back up blog

That was some birthday dinner Fuck it. Give in to what feels good. 28 for 28, then, as a way to guide this coming year. Your time is now, baby. It always was. 1. You’ve fallen in love with taking care of yourself this year, and it’s changed everything. You will, of course, forget that you ever learnt these lessons and ultimately you’ll gain a few pounds, or won’t work out, or skip eight hours a night, because you couldn’t not. That’s okay. Forgive yourself imperfection and then get back on the bandwagon. That’s what matters, love. NBD. 2. Don’t get another full-time office job, whatever you do. It ain’t you . Go lay down your own path like a big girl in charge of herself. Everyone knows that you can. 3. Boys – men – happen. Remember to keep casual sex respectful, because it is so much more enjoyable that way, sugartits. And when the time comes that maybe – just maybe – there’s one worth becoming exclusive with, speak up. He’s not a mind reader. 4. Whilst we’re talking about respect, t

It took me ages to get my lipstick right. I was nervous, I think. I don’t know how blotting my lips just one more time would help us to have things to talk about, but I did it again just in case anyway. What if I’m a disappointment to her? I wondered to myself. Maybe I shouldn’t have suggested this at all. Oh God. She’s going to hate me. Oh no. WHAT AM I DOING? I was about to go and pick up Megan from the train station, which is interesting only because I’d never met Megan before. I’d never met her, and yet she was about to come and spend 48 hours at my house, as my guest. Eating my food (what if she hates my food?), hanging out in my garden (what if she hates my garden?) and generally like, doing all the stuff that friends do (what if she doesn’t want to be my friend?!). I “met” her through work. Part of my job (which GUYS. I FINISHED YESTERDAY, NOW LEAVING ME UNEMPLOYED . LET’S COME BACK TO THAT PLS) was reaching out to beauty bloggers to see if there was an opportunity to collaborat

He didn’t have to come and watch me race. When we tried to figure out when we’d see each other next, I explained I wouldn’t be free Saturday night because I was running #weownthenight, a women’s 10k. ‘What if I come watch?’ he said. Oooof, I thought. That’ll be a distraction. But, y’see, as my head yelled at what a bad idea it was my heart (loins?) inexplicably did high kicks and jazz hands, and so I said yes. Come with me. Thank you. I’m trying to learn to be more gracious, and this seemed a good opportunity to let somebody be kind. Y’know. Romantically . I’m ten days away from a two-month backpacking trip designed to Eat, Pray, Love the shit outta myself , and so obviously there’s a boy that I’ve gotten my knickers in a total twist about. They design it that way, I think. And he isn’t “a boy”. I don’t know why I said that. He’s a man. That’s an important distinction. (a man with the most incredible thighs you have ever goddamn seen. Another important distinction.) A man says, ‘This f

I’m struggling to curb my sugar habit. That sounds like an empty, fashionable thing to say, like I’ve been reading the supplements in the Guardian and just need to be able to appropriately comment at Saturday’s middle class dinner party. Except: It’s not a joke to me. Sugar is my crack, and I’m struggling with that, and I’m writing this post because so many of you have reached out as I’ve changed my relationship to my body this year, and I don’t want you to harbour the illusion that it’s a linear, straight-forward process or worse: an easy one. That I lost some weight and altered what I eat and now everything is tickety-boo. Because it’s not. I can’t eat one biscuit. I have to have the packet. I buy Crème Eggs in pairs. My housemates have to stash sweet treats in their bedroom or secret hiding places: if it’s in the fridge, it will ultimately end up in my belly. I do not know sweet limitation. There is no “off” button for me. It doesn’t make me feel good – at least not past the mome

It’s funny how things change. I spent nine months applying to , and waiting to hear from, graduate schools in America, holding my breath to see if now is the time I’ll realise a dream I’ve held for four years: to get my creative writing MFA. Early 2014 saw me play an agonising waiting game of “what will my future look like?” By April, I finally found out that I’d gotten in to all the programs I applied to. I took a deep breath. I turned them all down. * ‘I cannot see in my 28 th birthday in this job,’ I typed to Calum over Facebook. This part of the story takes place earlier, in the middle of March sometime. I hadn’t been happy at work in a while. It wasn’t a bad job. Great colleagues, a relaxed office, an editorial calendar largely directed by my own informed choices – but I wasn’t making a difference. What I was doing didn’t contribute in any way that truly mattered. Not to the company, and certainly not to the world. I wasn’t learning. There’s only so far you can push yourself wit

I have only just recovered. It happens the same way every time: we come together in a Spritz-drinking, “Let It Go”-singing mob of hand holding and late night talks, causing a scene everywhere we go, from the kitchen to the bar to the early morning whispers amongst too many people in a bed, and the emotion – the love – is dizzying. Disorientating. Fucking insane. Some people have their high school crew. Others their university pack. Sometimes it’s a sports club or toddler group, a happy coincidence or deliberate choice, but it’s always a shared experience. For me it’s my international teaching family , and for ten days over Easter we were reunited – housemates, BFF’s and siblings also thrown into the mix, everyone we collectively love invited for the ride. Only now, two weeks after the fact, am I able to process our time together – altering me, every time, as it does . For so very long I didn’t know what those love songs meant, the ones about love transforming who you are , but my inte