back up blog

You get excited about people who make things that mean something to you because it helps you to figure out who you are, and right now all help is good help. It feels defeatist to say that. You’re supposed to know. You’re not supposed to be the girl who posts romantic quotes on Facebook and cries at TV shows about twentysomethings “finding” themselves. You’d never admit it out loud, but when GIRLS first came out and everyone you know told you that you’re just like Hannah Horvath “… but like, in a good way,” you were really kind of flattered. You were flattered because that is you, represented, on screen, being told it’s okay to not have a book deal yet and yes, that you’ve “got” this, and yes, that one day you’ll be brilliant, and that yes, maybe even now there are occasional glimpses of it. It’s reassurance because in this moment you’re watching all thirteen episodes of Orange is the New Black back-to-back as you eat an entire fridge cake, berating every single second of the process

Last month I mailed a lock of my hair to a ninety-year old German medicine woman so that she could swing a pendulum over it, in turn discovering the inner workings of my current health. Why? Because science. That’s why. A makeup artist and reiki healer, whom I met at a press launch, by the buffet table, recommended Maria in Richmond to me. I was casually situated close as I could reasonably get to the mini French toast, and as we exchanged small talk I repeatedly apologised for my gluttonous snaffling of the carbs. Side note: my version of small talk is basically TELL ME EVERYTHING YOU LOVE! And that’s how I ended up ordering a book called A Return to Love: Reflections on the Principle of A Course in Miracles, and joining a Buddhist temple. “The funny thing is, I’m doing a sugar detox this weekend,” I laughed, picking up some more blueberry waffle. “Well,” the makeup artist replied, “I recently got diagnosed as being sugar intolerant by the most incredible healer. Told me I was eating

Darby & Joan are the quintessential middle-aged British couple, characterised by knitwear, hours of Scrabble, and a penchant for staying in on Saturday nights. Darby & Joan are, in fact, @calummcswiggan and me. Read the Darby & Joan back catalogue here .  Darby, Shit the motherfuckin’ bed: you’re moving to London! This is a sweet, beautiful moment. For so long I have wished for us to reside in the same town. For an age I’ve daydreamed. I’ve written letter after letter to the universe, positively visualising our reunited embrace, and now, two years since our last magical time down the road from one another, it’s all coming true. You’re moving here.  I could not be happier. I knew things would be different for you when you got back from Thailand. But, I didn’t know what was appropriate to say. And maybe that sounds douche-y and ridiculous because WE’RE BEST FRIENDS. Nothing should be in appropriate. Otherwise what’s the point? I know we exist to make each better, and part of

I spent most of May and June telling anyone who’d listen that this, these months, now, would be the first summer months I’d be in England in my whole adult life. I’d been worried about it. It didn’t seem natural to spend my bus rides into work under the dull grey of clouds holding a very particular kind of drizzle. I’d pass women with goosebumped arms and thick, Kate Middleton-esque sheer tights, seemingly determined to make the transition to summer wardrobe despite all evidence to the contrary. There’s nothing sadder than white linen trousers in the rain. Reading books about Roman food and Sicilian traditions on my daily commute, almost every other day I’d think to myself I can’t do this. I’m not built to live in one place, and certainly not in a place under 30 degrees. I’d resolve to pack it all in, as I’ve half been expecting myself to do ever since I moved to London. Go somewhere hot and… well. I couldn’t ever get further than that, because then something glorious would happen to r

Throughout most of my twenties I’ve felt like everyone but me has had their shit under control. That I was a woman with a girl’s soul. A grown-up in an adult’s body. That my experiences were somehow less valid than the rest of the world’s because WTF? Where is the instruction manual? Is this thing on? HELLO? And then, just lately, it has all sort of come together whereby I’ve realised that heck. I’m doing motherfucking FINE.   It’s a beautiful moment where you can look in the mirror and declare to yourself, damn gurl. You doing good. Because I am. I like who I’m becoming and it feels delicious to say that. It’s pretty goddamn kick-ass to be proud of who you are. Does everyone feel like this? I hope everyone feels like this. I bet Sienna Miller has always felt like this. She seems very well-adjusted. This past week I’ve begun mentoring my very first intern, and get a load of this banana pie: she wants to know what I know. I didn’t think I knew anything! But I know proper well loads! It

We went to Hampstead Heath because the sun was out, and because my brother sort of bullied me into it, and because I needed a day not sat in front of my computer. My MacBook doesn’t feed me ice lollies. Our intention was to go swimming in one of the big ponds they have there. You know- like Keira Knightly in Atonement , all British summer in open, murky water. I have a graduated bob and generous curves, though, so essentially looked like Princess Diana once the divorce was finalised. You have to laugh. We took the train to Gospel Oak, and then traipsed around the big grassy hills looking for the “mixed” pond. We could find the ladies only pond (shady, promising), and we could find the men’s pond (if you wondered where all the gays were yesterday, it was there.) We could not find the co-ed pond. And it was really fucking hot. And I was sweating and getting a headache and should’ve eaten a bigger breakfast because CARBOHYDRATES. And you know how when siblings roll together, it can star

There I was, sweating my bollocks off in a room that was so hot it was like Lucifer himself was breathing fire up my arse. The windows were closed because of traffic noise outside, and the lights of our makeshift studio blasted the kind of heat that causes beads of salty moisture to dance jester on upper lips, the backs of knees to grubby and moisten. I repeated my question a fifth time, trying to look encouraging as the doctor responded on script. Smiling. Sweating. Smiling. It’s a project I’d been working on for weeks. A client at work needed video content on their website and I, because of my big fat fucking mouth, was heading up the production. I don’t know- I guess I’d just started at my new job and was trying to make an impression because that’s what I do. Make An Impression. The Laura Show. When I bore witness to a conversation about those videos really need to get done, and we’ve asked Bob to think about sorting it out and Cheryl knows somebody with a video camera, I found my