In news that will come as a surprise to absolutely no one in my life, I’d left all my packing for Copenhagen Fashion Week until the night before. ‘I’ll be fine with just hand luggage!’ I’d lied to myself as I booked the cheap RyanAir flights. ‘Fashion Week is only five days, anyway!’

It was my first time attending CPHFW. I was nervous, I was excited and I was on assignment for Condé Nast Traveller. I’d become anxious about the idea of needing to ‘look the part’, but had procrastinated from figuring out how to do so. The only ‘preparation’ I’d done was to save a few outfit inspiration posts on Instagram, and to trim my fringe myself. I was very fortunate that Hush had sent me some pieces from their new SS26 collection to wear so really, I thought, packing would be an easy job. All I had to do was just... make decisions and then put them into the case, right?

Wrong. As I scrolled through the Instagrams of exceptionally stylish women wearing exceptionally stylish outfits in front of exceptionally stylish backdrops for ideas, the curse of comparison culture was cast upon me. So much so that panic, imposter syndrome and a total disconnect between how the clothes looked laid out on my bed and how they actually looked on my body descended. And at midnight, I sat head in hand on my bedroom floor, handing over £80 to Ryanair for an additional item of baggage – double what the initial return flights had cost. Ugh.

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Into this additional suitcase I flung my new Hush knitwear, along with my beloved Damson Madder skirts, Aligne denim co-ords, t-shirts and jackets and obviously, Uniqlo thermals for the -3 temperatures of Copenhagen. An hour or so later, the case was packed with leopard print and tartan. Polka dots and stripes. Bold patterns and bright colours. Complementary colours and clashing colours. Hats and scarves. Snoods and gloves. Black turtlenecks and oversized jumpers. Salomon hiking trainers and silver Total 90 trainers. I barely managed to zip it up.

But as it turned out, it wasn’t just an extra suitcase that I was taking with me. Alongside my tightly pressed packing cubes and ‘these-will-work-with-everything-won’t-they’ boots, I’d also packed all the emotional baggage I’d been carrying from years of wishing my body was someone else’s.

Like many millennial women on the internet, my body started to grow during a time where women were told it should shrink. The 00s weren’t exactly a great time to settle into a perpetual size 11 body and to suddenly develop real boobs, real quick and as such, I spent my teenage years and early twenties feeling like I was just too big for the clothes that I wanted to wear. I’d look at friends wearing strappy tops, low cut dresses and tight t-shirts and yearn to have a body that could wear such things free from unsolicited comments and unwanted sexualisation. So for a long time, instead of dressing for my body, I’d dress against it. I’d wear baggy tops to ‘hide’ my boobs. I’d wear black to try and stand out less. I’d strap myself into a compression bra (or two) to try to appear smaller. And I’d buy endless things from ASOS that just didn’t suit me, only to cram them into the back of my wardrobe ‘just in case’ I ever managed to change my body to make them work.

Eventually, a breast reduction at 26 helped to relieve me of some of this weight I’d carried – both physically and emotionally. I entered a previously unknown world of backless dresses and halterneck tops – plus the concept of not always needing to wear a bra (and I will never ever take this for granted). But despite being five pounds of breast tissue lighter, five years on I still find myself fighting against the awful, problematic idea that women are taught: that the smaller we are, the better we will look and the more tolerated we will be. Like an oversized jacket squeezed optimistically into a carry-on, I just feel like I should be taking up less space.

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So en route to the fifth fashion capital of the world, I was afraid of how being surrounded by the ‘cool’ crowd would make me feel. I thought that the curse of comparison culture would bring horrible emotions of envy, resentment and self-loathing to the surface of my thermal layers. I thought that my curves and wrinkles would feel self-conscious around those with pilates memberships and recurring Botox appointments. I thought that I’d come home, wishing my body was someone else’s. I thought that I’d find myself feeling the need to shrink myself again.

But I couldn’t have been more wrong. As I wandered the snowy streets of Copenhagen, sat on the front rows of the shows and chatted my way through the crowds of events, I did find myself surrounded by the ‘cool’ crowd. But it wasn’t the kind of ‘cool’ I’d expected from Fashion Week. Instead, this kind of ‘cool’ oozed warmth. This kind of ‘cool’ was defined by women of all shapes and sizes who dressed with purpose and personality. Women who approached their entire looks and auras as loudly and as proudly as they could. Women who’d clearly stood in front of the mirror that morning and thought, ‘Yes, the bolder the better.’

And I was envious of these women – but not in the way I thought I’d be. I was envious of how these women carried themselves with confidence and intention. I was envious of the creativity they’d found within themselves to put such incredible outfits together. And I was envious of how they seemed to have chosen outfits that worked for their bodies, instead of making their bodies work for their outfits. In the end, I wasn’t surrounded by people who made me wish I was someone else. In the end, I was surrounded by people who made me wish I was someone who made more of who I am.

The brands got it, too. Across the whole of CPHFW, it was like the whole city was paying homage to dopamine dressing. Brands like Stine Goya showed collections that encouraged women to identify with a certain type of personality, then lean into the playful possibilities that came with every one. Samsøe Samsøe brought together capsules with a focus on elevated practicality with statement colours. Forza Collective used deliberate decorative flourishes to hold your attention. Celia B, a Spanish brand who simply brings joy to the wearer’s world, dressed an entire party of guests in every colour and pattern you could imagine.

Even on the streets, in the life that carried on outside of Fashion Week, women cycled around in outfits that put the ‘fun’ into functional. Brightly coloured bonnets kept ears warm. Studded chunky boots kept feet dry. Bold prints kept bodies protected from the wind. Copenhagen seemed like a city of women dressing for what they needed and wanted themselves – not what anyone else expected of them.

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After five days, I landed back in London with a suitcase that was heavier in weight (well I had to go shopping, didn’t I?), but lighter in emotional baggage. It seemed I’d brought home a new understanding that true style isn’t dictated by the size of your body. Instead, it comes from waking up in the morning and thinking about who you are, how you want to feel, where you’re going and then dressing to match your own energy. And I feel like I owe it to myself to start leaning into who I really am, in order to determine how I really want to show up in the world.

The choices we make over how we present ourselves on the outside really do translate into how we feel about ourselves on the inside. Fashion is such a powerful form of self-expression, and I feel determined to figure out what I love wearing and why. Since coming back from Copenhagen, I’ve been making a conscious effort to choose the clothes that fit with who I am, instead of choosing the clothes that fit who I wish I was instead. And already, I feel lighter and brighter for it. Perhaps I left all that emotional baggage behind. And I think they destroy unattended baggage, don’t they?

This essay originally appeared in last week’s edition of , the newsletter for zillennials who love fashion and pop culture but don't want to lose hours to the algorithm. My words are alongside Slutty Chef’s ‘Hot + Not’ list, and some excellent reading recommendations. It’s one of my fave things in my inbox every week and you can subscribe to it yourself here.

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What fashion week did to my self esteem

Hello! This week’s Open Tabs section is a personal essay from Emily Ash Powell. It’s about her experience at her first Copenhagen Fashion Week, which unexpectedly boosted her self esteem (after anticipating the opposite), and I thought it would be a great read for us all as fashion month kicks off. And with Valentine’s tomorrow, it’s also a lovely reflection on self lov…

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3 months ago · 11 likes · 2 comments · Emily Ash Powell

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OUTFIT 1: TRAVELLING (AND WIELDING A VERY LARGE SUITCASE)

Top: Hush ‘Romina’ heavyweight cotton t-shirt in brown.

Trousers: Hush ‘Harrison’ animal print side-stripe joggers.

Hat: Cos ribbed wool & cashmere beanie in bright red (from last year).

Trainers: Salomon XT-6 GTX in black and silver.

OUTFIT 2: OFFICIAL FASHION WEEK OPENING PARTY

Jacket: Hush pure wool jacket in butter yellow.

Layer: Uniqlo ‘Heattech’ ultra warm crew neck t-shirt in black.

Skirt: Damson Madder ‘Flavia’ midi skirt in choc taffeta.

Boots: Vagabond ‘Freya’ boots.

Scarf: Hush wool blend triangle scarf in aqua blue.

Layer: Uniqlo ‘Puffertech’ compact vest in black.

Coat: M&S pure cotton waxed hooded longline car coat.

OUTFIT 3: TAUS STUDIO AW26 SHOW

Jacket: Hush pure wool jacket in light grey marl.

Cardigan: Topshop knitted covered button cardigan in navy.

Layer: Uniqlo ‘Heattech’ ultra warm crew neck t-shirt in black.

Skirt: Damson Madder ‘Josie’ midi skirt in multi check.

Boots: Vagabond ‘Freya’ boots.

OUTFIT 4: EXPLORING THE CITY AND ENJOYING THE CHAIRS AT THE DESIGN MUSEUM

Top: Hush ‘Romina’ heavyweight cotton t-shirt in pale green.

Jacket: Hush ‘Bobbie’ knitted jacket with wool in olive green.

Layer: Uniqlo ‘Heattech’ ultra warm crew neck t-shirt in off white.

Skirt: Damson Madder ‘Flavia’ midi skirt in choc taffeta.

Hat: Damson Madder stripe beanie in oat, burgundy and lime.

Trainers: Salomon XT-6 GTX in black and silver.

OUTFIT 5: STINE GOYA SHOWROOM VISIT

Jumper: Hush ‘Nina’ merino wool jumper in pale blue.

Dress: Stine Goya cherry shirt collar wrap dress (gifted, and coming soon to SS26).

Layer: Uniqlo ‘Heattech’ ultra warm crew neck t-shirt in off white.

Boots: Vagabond Freya boots.

Bag: Ganni mini ‘hobo’ bag in russet orange.

OUTFIT 6: WANDERING THE DESIGN MUSEUM

Top: Damson Madder ‘Everly’ ruffle blouse (with removable sleeves).

Layer: Uniqlo ‘Heattech’ ultra warm crew neck t-shirt in off white.

Trousers: Hush ‘Bryce’ seam detail barrel leg trousers in merlot red.

Trainers: Salomon XT-6 in ‘vanilla ice’.

OUTFIT 7: VAGABOND SHOES AW26 SHOW

Dress: Samsøe Samsøe ‘Sathea’ dress (gifted).

Hat: Stine Goya crochet beret (gifted).

Boots: Vagabond Freya boots.

Jumper: Hush ‘Cora’ relaxed chunky cashmere crew jumper, in charcoal marl.

Layer: Uniqlo ‘Heattech’ ultra warm crew neck t-shirt in black.

Another layer: Uniqlo ‘Puffertech’ compact vest in black.

Jacket: Damson Madder ‘Pixie’ bomber jacket in leopard print.

Bag: Ganni mini ‘hobo’ bag in russet orange.

THE END

Some of these links are affiliate links, which means I earn a tiny amount of commission if you buy anything through them, at no extra cost to you. A few items were gifted, too. Still pinching myself, tbh.

The headline was in reference to a proposal from Matt Goodwin, a GB News presenter, who last week was announced as Reform UK’s candidate for the upcoming Gorton and Denton by-election. He is also a man who in 2017, ate pages from his own book, Brexit: Why Britain Voted to Leave the European Union, live on Sky News after he incorrectly predicted that Labour would not poll as high as 38 per cent in the general election under Jeremy Corbyn’s leadership.

In his proposal, unearthed by The Independent, the book eater suggested that people who don’t have children should be taxed extra as punishment. He reeled off a list of ways to ‘reinforce family values in Britain’, including:

• Creating a pro-family culture by having a national day to celebrate families and parenthood.

• Symbolising this new culture through things like families receiving a telegram from the King when they have a third child.

• Entrenching the importance of the family in the curriculum.

• Switching child benefit to incentivise families to have more children.

• Introducing a ‘negative child benefit’ tax for those who don’t have offspring.

• Remove personal income tax for women who have two or more children.

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Immediately, I was angry. Because this tax is not just a financial burden. It’s a physical one too, that falls on women more than it does on men. When it comes to having a child, it’s women who carry the burden of physical changes and strain on their bodies for a minimum of nine months. It’s women who risk dying in childbirth, severe haemorrhages, infections, cardiac conditions, postpartum depression and lifelong physical complications. And it’s women who are more likely to be expected to sacrifice their careers, their interests, their sense of self and their mental health to raise the children.

But I don’t think Matt Goodwin thinks about that. Because Matt Goodwin is too busy thinking about the ‘fertility crisis’ in Britain, and blaming women for that too. In another video unearthed by The Independent this week, he said, ‘We need to also explain to young girls and women the biological reality of this crisis. Many women in Britain are having children much too late in life, and they would prefer to have children much earlier on.’ So much, so The Handmaid’s Tale. And though I write kilometres of reasons as to why Matt Goodwin should mind his own fucking business and shove his book up his arse next time he gets something wrong, he is not the only man I am writing about today.

When I saw the ‘Don’t have children? Reform UK candidate says you should be taxed’ headline, I read the article and I snapped. I wrote, ‘men are so funny!!! how about we tax the fathers who create single mothers instead?’ This was on Monday. By Friday morning, it had over 7000 likes and over 60 comments.

Almost immediately, it started a conversation around the lack of consequence for men who abandon their own children. ‘Men who choose to abandon their own children should either be taxed for their decision or be sent to court for child neglect,’ said one woman. As expected, I was told off for my ‘men are so funny!!!’ anecdote by the ‘not all men!!!’ crowd, and I apologised to them because they were right: not all men are funny and it was silly of me to suggest otherwise.

