly japery?

If taking one-self seriously as a woman means committing to a life of grooming, pumicing, pruning and polishing one's exterior for the benefit of onlookers, then I may as well leave my unwieldy rucksack to the top of a bleak Scottish hill and make my home there under a stone, where I'll fashion shoes out of mud and clothes out of leaves.

Do we ever stop dreaming? I know I haven't. I must have been at least twenty-five when the Spice Girls happened, and I distinctly remember imagining my way into the group. I was going to be the sixth Spice, 'Massive Spice', who, against all the odds, would become the most popular and lusted-after Spice. The Spice who sang the vast majority of solo numbers in the up-tempo tracks. The Spice who really went the distance. And I still haven't quite given up on the Wimbledon Ladies' Singles Championship. I mean, it can't be too late, can it? I've got a lovely clean T-shirt, and I've figured out exactly how I'd respond to winning the final point (lie on floor wailing, get up, do triumphant lap of the ring slapping crowd members' box). It can't be just me who does this. I'm convinced that most adults, when travelling alone in a car, have a favourite driving CD of choice and sing along to it quite seriously, giving it as much attitude and effort as they can, due to believing – in that instant – that they're the latest rock or pop god playing to a packed Wembley stadium. And there must be at least one man, one poor beleaguered City worker, who likes to pop into a phone box then come out pretending he's Superman. Is there someone who does this? Anyone? If so, I'd like to meet you and we shall marry in the spring (unless you're really, really weird and the Superman thing is all you do, in which case BACK OFF).

Then I caught Peggy out of the corner of my eye. I saw how she was behaving; completely absorbed in her surroundings, responding sharply to everything around her, every smell, every sight, every new and wonderful sound. She was so committed to the landscape that she almost became a part of it, and I knew that the only way I could be happy was if I did the same; forced myself to be where I was, relax into the now. I realized I had been shuffling along emailing and missed the best bluebell wood. What an idiot. It dawned on me then how much I have missed in life. Truly. I have missed so many moments and memories by being stuck in my head worrying, 'what if this?', 'what if that?' What a BIG FAT WASTE OF TIME.

There are some wonderful aspects to Christmas. It's magical. And each year, from at least November, well, September, well, if I'm honest, May, I look forward to it hugely. The singing, eating, log fires, eating, drinking, singing, eating, the good will, the cheer, ice skating, singing, the eating, the drinking, the show, the scarves, singing, eating, drinking, eating, singing, eating. Yes, I embrace the season in all its candle-lit, log-fire-lighting, chestnut-roasting gloriousness, and ponder the people to whom I can spread bounty and joy in this glorious season of giving. *sings* 'Well, I wish it could be Christmas every da-a-a-a-ay!

Time for an exercise, which I shall call 'Say It Out Loud With Miranda'. Please take a moment to sit back, breathe and intone: 'I am taking myself seriously as a woman.' Note your response. If you're reading this on the bus, or surreptitiously in the cinema, or in any other public scenario, then please note other people's responses. (If you are male, and teenaged, and reading this in a room with other teenage boys, then for your own safety I advise you not to participate.) The rest of you – what comes to mind when you say those words? Is it a fine lady scientist, a ballsy young anarchist with tights on her head or a feminist intellectual from the 1970s nose-down in Simone de Beauvoir? Or is it what I think my friend meant when she said 'woman' which is really 'aesthetic object'. Clothes-horse. Show pony. General beautiful piece of well-groomed stuff that's lovely to look at? I reckon, to my great dismay, that she did indeed mean the latter. And in saying that I don't take myself seriously in this regard her assessment of me is absolutely bang-on. If taking oneself seriously as a woman means committing to a like of grooming, pumicing, pruning and polishing one's exterior for the benefit of onlookers, then I may as well heave my unwieldy rucksack to the top of a bleak Scottish hill and make my home there under a stone, where I'll fashion shoes out of mud and clothes out of leaves.

It was the first time I got to grips with the notion of that kind of trust and, more so, of relinquishing control. Giving myself to something bigger that might have a purpose for my life. Certainly not an easy concept, but it suddenly seemed more sensible and more humble than thinking it was all down to me; that I had to make sense of all life's twists and turns and downward spirals and darkness. That I had to grip on, and it was all my fault if it didn't work out, even if what I did was my absolute best. That hadn't been working out for me in the past. I wanted what Peggy had. I wanted my existence to be one of purpose and with discipline over my choices, following as obediently and calmly as I could a thing which I believed had my best interests at heart and loved me unconditionally. The latter being the crunch point I suppose. That if a God is 'up there' loving me unconditionally (as Peggy knows I love her), I would rather believe that than not.

No, MDRC, no need to read that sentence again, you read right –I was chatting to a seagull.

I quit, before I was the first person ever to be sacked from a volunteer scheme.

being in beauty, and gaining a sense of community, really is health to the soul.

And a timetable means I’m super relaxed hosting because, for example, I’ve said before people arrive that I want them out by 9.30 pm so I can go to bed. Such freedom. At 9.25 pm, if they’re looking too comfortable, I start shouting, ‘Open the Uber app, please!’ A friend of mine plays ‘Climb Ev’ry Mountain’ very loudly when she’s hit a wall of overwhelm and wants people to leave. They know she’s serious and they all have a massive sing-along as they head to the door. Genius!

But I am someone who wants to tear down the curtain and see the real play as soon as possible.

She was being polite and kind to be polite and kind, which meant she wasn’t being polite and kind. We abandon our needs as well as that of our friends by turning up dishonourably. I truly believe that if we knew someone was coming to meet us in those circumstances, we would be deeply offended.

Joy and play are genuine ways to keep healthy, fight disease and prolong your life

It's play that recharges and restores

As, let’s face it; life does have a tendency to throw up

Watching television with elderly members of your family. VERY LOUDLY INDEED. They can't understand how the remote control works but keep trying to make it work by pressing all the buttons. They somehow get it on a video function and we can't work out how to get back to normal telly programmes. Infuriating.

Wie schrijft, die blijft!

including some rabbits (or rabbi, as someone had put on the daily filming call sheet, causing much confusion as to what kind of pet shop this actually was),

My dearest friends at school, and harmless nicknames then, but embarrassing when you find yourself shouting 'Pussy!' excitedly across Centre Court at Wimbledon during a quiet match point fifteen years later. Carry on…