An important question to start with: how are you? Genuinely. I know it’s all too tempting to be entirely British and stiff-upper-lippy, brush it off with a ‘I’m fine thank you, and you?’ – but honestly… how are you? To be perfectly honest, I’m not really quite certain of my answer myself. I read recently that the strangest thing about living through a pandemic is the feeling of over and underreacting simultaneously. It’s absolutely true – I’ve found myself living with a perpetual case of doublethink. A wreck one minute, rolling with laughter the next. Again, there’s something inherently British about ‘not making a fuss’, dulling potential hysteria with false…
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The Lockdown Diaries: Practicing Gratitude in a Pandemic
Now, if there’s one thing I’m particularly proficient in, it’s catastrophising. It’s like the story of Chicken Little – once an acorn falls, I will become absolutely convinced that the sky is falling. Normally, this is difficult enough to manoeuvre. Over the years, I’ve been trying to fight the fear, cornered in my mind with thoughts roaring and clawing at my subconscious while I mentally take the stance of a lion-tamer, armed with chair, whip and constant rebuttals to keep the ‘What Ifs’ back. Over the last month, those roars have become screams, an unrelenting banshee, wailing of worst-case scenarios. The trouble is, in a pandemic, worst-case scenarios suddenly become…
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Confessions of a Lonely Twenty-Something
Your twenties are meant to be some of the best years of your life. At least, that’s how they’ve been sold to us. You’re not restricted to a classroom or library or the clutches of a looming exam or coursework deadline. You’re free of any ‘real’ responsibility, not tied down by marriages or mortgages or children clamouring for your attention. The world is your oyster! You’ll hear. Oh, what I’d give to be in my twenties again! To have that body, that social life, all that free time! What they won’t tell you, is how fucking lonely it is.
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2019 – The Year of the Kid in the Candy Store
2018 was a bit crap. There’s no poetic or poignant way to put that, really. Only sharp, abrupt honesty that a year I went into with wide-eyed optimism did not turn out to be the 365 days of glory and joy and sheer perfection that I’d been dreaming of. It wasn’t all bad, of course. As with every year, good or bad, I learned some valuable lessons that will inevitably continue to shape my twenties as the past few have.
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In Defence Of Being Visible
I am happy with myself. I have flaws and insecurities, as every person does, but I wouldn’t change who I am, even if I could. This is not glowing self-praise, nor blatant narcissism, but it still feels rather strange and alien to declare that I am happy with myself as a human being. It’s been so ingrained into my mind now that I must preface every compliment I give myself with a quick self-deprecating jab to remind myself (and to assure others) not to seem uppity or conceited. Isn’t that bizarre? Is it not a strikingly forlorn habit that distancing yourself from your own kindness has become so normalised?
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The Valentine’s Chronicles
My first Valentine’s Day of any significance happened when I was at primary school. I must have been ten or eleven years old, and was shyly handed an envelope at school, by a boy named Martin, before he dashed off in an embarrassed, awkward hurry. Back then, I was a very different me to the girl, woman, I am today – this was in the days of bootcut jeans, tracksuit tops and mousy brown hair. Before dark dye, before my daily ritual of false eyelashes and overdrawn lips, and before I’d had my heart bruised and broken by a string of different boys.
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2018 : Here’s To The Unknown
2017, for me, was a year of learning. Of growth. Of risks.
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Long Live The Storytellers
Eat, sleep, work, repeat. That’s how my mornings feel, sometimes.