And then came the men who hate women. ‘How about taxing the women that sleep around with any accountability?’ said a man who goes by the username of @big_daddy_donny_. ‘How about we don’t let women vote?’ said @ayycgwander. ‘Because it means giving into feminism and that is forbidden,’ said @johnobrien168. ‘Stop saying ‘men’ as a generalised statement because 1 man said something. I should imagine your father wouldn’t want anything like this imposed on his daughter,’ said @sir_piss_collector, which he followed up with, ‘what an incrediblely insufferable nightmare you must be,’ after I replied, ‘stop telling women on the internet what not to say.’

And then came @nuggsneji.2, who slid into my DMs to carry on the conversation. I wondered what would happen if I just asked him some questions, to maybe try and understand the way he feels the way that he does. And it went a little something like this.

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@nuggsneji.2: lol. Calling out double standards is emotional. Women can’t handle accountability

@emilyashpowell: accountability for what?

@nuggsneji.2: Accountability for their bs.

@emilyashpowell: what bs?

@nuggsneji.2: My body,y choice = my responsibility

Men don’t have any responsibility on a matter they have no say in.

And if men should keep it in their pants to have a choice, so should women. So… till women don’t legally require a man’s consent to abort, or it’s illegal. The only responsibility falls on the woman.

Simple.

@emilyashpowell: don’t you think men have a responsibility to take equal ownership of contraception though? for example, vasectomies are reversible. men could get vasectomies and then when they do decide they want children, they could get them reversed. no danger in women’s ‘bs’ then?

@nuggsneji.2: Nope.

@emilyashpowell: why not?

@nuggsneji.2: Men aren’t the ones getting pregnant

@emilyashpowell: but women can’t get pregnant without male sperm

@nuggsneji.2: Her body, her choice, her problem.

Why is she letting sperm in her

Obviously that doesn’t apply to my partners, but none of my partners are sociopathic killers or pro-choice.

@emilyashpowell: why are men putting sperm in her?

@nuggsneji.2: Cause, it’s not his body, not his choice, not his problem

@nuggsneji.2: You are responsible for what enters your body.

@emilyashpowell: and you are responsible for what leaves your body?

@nuggsneji.2: I am only responsible for what I have authority over, AT ALL TIMES. The moment I have no say, I have no responsibility.

@emilyashpowell: so if a child is born from a woman’s body, does that mean the father of the child is never responsible?

@nuggsneji.2: Nope. Not until women stop with the ‘my body, my choice,’ crap. If women didn’t create it on their own, they don’t get to have complete authority. if they want shared responsibility, they have to share authority. That means every woman who aborts without a father’s consent should be punished severely.'

Otherwise. It’s her body, her choice, her problem. Men have every right to walk out if they don’t want to deal. At least they don’t kill a human in the process

@emilyashpowell: what severe punishment do you think suits this apparent crime of women having abortions without a man’s permission?

@nuggsneji.2: Killing a person’s child? Execution.

It’s quite simple. If she doesn’t need a man’s permission, she doesn’t get to ask for his help either.

It’s why I never get with pro-choice women, cause if someone killed my child, they’d be buried with it.

@emilyashpowell: wow, well. i really hope you find some peace. it sounds like you have a lot of misplaced anger here and i hope you’re able to work through it one day. thanks for answering my questions. it’s been really eye-opening.

I stared at his final messages, sent my own and blocked him. And I thought about that Margaret Atwood quote from her 1982 essay collection, Second Words: Selected Critical Prose, 1960-1982, where she said, ‘Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them.’

44 years on, and that’s exactly what happened. I joked about men being ‘so funny’. He said that women should be executed. I’d barely scratched the surface with this man and his hatred oozed out of him like an infection almost immediately. It hardly took anything to get him to say what we already know: that the men who hate women think nothing of throwing such violent thoughts and opinions around the internet so freely.

And why would they? I mean, it’s not like there’s really any real consequence for it. It’s not like the world takes the words of women seriously. It’s not like thousands of women can tell you that something happened to them and be believed, instead of needing a dead pedophile’s emails to become the world’s bedtime reading material in order to be believed. It’s not like the President of the United States of America isn’t a confirmed sexual abuser, and defamer of his victim. It’s not like the only person currently in prison for global crimes against women and girls is a woman (who absolutely should be there), while the stale, male pedophiles and abusers are still going about their business ruling the world.

Like so many of us, I’ve spent the last few weeks consumed by the contents of the Epstein files, feeling the foundations of moral and ethical justice that I once believed the world stood on crumble beneath me. And it’s left me wondering, ‘what would it actually take for the men that I know and have known to mistreat women if they thought they could get away with it?’ I don’t think I want to know the answer. I don’t think Gisèle Pelicot did, either.

But there are the men who do these things and then there are the men who enable them. I’m so deliriously angry that the main focus of the Epstein files revelations is on the political, instead of trying to find solutions to the culturally enabled mistreatment and abuse of women and girls. I’ve seen more outrage from men when their football team loses than I have about the sustained sexual abuse of children. I don’t think I know any men who are as angry as I am. I read something recently that said, ‘men don’t collectively advocate against things like this because nothing has ever collectively threatened them’. Perhaps that explains the apparent apathy that women feel they’re feeling from the men in their lives right now.

And this is how we end up with men who feel like they’re able to convey and even act upon their varying levels of hatred towards women. They have scaffolding around them. And that scaffolding shows up every day in other men’s silence. And in letting things slide.

It shows up in not actively challenging misogynistic, sexist, chauvinistic and predatory behaviour and attitudes. In not standing up for women if it makes you look ‘weak’ in front of other men. In laughing along at rape jokes. In vouching for known abusers. In denying that gendered violence is systemic. In minimising women’s daily experiences. In not seeing women as people worth caring for until you have a daughter. In not treating the women in your life with the same respect as the men. In only tolerating women in your life when they fulfil a need for you. In not voting for women’s rights. In not voting for all women’s rights. In not supporting trans women. In not supporting women of colour. In not calling out men who victim blame. In not taking on the responsibility of contraception. In not educating yourself, because it’s ‘not relevant’ to your daily life. In not engaging in conversations that discussed a lived experience that’s not yours. In not voting for a political party that serves the needs of society, not just the ones that apply directly to you.

It’s on everyone to call out this hatred for what it is. It’s female violence. It’s gender-based violence. It’s terrorism. And every woman I know is somehow still going about their daily lives every day, doing their jobs, checking in on their friends, paying their taxes (genderless, for now) – knowing that every time she encounters a man, if she doesn’t meet his idea of what a women should be and what a woman should do, there is a chance that he would rather her dead. We cannot let it slide.

As I write this, it’s nearly midnight. My tiredness has slightly suppressed my rage but the deliriousness has led me to think that it’s mad how a man who eats books said a thing that led me to say a thing to lead another man to say that he thinks women who have abortions without a man’s permission should be executed that’s led me to cry at my desk over the revelation this week that there were girls as young as nine being sex trafficked by Epstein’s network. It’s almost unimaginable, really. And yet I didn’t imagine it. It saw all of these things on my phone in my hand today.

But it’s not mad. It’s serious. Because just like the above illustration from shows us, the scale that runs from a good man to a crazed evil one is one that has consequence when we let it slide. It slides when we stay silent when the well-meaning book-eating men who underestimate the issue spout off their ideas. It slides when we allow those ideas to feed into the complacency of the men who think predation is an unfortunate fact of life. It slides when that complacency translates into the words of men who think certain women deserve it. It slides when those words turn into actions from men who passively enjoy, consume and encourage predation. And before you know it, it’s slid into a nightmare of monsters so cruel we can’t even fathom them. Except we can fathom them now. They’re spelling it out for us in emails and DMs. And it’s on everyone to write back, to bite back and to fight back – on behalf of us all.

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Some book recommendations for you to read, and to pass on to the men in your life:

• Men Who Hate Women by Laura Bates

• The New Age of Sexism by Laura Bates

• Hysterical: Exploding the Myth of Gendered Emotions by Dr Pragya Agarwal

• Invisible Women: Exposing Data Bias in a World Designed for Men by Caroline Criado Perez

I was waiting for the number 76 bus when I saw the notification on my phone. It said, ‘Schitt’s Creek and Home Alone star Catherine O’Hara has died at 71.’ I gasped as I read it. I whispered, ‘No!’ out loud. I put my hand to my mouth in shock. I let go of the suitcase I was wheeling. I felt tears form at my eyes. I couldn’t believe it. My favourite ever funny woman had gone.

I shared the news with my family group chat and was met with a flurry of; ‘Oh no!’, ‘So sad…’, ‘No!’, ‘Awful news!’, ‘Oh no!!’ (but this time with two exclamation points) and finally, ‘Oh never! She made me laugh so much’ from my gran.

And she did. Catherine O’Hara made us all laugh so much. As children, my brother, cousins and I would ask to watch Beetlejuice any time we were all together at my grandparents’ house. (One time, we asked to watch it and my gran couldn’t find the video anywhere, so we turned on the TV and the film was actually just… on TV anyway. Spooky.) Like most people who love the film, the one scene that always had us screeching with laughter was the dinner party scene where Catherine O’Hara’s character, the ridiculous and pretentious sculptor Delia Deetz, becomes possessed and is forced to sing and dance to Harry Belafonte’s ‘Day-O (the Banana Boat Song)’. Us four grandchildren knew every move, every line and could (and would often) recreate the whole scene ourselves.

It’s a scene where every character is possessed. But it’s Catherine O’Hara who possesses the actual magic. Of somehow simultaneously conveying confusion and acceptance, horror and wonder, embarrassment and silliness. Of being absurd but still relatable. Of grounding the surreal in realism. Of being otherworldly, but absolutely, undeniably human.

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As I grew older, I saw more of Catherine O’Hara’s performances. I saw Home Alone. I saw Best in Show. I saw A Mighty Wind. I saw Schitt’s Creek. And I saw clips from her time on the Canadian comedy sketch show, SCTV. I saw how in everything she did, she made things brighter, lighter and funnier. She seemed to gravitate towards the silly, the ridiculous, the vulnerable, the mischievous, the weird and the eccentric – all at once. But still, even through all these layers, she seemed to lean into the possibilities of her own personality to bring a character to life, and to bring people together through simple human truths.

And like so many other people, I was just so captivated by her. Unlike so many other leading women who favoured perfection and poise, Catherine O’Hara used her whole face and body to create a character. She seemed to have infinite expressions. Her personality was everywhere. To me, Catherine O’Hara seemed like she was a woman who, had she not already reached deserved levels of fame and success, might otherwise be called ‘a bit too much’. Too loud. Too talkative. Too exaggerated. Too attention-seeking. Too kooky. Too weird. Too bossy. And they were all things that I had been called too. By friends. By bullies. By teachers. By family members. By colleagues. By bosses. Thing I’d been taught to tone down and not turn up. But these were the things that Catherine O’Hara seemed to use to her advantage – things to unashamedly own and tap into, in order to make people feel something, and to bring magic into her work.

As I saw how Catherine O’Hara turned silliness into serious business, I saw the power of what happens when you get over yourself and stop worrying about looking silly. Online, through work and in friends, I see so many people turn their nose up at the idea of silliness in their pursuit of perfection. But choose perfection and you lose personality. Choose curation and you lose charisma. Choose imitation and you find insincerity. Choose poised and you find paralysis. And these are not the things that make you stand out and shine brightly in the end.

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As a child, I oozed in confidence. I sang. I danced. I played musical instruments. I told stories. I performed on stages. I made silly faces. I posed for photos. I threw myself into things without hesitation or doubt. But as a teenager, these became the things I was made fun of and criticised for. ‘Who does she think she is?’ people would say, within earshot. ‘Well, who do you think you are?’ I wish I’d replied. How could any of us have known back then?

What I did know back then was that it wasn’t cool to stand out. Instead, it was survival to blend in. But I couldn’t blend in. My teeth were wonky (and then covered in braces). My nose was big. My body was chubby. My boobs were big (and not in a good way). I liked bright clothes. I played the flute. I loved asking questions. I always had something to say. I talked at 100mph.

I have a distinct memory of being around 15, at a house party with a friend from school. She marched us up to two boys and introduced herself to the more attractive one as ‘the pretty one’ and introduced me to the less attractive one as ‘the funny one’. We all knew what was left unsaid. And though I laughed in the moment, I would later sit in a toilet cubicle and cry. Back then, being ‘pretty’ was everything. It was popularity. It was currency. And yet here I was, with an empty purse. But what if I could spend a different currency? What if being ‘the funny one’ actually had more value?

And so I started to lean into it. I started thinking of funny things to say. Observations. Puns. Jokes, even. But I was still trying on the outfit of ‘being a funny person’. So I would attribute them to other people. ‘My friend at school said this really funny thing the other day,’ I’d announce to my parents, before delivering something I’d thought of myself in my bedroom. If they laughed, I’d smile, internally throwing my fist into the air. If they laughed, maybe I could make other people laugh, too? Wouldn’t that feel good? To figure out how to make other people feel good too?

It became my baseline. Learning to say something funny to lighten a mood. Or to diffuse tension. Or to lift someone up. Or to make something otherwise boring just a little more interesting. Or to just inject a little whimsy, to remind us all that life doesn’t always have to be so serious.

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When I was 25, I was working at an advertising agency in London. I was young, I felt very out of place (a Welsh accent will do that for you), and experienced a massive knock to my confidence after a girl called Zara spread some extremely strange rumours about me being awful at my job, disliked by everyone and on the verge of being fired. (I checked with my boss and he confirmed that none of these things were true. She left shortly after. I still do not understand why she did it.)

I was struggling with nerves over presenting my work and my boss suggested that I go and take an improv course. So I did. I went to Soho Theatre and I spent every Saturday morning for 12 weeks as part of a sketch writing group, where we’d write and perform our own sketches with other actors, writers and comedians. At first, it was excruciating. I’d already spent far too long in the workplace learning that I should tone myself down to fit into how everyone else was. And so being in this new environment where I was actively encouraged to reach into all my weirdness and silliness and intrusive thoughts just felt so unnatural. Gradually, I got used to it. And at the end of the 12 weeks, we performed our show on stage at Soho Theatre to a paying audience. People laughed. We were funny. And despite the fact that I threw up afterwards because of all my nervous energy, I felt like there was no better feeling in the world.

In that short space of time, I learned that the secret to being a great improviser is to keep yourself prepared for the possibility that any given scenario can change in an instant. It’s your job to adapt, to respond and to keep going – searching for the joy or the human truth to find the laugh. But I think that these things can only really be done well when you have a foundation of knowing who you are, and believing in what you can do. And these were the things that Catherine O’Hara had shown us all along.

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Off-screen, interviews with Catherine O’Hara show her to not only be naturally hilarious, but to be humble, warm, kind, generous and down to earth – even after five decades of being a globally-loved actor and a household name. She is a great reminder to all of us that no matter who we are or what we’ve done, what really matters is how we treat people and make them feel. That’s the real legacy we leave behind.

When she was interviewed at the Forbes 30/50 Summit in 2023, Catherine O’Hara talked about how she turned funny into money, managed her on and off-screen personas. As part of the interview, she told her audience, ‘I think if you’re lucky enough to find out that you have a gift and you’re lucky enough to find out what that is, and to be able to even make a living at it, then I think it is your job to nurture it and to protect it and to work with people who deserve to work with your gift. I think you have that right.’

She also goes on to say, ‘I also think one of the most important lessons I’ve learned is, and I keep practicing it, in every new relationship, be aware of the foot you’re going in on. And be conscious of how you’re presenting yourself right at the beginning, because the foot you go in on is the foot you will stay on. It is so hard to change that dynamic.’

They are wise words. Surrounding yourself with the right people who get you and help you to get to where you want to be is one of the most important things you can do for yourself. Hunger will get you further than talent, but you need the right things and the right people to feed you, too.

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As an actress, as a person and as a woman, Catherine O’Hara will always be my blueprint for trying to be someone who makes life a bit sillier, a bit funnier and a lot brighter. She’s a reminder that silliness can be serious business. That leaning into your weirdness can be what gives you the confidence to stand out and shine brightly. And that real beauty and attraction comes from warmth, curiosity and empathy.

So thank you, Catherine O’Hara, for giving us all permission to be a little weird and a lot of fun. I am so sad that you’ve gone, but so glad that you shone.

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But in terms of raising the nation’s mood and increasing social connection, there was probably no better gift than a new episode of celebrity drama to drop on our feeds. Indeed, this year’s Blue Monday was the official unveiling of the new order in the Beckham family, with their eldest son, Brooklyn, taking to Instagram to share a series of ‘bombshell’ stories that ‘broke his silence’ on the ongoing rift between him and his wife, Nicola Peltz, and the rest of the family.

Immediately after Brooklyn’s ‘nuclear’ posts were dropped, endless writers and publications rushed to unpack the drama, to analyse the ‘wild’ claims and to reveal the origins of the family feud. Creators and professional funny people raced to make memes to be shared in group chats. To quote Pam from Gavin & Stacey, ‘it’s all the drama, Mick.’ We just love it.

And the brands know we love it, too. Because less than 24 hours after Brooklyn Beckham had broken his ‘silence’ over his (I assume devastating) family rift, brands had jumped on the brandwagon to add to the noise.

Deliveroo, a food delivery app, posted a TikTok with a Brooklyn Beckham-ified version of Lily Allen’s album cover (originally designed by the artist Nieves Gonzàlez) with the caption, ‘pov: brooklyn delivering the tea last night’. On the Beach, a package holiday company, created an OOH ad that showed a ticket to Brooklyn being torn in two, with the line, ‘We get it. Sometimes families fall out.’ to promote a new free cancellation policy called the ‘Family Fall-Out Perk’. Even Yorkshire Tea, a tea brand, got involved, sharing a replica of Brooklyn’s black background, white text Instagram story, in which they ‘broke their own silence’ over their tea bags deciding to ‘shake off the controlling influence of spoons’. (Yes, I was confused, too.)

‘Who had to work late for this?’ I wondered this morning, with my head in my hands. And for what? For the self-congratulating LinkedIn bubble to reshare, exclaiming, ‘now that’s how you do reactive marketing!!!’? Reader, it isn’t. At least not for me.

I know that the world loves a feud, a scandal and a rift. We were all hooked by the Coldplay kisscam affair scandal last year, featuring the CEO and the head of HR of Astronomer. But there’s a difference between the relevant, reactive marketing of Astronomer recruiting Gwyneth Paltrow as a ‘temporary’ spokesperson for an ad about the company’s latest data and AI products, compared to these desperate attempts from brands to shoehorn their way into the cultural conversation by punching down on a piece of news – one that has very real people, with very real feelings, behind the scenes.

I get it! We all want our brands to stay relevant! But our brands should stay relevant to our products and to our audiences – not just to the latest drop of celeb gossip in the news cycle. As says, we should ‘stay classy’, and maybe weigh up whether the quick joke for a cheap laugh will really serve our brand – or just leave a bitter taste in the long run.

Humanity and empathy are really key elements of creating work that has lasting impact and effectiveness. They’re also really key elements of being a good human being. And perhaps I’m misremembering, but aren’t they also the very things we said AI could never ever replicate or take away from us? Maybe we should make sure we don’t give them up so willingly.

This piece originally appeared in The Drum. You can read it here.

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‘What was that?’ asked Lorde in her hit single this year. Girl, same. Because girl, so confusing. Because what, indeed, was that?

When I sat down to write this piece at the beginning of December, I scrolled through my camera roll to look at all the evidence of a year lived well. I zipped past what seemed like infinite number of selfies of me with my head in my hands, sent to my husband and friends during the work day. It was the best of years, it was the blurst of years.

But despite hurdles that brought chaos, stress and uncertainty – this year really was full of big revelations, decisions and glimmers. For every head-in-hand selfie, my camera roll showed so many more moments lovely, lovely times with lovely, lovely people and lovely, lovely things.

And so I wanted to share the things I really loved, or got a lot from, this year. They’re divided up into six categories: books, rituals, moments, places, things and realisations, but they’re in no particular order other than the order in which they came into my head as I wrote them down here.

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FIVE BOOKS

1. THE SAFEKEEP - YAEL VAN DER WOUDEN

What a sexy, twisty turny story. At no point did I figure out where this was going. Set in the Netherlands, fifteen years after the Second World War, Isabel is living a very strict life of routine, discipline and solitude in her late mother’s home. All is just as she likes it, until her brother asks if his new girlfriend, Eva, can stay with her for the summer. But if Isabel is the control, Eva is the chaos and soon, after Isabel begins to suspect that things around the house are going missing, things come to a head – and Isabel’s life as she knows it begins to unravel. A beautiful story. Get it here.

2. LONG ISLAND COMPROMISE - TAFFY BRODESSER-AKNER

This book documents the years, consequences and repercussions that follow for the unbearably wealthy, awful and entitled Fletcher family after their father, Carl, is kidnapped. There is not a single likeable character in this book, yet I was hooked. I read it on the bus to the office, at stupid hours of the morning and once in the toilet at dinner with friends. It’s intense, but a masterpiece. Get it here.

3. GREEN DOT - MADELEINE GRAY

From the first page, I was both captured by and drowning in envy of Madeleine Gray’s witty writing and ability to meet the Gen Z and Millennial audience where they’re at – a place of dissatisfaction and disassociation from the sad state that is the world of work right now. The book follows 24 year old Hera, as she embarks on an affair with an older married man at work, desperate to find meaning and connection in her life. It’s messy, frustrating and funny. Get it here.

4. LESSONS IN CHEMISTRY - BONNIE GARMUS

This book soothed me, enamoured me, enraged me, upset me and surprised me. Set in the early 1960s, it follows chemist Elizabeth Zott as she navigates working at an all-male team at Hastings Research Institute, and falls in love with a Nobel Prize-nominated scientist. Along the way, she discovers that like science, life is unpredictable. Elizabeth is forced to leave her job (hello, misogynistic boss) but finds herself as the unlikely star of a new cooking show, where she shares her science-led, revolutionary cooking techniques that teach the women of America so much more than how to cook. It’s brilliant. Get it here.

5. CARELESS PEOPLE - SARAH WYNN-WILLIAMS

I bought this book on the day it came out, and finished it in two days. To say this book is eye-opening is an understatement. As someone who has worked in tech, many of the wild allegations of behaviour and revelations of decisions in this book did not surprise me. But they did shock, disturb and unsettle me – especially given the power that Facebook still has, seven years after Wynn-Williams’ departure in 2018. Get it here.

FIVE RITUALS

1. READING IN BED IN THE MORNING

This is my new commute. When my alarm goes off, I roll over, snooze it a few times, then switch on the lamp and reach for my book. I try to start the day by falling back into someone else’s world before I engage with my own – before I reply to any messages, scroll social media or check any emails. Sometimes it’s just for fifteen minutes, sometimes it’s for an hour. But it means that I start my day feeling stimulated, inspired and motivated to go and write something myself.

2. YAPPY HOUR

On the days I work at home alone, I can often get well into the afternoon without having said anything out loud. And as a certified yapper who gets a lot of her energy from people, this has been like, really hard. So on days with no meetings, I set aside time to check in with friends and family – either over a phone call or via a voicenote. With one of my closest-yet-longest-distance friends, we use Yappy Hour to go through our highlights, lowlights, key learnings and banana skin moments (things that were stupid or embarrassing) from the week that was. It keeps us close, connected and very entertained. It’s good. You should try it.

3. AIMLESS WALKING

As a child, my dad bestowed the nickname, ‘The Queen of Different Ways’ upon me. At first, it was because I would always ask if we could ‘go a different way’ to get to my grandparents’ house. (There were only every three ways, but the novelty of going a different way to the last time we went there was enough to keep me happy.) Later, the nickname would be rolled out whenever I took my life in a new direction, or ignored what everyone else thought was good advice. Now, The Queen of Different Ways reigns over her local area on daily walks with no aim other than to go a different way to last time. No agenda. No purpose. No destination other than home, eventually. It’s doing wonders for my sanity and ability to just ‘be’.

4. THE HURDLING WRITING CLUB

This is essentially the opposite of Yappy Hour, and should probably be called Tappy Hour, actually. Since June, The Hurdling Writing Club has met nearly every Wednesday at 8am for an hour of focus and accountability to tap away on the keyboard and get writing projects done. Some writers have worked on novels. Some have written poems. Some have just finished off decks with urgent deadlines. But the power of accountability is real, and it really does help you get shit done. You can sign up for future sessions here, if you like.

5. COFFEE MORNINGS WITH MY GRANDPARENTS

This happens less often than I would like it to, but whenever I’m back home in Wales, my grandparents and I make time for as many coffee mornings as we can. I pick them up at around 11 and we go to a different café in South Wales – usually where we can see the sea. Sometimes it’s just for an hour, sometimes it’s for several hours and turns into lunch and then dinner and maybe even a wine. We talk about all sorts of things, tell all sorts of stories and right all sorts of wrongs.

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FIVE MOMENTS

1. HOSTING A LECTURE ON ‘HOW TO WRITE FOR A LIVING’ AT LOUGHBOROUGH UNIVERSITY

10 years ago, I landed in Loughborough University for a Masters degree in Digital Media & Society. In the first week, they revealed that they’d decided to change the course syllabus to better reflect the interests of international students (aka, those who paid higher fees). This information had me like Sharpay Ryan singing (through tears), ‘this was not what I want, this is not what I planned and I’ve just gotta say, I do not understand’. So I had a choice: either stick with it, swap to another degree or drop out and try to find a job. I chose the third option, applied to any and every job in London that felt closely related to writing and ended up with a job as a Social Media Editor for a dog food company – a job that would give me the career, friends and husband that I have today.

A decade later, I was asked to give a lecture to the brilliant Graphic Design, Communication & Illustration students about copywriting, and where a career in words and creativity can take you. I ran through my highlights, lowlights and big old key learnings, ending on (hopefully) a few words of inspiration and burning questions answered. I hesitate to call it a full circle moment, because the the shape of the path that actually got me to where I am today was more like a squiggle that went off in several different diagonal directions, tied itself in knots, then accidentally looped back round here for a moment. But in a full whatever-shape-that-was moment, it was pretty cool to stand in front of 200 students and have them ask questions about my path, which they saw as one worth having taken.

2. UNCOVERING MY GRAN AS THE MURDERER AT OUR FAMILY WILD WEST MURDER MYSTERY

This was one of my favourite days of 2025. For my cousin’s 25th birthday, she hosted a Wild West-themed murder mystery party for the family. We were all assigned characters and everyone got like, absurdly into it. She posted us our invitations because ‘they didn’t have WhatsApp in the wild west’. My dad bought a hobby horse to ride around all day. My grampy used the lump of South Wales valleys coal he’d been given by his father to cover his face in coal dust because he had to ‘get into character’ of Casey the coal miner. Approximately five minutes into the four hour game, my gran showed me her character sheet and accidentally revealed that she was indeed the murderer. I had to spend the rest of the game playing as if I didn’t know, and even deliberately not voting for her in the end to cover up. It was such a silly billy time and reminded me once again just how lucky I am to have such a ridiculous, wonderful family.

3. GETTING EXTREMELY DRUNK IN LONDON FIELDS FOR ABSOLUTELY NO REASON ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON IN AUGUST

The plan was to have a few wines in the sun with my friend Poppy and to go home. But with only crisps in our stomach, joy in our hearts and brains that assumed that one can equalled one glass of wine and not in fact two, things took a different turn. Midday turned into mid-afternoon, Mid-afternoon turned into evening. And evening turned us phoning our husbands (who’d been at the football, ready to be home by 7pm) and insisting they joined us for a dinner I don’t remember and an Uber home at midnight. We won’t talk about my hangover the next day but we will talk about how fun it is to be young and fun and to have friends who’ll enable your bad decisions and make them last 12 hours.

4. SITTING ON BEACH IN KEFALONIA ON A HEN WITH MY FRIEND’S FRIENDS

There are some hens that just hit different and my friend Alice’s was one of them. She’d assembled an elite group of women from all the corners of her life, and all of us just immediately bonded in this incredible way. On the last day, we all sat on a beach drinking pina coladas, talked about our stresses and worries and hurdles and things we were trying to figure out as women. It was an amazing day with amazing women and I was so sad when the weekend was over.

5. SEEING MY FRIENDS BECOME PARENTS

It’s mad. It’s magical. It’s so emotional. But seeing the people you love create a life and in doing so, create a new life for themselves is just all kinds of amazing. I basically can’t think about my friends being mothers without starting to cry. I am in awe of them all.

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FIVE PLACES

1. MILFORD SOUND, NEW ZEALAND

This was the first trip my husband and I did this year, in February, on our belated honeymoon. But I just cannot find words to do this place justice. It was like being at the end of the world and it was epic, in the truest sense of the word. Mountains that fell straight into the water. Bright blue glacier lakes nestled just below mountain peaks. Landscapes that made me feel so tiny and insignificant in the best way. Also there were seals – the best animal.

2. HOWTH, IRELAND

We went here in May as part of a weekend trip to Dublin with our American friends, who were doing a big Irish road trip. It’s this tiny little fishing village that has all these cliff walks, seafood restaurants and a castle, too. I had the best fish, chips and oysters of my life (probably) and also had my soul stared into by another load of seals who’d set up camp in the harbour. The next time you’re in Dublin, I’d highly recommend zipping out of the city for a few hours just to get some fresh sea air. A gorgeous place.

3. AVIGNON, SOUTH OF FRANCE

We stayed here for two nights in September, which is my favourite month to be in the South of France. My aunty used to live here (though before I was born) and I loved getting to see the place she once fell in love with. Also, medieval cities are just so cool.

4. FLORENCE, ITALY

I was very lucky to be whisked away to La Gemma Hotel in November this year, and it re-confirmed Florence as my favourite Italian city (especially in the off-season when it’s cooler and there are less people). Wine windows, street wanders and the best gnocchi – it’s just gorgeous. I took my mum with me and we downloaded and decompressed after our respective years of hurdles, putting the world to rights as we usually do.

5. MUMBLES, SOUTH WALES

I went here the morning after the wedding of two Swansea university friends, with the rest of our Swansea university friendship group. It’s been 10 years since we graduated and I still can’t believe that a) time has passed so quickly b) I was lucky enough to have made friends with such gorgeous people who’d become so important in my life a decade later. We had Joe’s Ice cream and walked the Mumbles Mile up to the arcade and back again. It was a rare sunny day, which made it even more glorious.

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FIVE THINGS

1. THE 1 SECOND EVERYDAY APP

I have written about my love of this app before, but the subscription renews every year so it still counts as a 2025 purchase. Essentially, every day you upload one second of footage (or a live photo) and every month it smushes them all together as a video. I’ve done it every day since August 2020 and it makes me so happy. Sometimes I go back and pick a month at random to revisit what I was doing and who I was with at that time. It’s just so joyful and helpful to remind you what matters.

2. UNCOMMON WINE

Very much the catalyst for the aforementioned day of getting extremely drunk in London Fields for absolutely no reason on a Sunday afternoon in August, these cans of wine are now very much a staple in my fridge. My love for Uncommon Wines would exist just for their beautiful packaging and characters of each wine (Gerald the giraffe is my favourite) but the wine is divine also. I was very lucky to be invited on a trip to their vineyard in Kent this summer, and you are very lucky that they’ve given me a 30% discount for anything and everything on their website between now and January 10th. You can get it here EMILY30.

3. OLYMPUS MJU II POINT & SHOOT CAMERA

This was a birthday present from my husband. Usually, I snap and pap away on my phone and capture anything and everything. But this film camera has made me think about which moments are worth capturing in a more permanent way, and has brought back the nostalgia of waiting to get the photos developed. Good things take time.

4. FRUBES

I accept that this is not like the other things on this list, but Frubes have really showed up for me this year as the thing I can find in the fridge when I’m in search of a low-effort, high-novelty, medium-protein (for a child, anyway) snack. Last year it was Babybels. Who knows what it’ll be next year.

5. SALOMON XT-6 TRAINERS

A few weeks ago, my American friend Sam was staying with us and as I slipped these shoes on, she said, ‘Ugh. I forgot how you Brits love to wear ugly clothing.’ But you know what, ugly they may well be, but unbelievably comfy (and stylish) they absolutely are. I have them in cream and in black and silver and they’ve basically made all my other shoes redundant. Also, they give me like an extra half an inch of height which I think changes me as a person slightly.

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FIVE REALISATIONS

1. CHEESE YOU GRATE YOURSELF IS BETTER THAN PRE-GRATED CHEESE

This is the perfect example of things simply not being as good when you take a shortcut to avoid friction. It tastes better, feels better and melts better when you grate it yourself.

2. MY MARRIAGE IS BUILT UPON A FOUNDATION OF GOUSTO BOXES

There is a total absence of arguing over dinner in my flat and it’s the dream. My Nannie always says that ‘if you read, you can cook’ and she’s right. The only question every night is ‘who is going to do the reading to do the cooking tonight.’ The outcome is the same and the outcome is delicious – with zero arguments about division of labour or weaponised incompetence. You can use my referral code here to get 65% off.

3. YOU DO NOT NEED A MICROWAVE

We do not have a microwave in our flat because we do not have room and let me tell you: I simply do not miss it! Between them, the hob and the air fryer do all the things I’d need a microwave to do.

4. I DO NOT SUIT SHORT HAIR

Seriously. No one let me do that again. I do not have the jawline for it. Long locks forever.

5. I NEED TO DRINK MORE WATER

Anytime I have a headache or I can’t focus or I’m not feeling myself, my husband asks, ‘have you drunk enough water today?’ and it fills me with rage. But the reason it fills me with rage is because the answer is usually, ‘no’, and that answer is usually the answer as to why I’m feeling shit. Why can’t I just drink a normal amount of water? Why do I find this so hard? Why don’t I just do it? Next year is the year of hydration, let me tell you.

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FIVE ESSAYS

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FIVE INTERVIEWS

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Thank you so much for reading. This has been a big year of change for me (and for this little orange newsletter) and I am very, very tired and very, very ready to enter a new year with a new energy and focus. If you enjoy this newsletter and feel like you benefit from any part of it, you can support it by:

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I have plans for Hurdling next year and I’d love to get your feedback to shape them. Please take the short and sweet survey here to help me write more of what you want to read!

Sweet wuther of god – the trailer for Emerald Fennell’s much-awaited adaptation of “Wuthering Heights” has dropped. As per Fennell’s signature style (think 2023’s Saltburn and 2020’s Promising Young Woman), it looks to be a dark, steamy affair.

Starring Margot Robbie as Catherine Earnshaw and Jacob Elordi as Heathcliff, the trailer gives us an insight into this fresh, sexy and gothic take on Emily Brontë’s 1847 novel, which she initially published under the male pen name ‘Elis Bell’ to baffled reviews and dismissive literary criticism. Brontë wouldn’t live to see her story’s success, and Wuthering Heights wouldn’t reach its current cult classic status until decades after its initial publication.

Since then, readers and critics have declared Wuthering Heights to be a masterpiece. It’s exploration of tormented love, abuse, revenge, toxic relationships and mental health through deeply complex (and problematic) characters has left fans obsessed with the gothic tale.

Back in July 2024, Fennell announced that she would be writing and directing an adaptation of Wuthering Heights, reuniting once again with Margot Robbie as producer under her production company LuckyChap Entertainment.

The announcement on X teased us with the film’s artwork – a dark illustration of a skeleton with the famed Heathcliff quote, “Be with me always, take any form, drive me mad”, which he cries out at Catherine’s graveside (spoiler alert). From this artwork alone, we knew then that this adaptation wasn’t going to give us a romantic love story for the yearners. If any of us know Fennell’s work, we should know better than that. It’s surely going to be a visceral and horny examination of the destructive consequences of unrequited love.

But already, the internet has fallen into Fennell’s thirst trap of rage. Comments on Warner Bros’ official YouTube account read, ‘I didn’t know Wuthering Heights was the fourth installment in the 50 Shades of Grey franchise’, ‘Did any of the writers read the book?’ and, ‘Ya hear that? That was the breathless gasp of the corpse of the author having a stake nailed through her heart.’ Ok, It would seem people have a lot of feelings.

Those same people seem to be forgetting what it is to create an adaptation of a literary classic. With any adaptation, there is always a creative license that artists and creators have to reinterpret, reimagine and retell a story with a new vision that resonates with new generations of new audiences. She’s The Man was adapted into a teen comedy from Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. Clueless was based on Jane Austen’s Emma. 10 Things I Hate About You was a retelling of Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew. Those old stories have been retold in new ways – and with these retellings, have brought new audiences along for the ride.

I asked my dad, Mark Powell, a retired English teacher currently studying for a Masters in English Literature in his spare time, what he thought. Surely he’d echo these original text loyalists, too?

But instead, he told me that, “To adapt is to change. We adapt in order to survive. This applies to culture as well as to the natural world. A novel as rich and complex as Wuthering Heights simply cannot be replicated verbatim for the cinema screen – it must be adapted in order to meet the requirements of a different genre.”

He went on to say that, “To speak to a world 200 years removed from the original authorship requires a fresh artistic perspective which can (and should) remain true in spirit and essence to Bronte’s original vision, whilst reimagining it for a 21st century audience. This, done properly and with due sensitivity, can be a veneration rather than a desecration.”

And a fresh artistic perspective it has been given indeed. On the film’s poster artwork shared on Lucky Chap’s Instagram, we see that the novel and film’s title is in quotation marks, as “Wuthering Heights”. In the trailer, we hear that the soundtrack has been penned by the queen of brat, Charlie XCX – who is known for her own unique way of thinking and creating through vulnerability and subversion.

These intentional choices suggest that this adaptation has no intention of remaining historically accurate to the original text. But instead of crying at the apparent ‘loss’ of the original ‘true’ story, we should be celebrating the gain of an additional genius take on the original work.

And what does ‘original’ even mean, anyway? Sure, it can mean to have been the first or earliest form or something. But it can also mean to have a fresh, never-been-done-before take on something that already exists. It’s this originality that will continue to bring old stories into new eras – breathing new leases of life into them, making sure they last and aren’t lost for generations to come.

Wuthering Heights took years to become a classic novel. But perhaps this reimagining of a classic story will become a classic of its own. And perhaps Emerald Fennell, like Catherine, burns too brightly for this world right now. But when one of the most toxic love stories in history is released on Valentine’s Day next year, I’m sure we’ll see her solidify herself once more, as one of the modern storytelling greats.

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This piece originally appeared in Stylist. You can read it here.

It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth – a parent calls, the group chat pings. Your baffled brain composing yet another reply to yet another notification from yet another app that’s yet another way to steal yet another bit of your attention from the other things you’re meant to be doing.

And suddenly, that thing you were just looking for or just about to do has just fallen out of your brain. ‘What was I just about to do?’ you wonder out loud, with your thumb hovering over the black interactive rectangle in your hand. Then the muscle memory kicks in. Without thinking, your thumb hits an app and you scroll. Scroll, scroll, scroll. Linger… Scroll. Linger… Double tap. Scroll, scroll, scroll. Tap to send. Scroll, scroll, scroll. Repeat. Before you know it, an hour has gone by. Lost to the past forever.

And what did you even look at, anyway? Did the bottomless pit of information and entertainment on your rectangle give you good news? Or did it give you bad news? Maybe fake news. But also dog videos. Then clickbait. Rage bait. Memes to make you type ‘haha’ with a straight face. Post from old friends. Posts from old enemies. The worst crimes against humanity you’ve ever seen. A new video clip of that same interview you listened to last week with your favourite celeb. A friend’s new baby. A recipe you won’t make. A dress you don’t need. Shoes you (maybe) do. A devastating update to the threat of democracy. News that a celebrity marriage is over. An itinerary for a holiday you won’t go on. A photo of what a cow looks like if you blow dry its fur. A photo of someone you used to know getting engaged to someone you don’t. An article about how AI is coming for your job. More discourse about a popstar. Yet another shocking, but not surprising, report on sexual assault. A new restaurant you’ll save but never go to. Are you screaming yet?

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Research shows that our attention spans are shrinking with every scroll. Yet with every scroll, we give our attention to the strangest of things. On a train back to London recently, I found myself completely absorbed in a video of someone cleaning a sign on the side of a motorway. At the time of watching, it had 183k likes, 2,713 comments and had been shared 3,099 times. Comments below the post read, ‘This is ridiculously therapeutic to watch 😂😂😂’, ‘Don’t ask me why, but I could spend hours watching these videos 😂,’ and, ‘My wife asked me ‘why are you watching that?’ I couldn’t explain that simple satisfaction of seeing it get cleaned 🤣🤣🤣.’ Those laughing faces made me want to cry.

So perhaps it’s no surprise that ‘brain rot’ was named the Oxford University Press word of the year last year, defined as ‘the supposed deterioration of a person’s mental or intellectual state, especially viewed as the result of overconsumption of material (now particularly online content) considered to be trivial or unchallenging.’ Maybe it’s not just motorway signs that need a deep clean. Maybe it’s our brains.

Back in the summer, I was waiting for a bus at the bus stop, completely absorbed in the book I was reading on my phone. As a bus that wasn’t mine pulled up, I was mildly aware of two kids running up to the bus stop. Then out of nowhere (to me, anyway), I felt a hand try to yank my phone out of my hand. I’d barely had chance to register the interaction by the time I realised I’d yanked my phone back, elbowed the kid in the face and shouted, ‘what the actual fuck???’ as he and the other kid ran away. I got on the bus that wasn’t mine, heart racing, and was met with whoops and congratulations from other passengers. But I couldn’t shake this horrible realisation that in letting my phone steal all my attention, it was nearly stolen itself.

Since then, I’ve made a conscious effort to not use my phone in public. I’ve started keeping my phone in my bag (not even in my pocket), and I’m now reaching for my cards in my purse to pay for things instead of Apple Pay on my iPhone. Realistically, a bank card getting nicked out of my hand now poses less risk, hassle and stress than a phone.

At first, this extra layer of friction (which maybe only a few years ago was still considered an easier way, compared to topping up Oyster cards, buying paper tickets or rummaging around for cash) felt annoying. But it’s slowly becoming a good habit, I think. I don’t mind embracing friction. I don’t need everything in my life to be done in the fastest, most efficient, most convenient way. I don’t run from the scenic route anymore – I dance along it.

But when I started making this conscious effort to use my phone less in public, I was actually horrified by how often my brain would ask my hand to reach into my empty pocket for it. They say it takes 28 days to break a habit, but I can’t even bear to think about how many days of that habit I’ve actually accrued in my life so far. Before, I’d have sat on the bus on my way to work and read a book on my Books app. Or phoned my mum. Or listened to a podcast. Or replied to emails. Or caught up on the 67 unread WhatsApp chats I seem to always have waiting for me. Or most likely, scrolled mindlessly through Instagram. At nearly every opportunity of stillness, my attention was ready and waiting to be stolen away.

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Yes, a train ride or bus ride is an excellent opportunity to catch up with things and get them ticked off The List. But while multitasking has become the norm and the expectation in pretty much all corners of our lives, I worry that we’re cramming too many things into our days and too much information and entertainment into our brains – but no longer letting any of it stick around.

We listen to podcasts on walks, instead of admiring our surroundings and watching the world go by. We listen to music while we read our books, instead of choosing just one tale to get absorbed in. We skim news articles while we wait for friends, trains and appointments, instead of leaving ourselves open to conversation and connection. We watch TV while we eat, instead of talking to our partners and housemates about our days and dreams. We even scroll through reels and TikToks while we’re watching TV, instead of taking in what it actually is we set out and sat down to watch. We’re obsessed with doing everything, everywhere, all at once – and it’s exhausting. If splitting the atom released energy, dividing our attention is what drains us of it.

So when does multitasking become overconsumption? When do we start to recognise that capability and capacity are two different things that shouldn’t be considered one and the same? When do we start to notice that somehow, despite doing fewer physical things with our bodies, we feel more exhausted than ever? When do we start to accept that it might actually be bad for our brains to be deprived of the breathing space that’s always been needed to make balanced decisions, form our own opinions, have great ideas and be good friends, partners and family members? Could this be why we’re all so lost and lonely?

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We see a lot in the press about how phones, social media and brain rot are affecting the younger generation. That they no longer want to go outside and play with their friends because they’d rather watch TV, scroll through TikTok and text instead. But while childhoods are being lost to the screens that demand our attention, retirement years are too.

Of course, all of our days are numbered. But in old age, when they become increasingly scarce, it feels like a crime that final hours and days and weeks are being lost to these rectangles of distraction. I have had many conversations with my grandparents about what social media can steal from you, and how algorithms are designed to give you more content and entertainment in exchange for your time, energy and attention. But when our phones can promise us dopamine without a huge demand for effort in exchange, it suddenly becomes easier to watch TV and scroll through phones than it is to get outside, tend to the garden, go for a walk, meet your friends or engage in new hobbies that keep your brain and body healthy.

I once read that Reed Hastings, the founder of Netflix, said that the streaming service’s biggest competitor is ‘sleep’. So if our attention is now our currency, we need to spend it and budget it well. Maybe the cost of living crisis isn’t just about money. Maybe it’s about our attention, too. Perhaps we should be budgeting it in the same way?

Ultimately, no matter our age, we weren’t meant to live our lives on our phones, offering up our attention to tech companies like it’s nothing to us. Our attention is everything. It’s our currency. And we were meant to spend it wisely, on the things that matter to us, on our loved ones and on the society we’re part of. We were meant to listen attentively to worries and woes. We were meant to hear stories told by real voices and really laugh out loud at them. To solve problems for ourselves and for others. To use our brains to think for ourselves. To have hobbies for the sake of pleasure, not for financial gain. To spend our time outside, in the real world.

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Since leaving my big corporate big tech job, I am slowly but surely regulating my nervous system again. I am learning to accept that it is okay to do nothing sometimes. It is okay to make a cup of tea and drink it without scrolling through emails the entire time. It is okay to get lost in a book for an entire afternoon while ignoring my notifications. It is okay to gaze at the trees through the window without documenting it on Instagram. It is okay to leave my desk to go to the deli and spend ten minutes deliberating over what to order. It is okay to go for a walk in the afternoon sun and get lost in my neighbourhood without needing to know exactly where I am. It is okay to use my knowledge of London transport to get somewhere, instead of asking Google Maps to tell me the fastest way. It is okay to travel two hours to spend just one with a friend who just needs to vent. It is okay to have nothing to do. It is okay to sleep deeply until 10am if my body and brain need the rest.My life doesn’t have to be optimised. It doesn’t even have to be convenient. It just has to be the life I want for myself.

If my attention is my currency, I have to start spending it well. And although it doesn’t always feel like it, just how ‘well’ I spend it, or exactly what ‘well’ looks like, is up to me. Well, well, well. Imagine that.

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SOME FURTHER READING:

Cultural Capital

The dawn of the post-literate society

What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book because there would be no one who wanted to read one…

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8 months ago · 3232 likes · 296 comments · James Marriott

This is literally like, the easiest way to get joy in your life via your mouth. Mars Bar Rice Krispie cakes are nostalgic, delicious and bad for your body but good for your soul.

Growing up, this was my signature ‘dish’. I would make it at any opportunity, safe in the knowledge that it was super easy to make, yet super easy to delight all who tasted it. It’s like, my dream cooking or baking situation.

It became such a go-to for me that I volunteered it as the office cake to make for my then work friend (now very important life friend) Leo’s birthday. As with most things in my life, I left it all until the last minute and was up until gone midnight ‘decorating’ it, making some truly awful creative decisions, like icing a balloon that looked like a sperm, an illegible, ‘Happy Birthday’ and necessary, ‘I’m sorry!’ at the bottom.

But this is the magic of this recipe. It looked like shit, but it tasted amazing. So amazing, that we didn’t do the usual, ‘message everyone to tell them there’s a cake and we need to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ now,’ and instead ate the entire thing between a few of us in the creative and marketing team. We all felt horrendous afterwards (I think I was actually sweating butter out of my face), but it was worth it.

Anyway. Here’s a recipe of sorts that’s very much based on vibes and not precision for how to make it yourself. It’s honestly divine.

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WHAT YOU NEED

• 8 Mars Bars (I used Lidl’s Mister Choc Caramel Bars, which only come in packs of six. I bought two and used all 12 in the recipe.)

• 150g Rice Krispies (I used Lidl’s Rice Snaps and just poured in the amount that looked right)

• 75g butter

• A few squirts or tablespoons of golden syrup

• A 180g bar of Dairy Milk chocolate

WHAT TO DO

1. Chop up all your Mars Bars and scrape them off the chopping board into a saucepan. Add your butter and golden syrup, turn the heat up to a low-ish temperature and melt the lot.

2. Pour in like, a quarter of your Rice Krispies. Stir them through the mixture, gradually adding more until they’re all coated.

3. Spoon out the mixture into a baking tin or baking tray or something that makes sense to put them in the fridge in. You can use a spoon to flatten it all out so it’s nice and smooth if you want, but it doesn’t really matter.

4. Melt your bar of Dairy Milk chocolate. I did this in the microwave, but I was cause because I (and the chocolate) have been burned before. I tend to just do a minute and see how it goes, then keep checking every 10 seconds after that until it seems done.

5. Cover your Mars Bar x Rice Krispie collab in the melted chocolate, then get it in the fridge.

6. Once it’s all cold and hard, cut it into squares (I won’t judge the size) and see how good your willpower is.

I made it last weekend and I might do it again this weekend. Let me know if you do too.

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Buy me a bag of crisps

On October 3rd, he asked me what day it was Taylor Swift released her 12th studio album, The Life of a Showgirl. For many millennials, this date was already significant, known and celebrated as ‘Mean Girls Day’, thanks to the now-iconic line in Mean Girls, which (can you believe) came out in 2004. But now, and for evermore, the date has another significant cultural moment attached to it. A millennial doesn’t release an album on Mean Girls Day by mistake.

As I write, The Life of a Showgirl has been out for less than a week. But as the countdown to the album’s release drew closer, fans, stans and mean girls with masterplans took their places at the start line of the race for the hottest take. Who would be the first person to be seen to be declaring bop or flop before anyone else? Who would win the award for being so refined in their own musical tastes that they, and only they, could see through everyone else’s hype? Who would get the gold medal of perception for declaring her popstar reign to finally be over?

On the release day, the album became Spotify’s most streamed album in a single day this year so far, and its first single, The Fate of Ophelia, became the most streamed song in a single day in Spotify history. And already, the hottest takers were divided. Some hailed the return of ‘pop perfection’ and declared the album to be a ‘triumphant pop victory lap’, while others declared it ‘repetitive and entirely basic’ and a ‘charmless chore’. Taylor has been praised for ‘incisive storytelling’ but has also come under fire for her ‘graceless response’ of a diss track, Actually Romantic, supposedly aimed at Charli xcx.

There is likely no other artist on the planet whose work, life and balancing act of the two is under as much scrutiny as Taylor Swift’s. A curse of her own making, in her pursuit of the showgirl life. She’s currently dominating the limelight, the zeitgeist and cultural conversation, celebrating success after success and doing her job all too well. But Taylor Swift has reached stratospheric new heights of stardom – and the world wants to see her fall. She has, apparently, girlbossed too close to the sun.

We have seen this before. People love to hate on the new album when it’s not like the old album. Taylor Swift ‘sold out’ when she moved into pure pop with 1989 but the album is now credited as the era in which she established her identity as a popstar. The Tortured Poets Society was ‘cringeworthy’ but has since been praised for its vulnerability. reputation was ‘sadly conventional’, with her new era and new persona written off as ‘good girl gone unconvincingly bad’ when it was released, but is practically worshipped now.

But why can’t a song or an album or an artist be grower and not an immediate show-er? Why won’t we let ourselves know the life of a growgirl? Why, when we’re sharing our opinions, does it feel like the only sides to be taken are either ‘masterpiece’ or ‘disaster’?

Our predominately online world thrives on exaggeration and outrage, that’s why – and it’s seeping into our own opinions and tastes. The race for the hottest take is just one sport in the The Superiority Olympic Games – this ongoing competitive event in which the winners are the ones deemed have the most important preferences and most exquisite tastes that serve as a mirror to their curated identity. The things we like are supposed to say something about ourselves now. Enjoyment (or lack thereof) no longer feels personal, it feels performative. It’s like we’re all putting on a show.

And maybe this is why we can’t have nice things. There’s a new pressure for us to draw conclusions and formulate opinions on things as a matter of immediacy and urgency, making sure they ladder up to the specific perception we want people to have of us. It’s no longer enough to simply like or dislike something a bit for a while – we must declare an undying love or an enduring hatred, stick by it forever and make it part of our personal brand.

But in doing so, we lose the grey space of uncertainty, contradiction, discomfort, confusion, indecision and change that sits between the black and white. These are all such human things to feel and be, but they’re cast aside and forgotten about by the hottest takers, in their pursuit for that coveted fleeting first place.

Taylor Swift addressed the criticism of her new album yesterday on Apple Music’s The Zane Low Show. In the interview, she said that ‘everybody is allowed to feel exactly how they want,’ and that she has a lot of respect for people’s subjective opinions on art. ‘I’m not the art police,’ she said.

Ask any group of Swifties what their top five Taylor Swift songs are, and I guarantee you’ll get completely different lists. Ask them the same question a few months later, and I guarantee the list will have changed. Taylor has said said she loves it when she hears fans say that they used to be a Fearless girlie, but now find themselves obsessed with evermore. Imagine that! Your thoughts, feelings and preferences changing as time goes on and more of your life happens to you! It’s almost like we all have different eras that we go through! She should make a tour about that!

In the Zane Lowe interview, Taylor also said that, ‘the rule of showbusiness is that if it’s the first week of my album release and you are saying either my name or my album title, you’re helping.’ Perhaps it’s just a coincidence, then, that Charli xcx teased her own return to the studio after Actually Romantic, the supposed diss track about her, made headlines and dominated conversation surrounding the album, despite it not even being a single. According to i-d, Sympathy is a knife surpassed 500,000 daily streams on Spotify over the weekend – a more than 300% jump from a pre-Friday level. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if Charli is soon revealed to have been in on the whole thing. A beef-less meat substitute, hidden within a delicious recipe.

But more than anything else in that interview, the thing that struck me was Taylor saying that, ‘our goal is as entertainers is to be a mirror – oftentimes an album is a really, really, good way to look at yourself.’ ‘I have such an eye on legacy,’ she said. ‘I know what I made and I adore it. On the theme of what the showgirl is, all of this is part of it.’

In the Hamlet, the Shakespeare play from which Taylor has borrowed her protagonist in The Life of a Showgirl’s lead single, The Fate of Ophelia, there is a play within a play. Hamlet suspects his uncle, King Claudius, has killed his father, so assembles a group of performers to act out his suspicions with a view to ‘catch the conscience of the King’.

Perhaps The Life of a Showgirl, a very millennial album released very millennially on Mean Girls Day, was a show within a show, designed to catch the conscience of the internet. Maybe it was a mirror for all of us to really, really look at ourselves. To think about why we’d ever think our opinions are ever anything other than subjective. To consider why we can’t help but be lured into the internet’s demand for extreme reaction. To wonder why, when something that’s enjoyed but not ‘cool’ reaches new heights, we love to try and bring it down.

Maybe in the race to cross the finish line for the hottest take, we tripped and fell for it. It was all by design.

I am a swimmer. Not in the sense that I am good at swimming, but in the sense that if I have to exercise – I will always choose to swim over anything else.

I do not do a huge amount of swimming. I go swimming maybe once a week. (If it’s the summer. If it’s sunny. If I feel like it.) But when I do go, my swimming routine is this:

In the morning, I get dressed with my swimming costume on underneath my clothes. I do not shower, because I am going to shower after I’ve been swimming. These two things ensure accountability, because a) working from a desk in a swimsuit is not comfortable and b) I hate not showering first thing in the morning. Therefore, both things serves as a constant reminder that I have said I’m going to go, and now I have to.

After a morning of writing or meetings or whatever, I eat a banana and I get my bike out. I check several times to make sure I have actually put underwear in my gym bag because cycling commando through Hackney (or at all, actually) is not the one. I put my bag in my basket and cycle the 10 min ride to the lido. I say hello to the lady at the café as I scan my membership pass to go in.

I shed my non-swimming clothes and shove them into a locker, along with my phone, bike helmet (safety first!!!) and whatever other crap I’ve brought with me. I walk from the changing room to the pool in flip flops because bare feet on pool tiles with all those HAIRS is probably the grossest concept to have ever existed.

I shower, get into the pool and I dunk my head under the water. I do 10 lengths of breaststroke. Then I get out of the pool and sit on the side for five minutes, hopefully in the sun. Then I do 10 more lengths of breaststroke. Then I get out of the pool, shower, get changed and go and eat a pastry. I believe this is called ‘balance’.

A sportswoman I may not be, but a lover of being in and by the water I very much am. (I recently wrote about running to the sea when I need to get a grip.) It’s pretty much the only time in my life, except for long solo drives in the car, where my brain quiets down and I can actively think. In both cases, these are scenarios where new ideas really strike, thoughts are fully worked through and conclusions are finally drawn. But they are also scenarios where I’m unable to just write things down immediately, in case I forget them. If you were in my brain with me at the lido, you’d hear me reciting the idea I had on length eight all the way through to length 18, to make sure I don’t forget it – then cursing myself on length 19 when I inevitably do.

Aside from these self-imposed memory games and brain strains, the only other things that really take up space in my head are my attempts to navigate lido lane politics. Like, why is it that men who are slow swimmers will refuse to go in the slow lane, so instead take up space in the medium lane? And then why do women who are medium swimmers relegate themselves to the slow lane? Also, why do people get so annoyed with medium lane swimmers swimming at medium lane pace? And why don’t those people just go in the fast lane, if they’re so fast?

It’s nearly as exhausting as the 20 length of swimming itself. But during my last swim, I took a good look around at all the people who, like me, spent their summer at the lido and I broke them down into characters. I have listed my favourites here, though there are many, many more I’m sure.

Let’s dive in.

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1. the best stroke

This person just takes it way too seriously, no matter what lane they’re in. They’ve got the goggles. They’ve got the swim cap. They’re quite possibly wearing speedos. For all I know (or care), they may well be training for a triathalon. But for some reason, this person will not go in the fast lane. Instead, they insist on being the best stroke of the medium lane. Sir, we are all asking: please just go in the fast lane. That is where your competitive friends are. You are spoiling the medium lane by trying to be the big fish in this medium pond. Please, go and swim with the big fish who are better than you. You will learn more there. I promise.

2. the breast bloke

This guy gets his endorphins from the lido but it’s not from the swimming. If you deign to bring your breasts to the lido, he’ll be clocking on and locking in with a stare that cannot be deterred by your indignant glare. Sometimes he’ll wear sunglasses, but he doesn’t always feel the need to. But shaded or not, he’s got his eyes on you. Keep your eye on him.

3. the gold mentalist

I have no beef with this swimmer. They’re in the fast lane because that’s where they belong and that’s fine. You won’t interact with this person. You will just see them engaging in their continuous lengths of the pool that started before you got there, and won’t finish until long after you’ve gone. They have all the gear and all the idea. They were probably in their university swim team and have since probably competed in several Iron Man Triathalons. I will never understand the mental endurance it takes to be this good at any sport, and nor should I. A total pro. Gold Mentalist, I am happy for you.

4. the heavy wetter

Picture the scene: you’re trying to do a nice, calm breast stroke with your head out of the water. You do not have goggles on because it would be embarrassing to signal that you are taking this seriously when this is the speed you’re swimming at. You’re moving through the water at a glacial pace, accompanied only by your thoughts and the feeling of bliss. And then suddenly, you become aware of a noise behind you – it’s the tha-doink from The Heavy Wetter’s feet as they crash through the surface, with a splash chaser that follows. This guy, also known by his enemies (me) as Sir-Splash-A-Lot, is about to overtake you. And as he does, his trail of splashes will hit you in face and spoil your serenity and flow. Try not to take it personally. He is not thinking about you.

5. the sun lounger

You won’t see this person outside of a heatwave. They’ll come to the lido and bring all their friends, ready to sit on the edge of the pool to dangle their feet, ankles and half a calf in the water and that’s it. You will probably accidentally touch their legs as you reach the end of the lane and push off from the wall for your next length. This will incur a glare from them, because how dare you.

6. the front brawler

This person does my head in more than anyone else at the lido. And it’s because they have this obsession with being first. They’re addicted to the overtake. They will do so by any means necessary. They do not care if they hit you – you stand swim between them and their firstness. But just like The Best Stroke, they are always found in the medium lane and not the fast lane. This is because they would not be first in the fast lane. And although you may sometimes stand swim between them and their firstness, you are always crucial to it. In the great chain of swimming, they believe themselves to be an apex preadator, and you are but a humble bee. But they cannot be first without you. So though they may seem like they hate you, the truth is that they want you, they need you – and they cannot swim without you.

7. the swimfluencer

I cannot confirm whether this person can swim or not. All I know is that I’ve never seen any evidence to suggest that they can. They will sometimes be spotted with The Sun Lounger, but not always. This person will be wearing a carefully curated swimwear outfit, which will be documented from every angle. They stroll around the poolside with the body of your dreams and the sex appeal of your relationship insecurities’ nightmares. They make you feel the need to calculate how many lengths you’d need to do of this pool, and how many times a week (or day) you’d need to do it in order to look like that. You’d probably need to give up bread, you realise. And crisps. And wine. Is it worth it? Probably not. Happy for them, though.

8. the tutterfly

This person is slightly less aggressive than The Front Brawler, but they will still let their disdain be known to you and everyone else within a 3-5m radius. Maybe you pushed off from the wall a little slower than they wanted you to. Maybe you went at the exact time that they were planning to start their new length. Maybe thanks to you, they now feel like they’ve been given no choice but to do a little diagonal shortcut to overtake you on your next length. Either way, if you’re not doing things the way they want you to, they’re going to tut at you. Nice and loud. You must eye roll in reply. That’ll teach them.

9. the got-your-back stroker

Now, this is my favourite person at the lido – and she’s always a woman. She’ll let you go first. ‘After you,’ she’ll say, and she means it. She sees your eye rolls at the The Tutterfly and The Heavy Wetter and The Best Stroke and The Breast Bloke and The Front Brawler and she’s giving you a knowing smile. ‘I’m so glad we’re not like that’ she says through telepathy. You two are silent friends for life now, and this Got-Your-Back-Stroker is here to remind you that you’re doing just fine. You don’t need to listen to those tuts – they aren’t even really about you, anyway! You don’t need to swim under the rope and go into the slow lane because people are overtaking you. You don’t need to have the perfect body to swim here at the lido. You’re fine as you are and you should just keep swimming. So do it.

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Did I miss anyone out? Are YOU any of these people? Tell me in the comments.

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PS. I really love the Instagram account, All The Lidos. It’s run by Jem Collins, who is visiting every lido in the UK. At the time of writing, she’s been to 118 of the 172 outdoor pools that exist. Wild.

DAVID BRANCACCIO: There's a little sweet moment, I've got to say, in a very intense book — your latest — in which you're heading out the door and your wife says what are you doing? I think you say — I'm getting — I'm going to buy an envelope.

KURT VONNEGUT: Yeah.

DAVID BRANCACCIO: What happens then?

KURT VONNEGUT: Oh, she says well, you're not a poor man. You know, why don't you go online and buy a hundred envelopes and put them in the closet? And so I pretend not to hear her. And go out to get an envelope because I'm going to have a hell of a good time in the process of buying one envelope.

I meet a lot of people. And, see some great looking babes. And a fire engine goes by. And I give them the thumbs up. And, and ask a woman what kind of dog that is. And, and I don't know…

And, of course, the computers will do us out of that. And, what the computer people don't realise, or they don't care, is we're dancing animals. You know, we love to move around. And, we're not supposed to dance at all anymore.

I have often thought about this story on the days when I’ve worked from home, sitting at my desk, jumping from meeting to meeting, replying to Slack message after Slack message, worrying about deadline after deadline. Very much not being a dancing animal, very much not moving around.

I think about this story when my stomach starts to rumble, and I consider walking to the deli that sits an 82 second walk away from my front door – a quick walk past my Italian neighbour who cleans his car every other day. It is a deli where I could choose from 16 different options of bagel fillings to have for lunch. I think about how I would probably choose what I always choose: a poppy seed bagel (if they haven’t run out yet) with cream cheese and sliced tomatoes, from the man who always asks me how I am and compliments my hats. I think about how while I wait for my bagel, I could stand outside in the fresh air, probably crouch down to say hello to around one or two (if I’m lucky) good dogs and make conversation with some interesting people whose days have also led them to be stood outside this deli at this very moment.

This entire process would likely take me around 30 minutes on a spectacularly busy deli day. But in that short space of time, I know that the fresh air, the brief change of scene and all those interactions (no matter how small) will return me to my desk with a significant impact on my mood, energy levels and ability to dive back into the creative process. I will have stood up straight, moved my body and engaged in real life instead of the one that lives on my laptop. And yet…

More often than not, my to-do list leans over my shoulder and tells me that I cannot spare those 30 minutes to do this small thing that would make a huge difference to the rest of my day. He (yes, my to-do list is a man) tells me I don’t have time, and fills my brain with tasks and deadlines (some real, some fake) and all the ‘just a quick one!’ requests from other people who are making their urgencies my emergencies. He tells me I am too busy to leave my desk. He tells me I need to wade through my tasks, despite running off less energy, less clarity and less enthusiasm. He tells me that I should use those 30 minutes to get all my work done (which really, is just putting out fires that someone else carelessly started), even though we both know I will likely get sucked into scrolling on my phone, or clicking from tab to tab to tab instead.

So as I cave to the demands of my to-do list (I hate him) and resign myself to yet another no-deli day, I briefly think about how I could, in a few taps of an app, get that bagel delivered right to my door. But suddenly, with this supposedly perfect solution to my time-poor, task-rich day right in front of me, I no longer want the bagel. It’s just a bagel that would arrive at my door, without me having taken the scenic route to get it. No dancing, no moving around. Perhaps hunger pangs aren’t always about food.

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The more I read and hear about all the ways in which people and companies are ‘embracing’ artificial intelligence, the more I think about these two stories (which are really the same story, except Kurt Vonnegut’s is obviously better). I understand that there are certain corners of our lives in which AI has the power to radically transform things for the better. At some point, I’m sure there will be scientific and medical breakthroughs that result in treatments for previously incurable diseases, vaccinations that go from lab to jab in a matter of weeks – and other things my tiny brain can’t comprehend or conjure up.

But what concerns me is which the corners we appear to be choosing to radically transform. Because right now, I’m not really hearing about AI being used for medical breakthroughs that save lives. Instead, all I hear about is how we’re using it to kill human creativity.

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A few months back, I was at a creative industry event that featured a panel of marketing and advertising experts talking about the ways in which they were ‘exploring the exponential power of AI’. One of the speakers was a CEO, who talked about the ways in which she uses AI in her job to optimise her days, so she could free herself up for more deep work.

I don’t really know what I was expecting for her to share with the audience, but I definitely thought it would be a game-changing revelation for the AI-fearing creative community that stood anxiously in the crowd. I thought maybe she’d found a brilliant way to collate and validate insights and research on a very specific, niche audience. Maybe a speedy way to turn a long-form article from a brilliant writer into ideas for short-form executions for social (which, obviously, would still need to then be crafted by a writer, too). Or maybe a magical way to force brief authors to actually write down all the non-negotiables in the brief up front, instead of mentioning them for the first time in the second round of feedback. We can dream.

Instead, she revealed that before she starts writing an email to a colleague or an agency partner, she asks herself, ‘could ChatGPT do this for me?’ Cue my heart sinking and my eyes rolling. I left the event shortly after.

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I get it. We all hate emails. I hate them too. I hate the way they make us write in this fake formal voice that’s not our own. I hate that they feel like an attention-suck from the meaningful work I’m actually meant to be doing. And I hate that I frequently mistype my own name as Emaily Ash Powell.

It’s wild to think that when email first became a thing, people would get excited to see a (1) pop up on their AOL inboxes! Gone were the days of opening the endless envelopes that landed on doormats! No more deciphering terrible handwriting! No more relying on postal services to make sure your letter actually got to where you wanted it to go! No more paying for stamps! It was all so exciting and convenient! But now, here we all are, rejoicing at the novelty of getting a handwritten letter in the post. Because as it goes, convenience isn’t the thing that sets the human heart on fire. Maybe somewhere along the way, the things that stood in our way actually helped us to think better, do better and be better. Maybe tech solutions aren’t actually designed with human’s best interests at heart?

Although we all hate reading and replying to emails, the horrors still persist. But I think those horrors would be even more horrifying and more persisting if the emails we had to read and reply to weren’t even written by real people. Is it really such a hurdle to have to personally send a person a message? If you’re inundated by emails and messages to the point of considering outsourcing them to the big tech overlords, maybe the problem is your workload – or the way in which your team makes decisions, solves problems or communicates?

Ultimately, I think if you’re writing an email that you expect someone to read, or take an action from, you should at least have the decency to write it yourself. By outsourcing such a task, you’re essentially telling your reader that you think your time is more valuable and important than theirs. And above anything else, I think that’s pretty fucking rude.

And honestly, why would I want an AI tool to write an email in the way that only I, a human person communicating with another human person, would write an email? I know that we’re all running on a low amount of time and energy, and a high amount of fear for losing our jobs if we’re not working fast enough or productively enough or using all the AI tools that leadership want you to embrace. And I know it might feel all powerful and reclaim-y to attempt to gain some time and energy by outsourcing such things. But I’ll be honest with you, I find anyone who encourages anyone to strip out their personality and talent in favour of bland, generic background noise to be pathetic and soulless.

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If you continue to use an AI tool to outsource every little writing task for you in that overly formal, ‘professional’ voice that everyone else recognises, because they use it too, you will eventually lose your authenticity. You will lose those words and phrases you use because your parents used them. You will lose those colloquial expressions you brought to the city with you from your hometown. You will lose the little asides and jokes you inherited from an old friend. You will lose what makes you you. And you can’t cut through the noise when you become part of it yourself.

And not to continue to be all, ‘But Her Emails!!!’, but any hiring manager will tell you that the way to stand out in an email is to say something different to what everyone else is saying. (I got my interview at Bumble by sending a long email, in addition to the rest of the application process, to the then creative director, who was a man who valued such things.) It’s avoiding all those formal stock phrases we all seem to defer to once we open up a new draft email, but nowhere else. (For years, I thought ‘I hope this email finds you well’ meant that the author of said email was hoping that the email managed to find its way through the internet into my inbox without any issues.) Cutting through the noise is about sitting and thinking about what it is you want to say, and how you want to say it. It’s being a dancing animal. Show people your dance!

And for my last trick email anecdote, let me tell you about the time in Adland when I emailed a creative director on behalf of myself and my creative partner, Elsie. I didn’t notice that my signoff of ‘Em’ had been autocorrected to ‘Emu’. The creative director replied with, ‘Hi Emu’, and so I earned a new nickname. That was seven years ago. Today, Elsie’s two year old son calls me Aunty Emu.

It’s mistakes like this that make us human. It’s the dancing around (whether intentional or not) that adds colour to every scene we’re in. What makes people gorgeous and interesting is not what we can always get right, but what we can sometimes get wrong. And it’s through getting things wrong and doing the work ourselves, that we understand how to get it right in the future. But since we’re so obsessed with immediately having all the answers all of the time, we appear to have forgotten that the process of finding those answers is where the real lessons are actually found. Time and time again, the old cliché is proved to be true: it really is the journey that matters more than the destination.

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So what is the benefit of eliminating every single hurdle that stands in our way? Why are we so averse to having any form of friction in our lives? In his book, On Writing, Stephen King writes that, ‘If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot.’ In my copywriting world, for any one line that ever goes live on a billboard, there are hundreds discarded and left to gather digital dust in a Google Doc. It’s pretty brutal.

But like anything worth doing well, there is no shortcut. Being a creative is hard. Finding the right words is hard. The nature of the job (see: presenting your work to people who aren’t experts in what you do, but will tell you what to do or not do regardless) is one that has you overthinking and crippled by self doubt. You can go from ‘I’m so good at what I do’ to ‘I simply have no choice but to resign from this job and remove myself from society’ in a matter of seconds. Creativity is somewhere in the middle of delusion and self doubt, and being a true creative means shoving all your vulnerabilities in the ‘I can’t think about this right now’ corner of your brain, then going for it anyway. And that’s what makes it all the more wonderful when you finally crack that line, nail that idea and create work that moves something and impacts someone. The only way out is through. You have to work out how to get over the hurdle.

Because here’s the thing: writing and creativity is a muscle – you need to keep exercising it to keep it strong. Like when I started Couch to 5k (again) and then gave up on it (again) and was outraged to find that when I returned to it (again) months later, I couldn’t just pick up where I left off (again). There was no shortcut. I had to finish the training.

As all good writers know, the writing process is actually the thinking process. It’s through the act of writing that you earn the clarity of the thought, idea or problem you’re trying to work through. Your talents and abilities are shaped by the tasks you do on repeat – because it’s doing the actual work that makes you better at everything. It’s getting things wrong until they’re right that’ll make you a better partner, friend and person. But if you start outsourcing your unique abilities, your critical thinking and your opinions, you’ll eventually weaken your brain and lose your natural ability to access them all.

And the thing is, when everyone starts taking the same shortcut, it just becomes the regular path, anyway. So if there’s no real shortcut, you might as well accept and find joy in the process of the long way round. The outcome is always, always so much more rewarding when you’ve been through the process. So choose the scenic route to get over the hurdle. Go the different way. Take the road less travelled. And dance along it.

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A few years ago, my friend Leo banned himself from Googling answers to questions that he knew he knew. He wanted to force himself to use his brain to remember, instead of taking the shortcut to access the information in seconds. And more often than not, it turned out that he did remember the answers to the questions – it just sometimes took him a little bit longer than 10 seconds to retrieve the memory. Imagine that? Insane.

But now, it’s not just Google we run to for our immediate answers. The amount of times I hear people say, ‘Oh, I asked ChatGPT about this and it said…’ is worryingly wild. I saw a Note recently that referred to people who use ChatGPT for everything as ‘prompstitutes’. I also love ‘second hand thinkers’, or ‘askholes’.

I once had a boyfriend who, if I ever cited a reference or a fact or any kind of information, would ask, ‘Oh really, how do you know that?’ and immediately Google it to check it himself. He probably loves AI now. What he never seemed to understand was that sometimes, you can actually store the information in your brain that you learned once and held onto because it mattered to you. Information shouldn’t just be a fleeting flash of a fact to use once and dispose of later. We need to absorb things of quality that can contribute to our interests and passions and personalities – to live in our brain with longevity and meaning.

But now we’re in a world where automated thinking and automated intimacy are becoming a real part of the lives we once considered to be real. People are skipping the local research and recommendations and are planning holidays with AI. Students are using AI to write college essays. Teachers are using AI to grade those same essays. People are choosing AI instead of therapists. People are turning to ChatBots instead of real friends. Men are proposing to their AI girlfriends. What are we doing? We need to touch grass.

By handing over the reins to AI to reduce all hurdles and friction in our daily tasks, questions, relationships, jobs, and fact-finding, we’re essentially outsourcing the very things that make us human. So many of the things people are asking AI to do for them would be less appealing to outsource if we actually taught, practised and prioritised essential human skills. Listening. Communicating. Debating. Collaborating. Arguing constructively. Discipline. Good judgement. Imagination. Empathy. Self-awareness. Resilience.

AI is described as ‘a technology that enables computers and machines to simulate human learning, comprehension, problem solving, decision making, creativity and autonomy’. When we refer to it as ‘AI’, we can easily forget that the abbreviation is for ‘artificial intelligence’. But that word ‘artificial’ is important. As is the word ‘simulate’ in its description. AI is merely an imitation of all of those things it says it can simulate.

Human intelligence is what we should all be holding onto, for as long as we possibly can. AI is not a person like you. It hasn’t had lived experiences like you. It doesn’t have the warmth of a personality like you. It doesn’t know empathy like you (hopefully) do. It doesn’t know how to solve problems in a way that works for you. AI is designed to be helpful and to please its user. And most importantly, like many of the CEOs who want to use it to replace their employees, it doesn’t have a moral compass.

I don’t want us to wake up one day and realise that out of all the corners of our lives we could’ve chosen to radically transform, we allowed ourselves to be led into choosing and losing the ones that made us human in the first place. What kind of a fucking dystopian world does that lead us into? I could go on and on and on. About how AI is wiping out workforces. About how AI is demanding increased electricity and water consumption, wreaking havoc on our environment. About how AI’s gendered biases are perpetuating misogyny and harmful stereotypes. About how as the technology accelerates, things like inequality, loneliness and loss of freedom will too. What are we doing?

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So what about all our jobs, I hear you cry? Are we all royally fucked? Will writers and creatives cease to exist? Should we prepare to despair?

In an interview with The Atlantic, Sam Altman, the CEO of OpenAI, said, ‘A lot of people working on AI pretend that it’s only going to be good; it’s only going to be a supplement; no one is ever going to be replaced.’ He went on to say, ‘Jobs are definitely going to go away, full stop.’ Cool. Ok. But then I wonder, if I was a man who was set to profit from AI’s success, wouldn’t I too be waxing lyrical about just how monumental my technology was going to be at every press and media opportunity? Maybe.

Despite the number of creative job losses being attributed to AI, I do think it’s less of a full stop, and more of an em dash (you know, the punctuation mark that everyone deems to be a telltale sign of AI writing). Though the future of our creative careers might feel like it’s on pause for now, I do think that people, brands and businesses will need us writers to return to serve their sentences again.

Because the people who are currently drinking the Kool AI-d are the same people who love want big, noise-cutting, impactful, ‘viral’ ideas, then get mad when they’re told the reality of the time, effort and money it takes to actually deliver them. They’re the people who’ll hand writers an idea (maybe even one they’ve mocked up in ChatGPT and Canva themselves), then ask them to just ‘jzuzjjhh it up’ for them. They’re the people who see AI as the instant gratification vending machine. The shortcut without the training.

But soon enough, the results will be in and this wave of novelty will crash into reality. The excitement of what AI can do will wear off, and the glaring gaps of what it can’t do will be impossible to ignore. And then at some point, I really do believe that businesses and organisations will feel the loss of the dancing animals who once brought the original thinking, talent, magic, ideas and creativity to the table – the very things that resonated out in the real world of real people who love to move around, too.

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These real people have real lives, too. And out in the real world, the loneliness epidemic was declared a ‘global public health concern’ last year – and we know that big tech created the recipe for it. And through so many of our societal habits and needs that now rely on tech to fulfil them, we’ve now created a lonely generation of yearners. Yearning for connection. Yearning to be seen. Yearning to be understood. Yearning to be loved. Yearning for meaning. Yearning for something real, physical and tangible in a world that takes place on a screen.

It’s why there’s been a revival of analogue media. People are realising they don’t own their music collections anymore thanks to streaming platforms, so they’re buying vinyl again. People’s phones are full of far too many photos, so they’re returning to film cameras to capture meaningful single moments instead – and romanticising the imperfections. People are downgrading their smartphones for original ‘dumbphones’. People are ditching dating apps for real life experiences.

And as all the shortcuts become the regular path, the hunger pangs for the scenic route have already started to come back again. There’s a wave for us to ride in the creative world right now, and I don’t think it’s going to be an enjoyable one. We will lose more jobs and we will have to work harder to justify our skills and our expertise. But I am optimistic enough to believe that sooner or later, we’ll realise that human creativity and emotional intelligence is the answer. We just need to make sure we don’t let the robots do us out of it, before it’s too late.

Last Thursday I stood at the bus stop,

I was reading a book on my phone.

My brain was away in some character’s thoughts,

As I stood at the stop on my own.

The 141 bus drew up closer.

It slowed down to pull in to the stop.

And as the doors started to open,

Two kids set about on their job.

Boy 1, he ran up to distract me.

Boy 2 grabbed my phone from my wrist.

But my grip was too strong, and he got it all wrong,

When I elbowed his face and he missed.

I guess that it taught me a lesson.

A thing that I always had known.

When push comes to shove and the danger is real,

I maybe would die for my phone.

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No Emilys were harmed in the creation of this silly little poem. The boys ran away and my phone remained my own. But phone snatching in London is beyond a joke – several of my friends have been less lucky and have lost phones, the ability to contact anyone for help and significant amounts of money from their banking apps.

If it happens to you (and I hope it doesn’t), call the police, call Crimestoppers and call your phone contract provider to suspend your service. Then log into Find My (Apple) or Find My Device (Android) to remotely lock and erase everything on your phone to protect all your important data. Call your bank and change all your passwords for your important accounts, too.

But before anything else, maybe don’t read on your phone at the bus stop like an idiot. No story is good enough for you to risk never finding out how it ends.

Five years ago today, at around 3 o’clock in the morning, I had my heart broken. A relationship I’d been in for five years came to a cold, hard, abrupt, embarrassing but probably predictable end. I had asked him if everything was okay, as he’d seemed off and not himself for a few days. He said no, he wasn’t okay, actually. He said he didn’t think he was happy anymore. He said he thought he was in love with a girl at work. He said he didn’t want to talk about it. He said he needed time to figure it out. He said he needed to go. And so he went.

I watched him drive away, through the window of my childhood bedroom in South Wales, taking with him everything we’d both known for five years. The end had been inevitable for us. We’d already floated the idea of going our separate ways a few times. But how it ended up ending was not how either of us had intended it to end. Either way, one of us was always going to end up hurt. It just so happened that in the end, it was me.

As the early hours dragged by, they eventually turned into an acceptable hour at which to phone someone. I called two of my best friends from university, Tom and Matthew, who were still living in Swansea, and without hope, direction or a car, I made my way to the city that the three of us had found each other, and ourselves, in. And after what seemed like several hours of dramatic, catastrophic, explosive, emotional retellings of what had happened, I asked if we could go to the sea.

The three of us headed to Three Cliffs Bay in the Gower, traipsing through the long path of sand dunes, salt marshes, castle ruins and over those limestone cliffs to get to the water. When we got there, we took off our shoes, sat on the water’s edge and talked it all through again. At this point, I was already feeling better. Then a wave came and soaked us all. Matthew turned to me and joked, ‘See, Em? The sea doesn’t give a shit about you.’ We all burst out laughing, salty tears falling into salty water.

On the way home, the mood lifted and the conversation shifted from what had happened to what could happen next. I took one next step at a time until the heartbreak was repaired and the foundations of my new life started to form.

That Three Cliffs Bay day still remains one of the best days of my life and for the last five years, this whole, ‘the sea doesn’t give a shit about you’ thing has lived on as a joke between the three of us – but also as a very serious perspective giver. It’s my reality check. It’s my often much-needed reminder to get over myself and get a grip. It’s my equivalent of Fleabag’s Hot Priest telling her, ‘it’ll pass’.

There is great comfort and relief to know that no matter what is happening in my own little world, the sea will continue to not give a shit about me. ‘It’s not always that deep’, the sea is probably saying about my so-called problems. ‘And trust me’, the sea probably goes on to joke, ‘I know deep’. The sea, who is famously not funny, just keeps on doing its sea thing. The waves will come, the waves will go. The water will surge, the water will rest. The tide will go out, but it’ll always come back in again.

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Last week, I ran to the sea again. After a long, drawn-out process, I finally had the confirmation that I, along with my entire team, was being made redundant from my job. There was no longer a requirement for my role, they said. My services were no longer needed. The things I’d been tearing my hair out and losing sleep over for the past 18 months were simply none of my business anymore. The dream job I’d yearned for and worked my ass off for 10 years to get (and then worked my ass off to keep) was dead. And as I considered for a moment that it would be very easy to feel like my world, and everything I thought I’d ever wanted professionally was ending, I felt an urge to be near the sea again.

And so I went to West (best) Wales for 10 days to inhale and exhale very, very deeply. I saw the sea every day. I spent time with my family. I drank wine with my mum. I spent time with my friends. I saw Matthew and we agreed that the sea still would absolutely not give a shit about me.

I surfed with my husband on Freshwater West beach and we picked the worst day for wind and waves. It was hard going, and I got in my own head and spent the best part of two hours obsessing over finding the ‘perfect’ wave – missing all these chances to simply get up on the board and ride.

As I finally paddled in front of my carefully selected ‘perfect’ wave, I messed up my timing. I missed the moment to get up and the wave passed me by. I threw myself off the board and into the water in frustration. And in doing so, what I didn’t see was that as that first ‘perfect’ wave crashed, there was another ‘perfect’ one right behind it. The sea had kept on doing its sea thing, and if I’d kept on doing mine, we’d have gone back to shore together.

Eventually, I got over myself, got back on the board and got several waves. I then got out of the water and sat on my board with red cheeks and salty hair to watch the water. I sat rolling my eyes and smiling at the totally obvious, totally cliché, totally unoriginal conclusion that ‘when one wave crashes, another one forms’ was relevant both in the sea, and out of it too. You just need to get back on the board and remember that the sea absolutely does not give a shit about you. It’s not always that deep. Keep going.

At the age of 23, eight years ago, I sat in a doctor’s office and said, ‘Hello. I’m pregnant. And I don’t want to be.’ As the words left my mouth, I’d never been so certain. It was simple. At that moment in time, I did not want to be a parent. It was just not the right time.

I’d done everything ‘right’. I’d been on the pill since 16. I’d taken just-to-be-sure pregnancy tests every other month. But because I’d been continuously taking the pill with no breaks (as many of us do over summer) – I didn’t realise I was pregnant for three months, until I started to feel unwell after a work charity fundraising action-packed weekend away. I took my routine it’s-probably-all-fine pregnancy test, convinced that there was no way I could be. But I was.

I was in a long-term relationship at the time, and besides my then-boyfriend, I only told one other person. She was a work friend who’d noticed I wasn’t my usual sparkly self (understatement of the year, most likely), so she took me for a walk and asked me if I was okay. Sobbing on a park bench outside work, I told her that no, I wasn’t okay. I was pregnant, I needed an abortion and I felt ashamed. It turned out that, like me, she’d been through the exact same situation at a similar point in her life. She’d had an abortion, too. I couldn’t believe it. The one person I’d told had also experienced this. I wasn’t alone, and it was going to be okay.

Her support was so valuable to me, that I now make sure I openly talk about my own experience in case I need to be that friend for someone else (which I have been on several occasions). My story isn’t uncommon. Just like contraception is taken to prevent a pregnancy, abortion is a commonly used method of preventing the birth of a child – for a variety of reasons. And yet it’s still such a taboo subject, which means we’re conditioned to think that it only happens to those of us who are reckless or have endured extreme circumstances (whether that’s suffering medical complications, or enduring rape). You never consider that you might need one yourself. Until you do. And when you do, you shouldn’t need an exceptional or an extreme reason to have an abortion. Sometimes, you just don’t want a baby. And you shouldn’t have to justify that.

Throughout life, it’s drummed into us women that must do our best not to get accidentally pregnant. It’s us women who have to spend our days and energy navigating calendars and trackers, and contending with added hormones via pills and coils, plus dealing with all the side effects that come with using them. It’s always ‘women, don’t get pregnant’ and never ‘men, don’t accidentally impregnate’. And then, should that all prevention fail (as it often does) – it’s women who must put their bodies through an abortion (and in many cases, alone).

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Today in England and Wales, abortion is legal. It was legalised under the Abortion Act 1967, which allows registered medical practitioners to perform abortions – as long as two doctors give permission, as long as the abortion takes place within 24 weeks of the pregnancy (though abortions can be performed after this time if the mother's life is at risk, or if there is a severe fetal abnormality), and as long as the abortion meets one of the grounds in law.

But if you buy abortion pills on the internet to end your own pregnancy, you are committing a crime. And any woman who undergoes an abortion without the approval of two doctors, or without the exceptions outlined in the law, can face prosecution and a life sentence in prison. Yes, really.

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According to the British Pregnancy Advisory Service (BPAS), in the last few years, more than 100 women in England and Wales have been investigated by the police on suspicion of breaking abortion law to end their own pregnancy. This includes women who experienced a miscarriage or a stillbirth. According to BPAS, these women have been reported by their medical team, arrested, taken from their hospital beds to police cells, interrogated without access to medical care, and even separated from their children. One woman even ended up in jail.

But it’s not criminalisation that women need, it’s compassion and support. And this week, Cosmopolitan magazine has joined forces with the BPAS to decriminalise abortion in England and Wales.

Together, they’re campaigning to make sure that no more women are arrested under abortion law. They’re working with Tonia Antoniazzi, a Welsh Labour Party politician who has been the Member of Parliament (MP) for Gower since 2017, and a few other MPs too, to try and get enough support to change the Crime and Policing Bill that’s being passed through parliament this year.

The proposed change is this:

For the purposes of the law related to abortion, including sections 58 and 59 of the Offences Against the Person Act 1861 and the Infant Life (Preservation) Act 1929, no offence is committed by a woman acting in relation to her own pregnancy.

This amendment would not change the way that abortion is provided in England and Wales. It would not change the time limit. It would not change the requirement for two doctors to sign off on an abortion. It would not change the grounds a woman must meet. It would not change the law on sex selective abortion. It would not change the laws which criminalise violent partners who try to end a pregnancy without consent.

All that this change would do is make sure that no more women are arrested under abortion law, and you can help by spending ten seconds (yes, really) of your time emailing your MP, asking them to back abortion law reform.

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One in three British women will have an abortion in their lifetime. And the access we have here in the UK really is great. When I had my abortion, I felt so looked after by every person I encountered during the whole process. Both emotionally and medically, I couldn’t have asked for more.

But abortion is healthcare, and it should build on our existing rights. A woman should have the right to make the deeply personal decision, that is having an abortion, herself, without the fear of persecution and prosecution. All people who can become pregnant, no matter how they identify, should be able to access safe abortion care – free from the threat of the criminal law.

It takes ten seconds to email your MP. And this is because BPAS have created this incredible template here, which is automatically sent to your local MP once you’ve added in your postcode and your name. It really is that simple.

I would be so grateful if you, a person who likely knows at least one woman, would send this one simple email, to support the reform of abortion law.

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On weeks like this one, when the topic of abortion hits the news, my social media feeds are flooded with anger, horror and outrage.

But this energy and outrage overwhelmingly comes from women. Women who amplify the stories of others. Women who share the facts. Women who bravely tell their own abortion stories. Women who share these things, asking for others to join them in recognising just how essential this human right is to our lives.

Every time abortion hits the news, I notice that men are, on the whole, noticeably quiet. When the Supreme Court of Justice overturned Roe v Wade in 2022, I saw posts that said, ‘When the penalty for aborting after rape is more severe than the penalty for rape, that’s when you know it’s a war on women’, and, ‘Being a mother should be a choice’. All of these posts came from women.

But given that it always requires sperm for a pregnancy to occur in the first place, it always makes me wonder: why aren't we seeing men speak out about their shared abortion stories too? Where are all the men in this conversation in general? Where is their outrage? Why can’t I feel their anger alongside mine?

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So back in 2022, I asked them. For Cosmopolitan, I (along with Features Editor, Jennifer Savin) asked 11 men about their experiences of abortion, and why they felt that the overturning of Roe vs Wade was so disastrous for everyone. (The article has since been updated in line with this current campaign.) Among these men were my husband, brother and father, and they all shared their views on the benefits of everyone having autonomy over their reproductive rights.

When I initially asked these men why they hadn’t shared anything, it transpired that many of them didn’t know what they could say or do – or whether their voice would add to the conversation in a helpful way.

But writing to your MP is a way you can help. When women are sharing their stories, urging you to write to your MP, asking you to donate to valuable organisations, asking you to re-share stories and resources, asking you to amplifying their voices and asking you to do the work to educate yourself as to what all of this means – it really does matter that you do it.

You might not think it makes a difference, but using your voice to amplify those other voices is one of the most valuable things you can do. It’s no secret that it’s men who still hold greater power in this world in so many ways – and so these small things that have big impact are a great way of using that privilege, to help women get over a hurdle (that affects all of us) for good.

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You can read more on this from Cosmopolitan here:

• 11 men share their experience of abortion and how women's rights benefit *everyone*

• It's time to End 1861 and decriminalise abortion: Tell your MP to back bodily autonomy in Parliament

• "We need to deepen women's rights": 19 women on why they’re supporting our campaign to decriminalise abortion

• “What they want is your rights”: What you need to know about the anti-abortion movement’s new tactics

• An influential US anti-abortion group is expanding its UK campaign - here’s why you should be concerned

• ‘Abortion is healthcare’: If you agree, join our pro-choice campaign in partnership with BPAS

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When I first moved out of South Wales in 2015, I squeezed myself, along with all my belongings, into my little white Peugeot 107 (Phoebe) and cried all the way to the Severn Bridge. For 45 minutes, my windscreen wipers wiped the rain off my window, and my sleeve wiped the tears (and snot) from my face. My head was off to London. But my heart remained in Wales.

Long gone in my rear view mirror was the life I’d spent 21 years building and finding and loving in Wales. Family. Friends. School life. My first job. My first boyfriend. My university life. My second boyfriend. My beloved family dogs. The mountains. The sea. Pretty much everything I’d ever known had been forged in Wales – and here I was, leaving it all behind.

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As I drove towards London, I took my Welsh accent with me. I think it just about squeezed into the car. Throughout my childhood and teenage years, my accent had never been a particularly strong one. In comparison to the amazing Valleys accent that my dad’s side of the family has, it could even be described as weak, even. But it was definitely a generic South Wales one. It was a little bit singsong-y, it had the tendency to go from a low to a high pitch out of nowhere and it featured elongated vowel sounds, which frequently transformed the famously monosyllabic word ‘no’ into the two (sometimes three) syllable word, ‘no-wuhh!!!’

But my accent had always been prone to wandering, too. If we were on holidays and we met other kids from Manchester, I’d come back with a twang. And despite moving even further west into Wales when I went to Swansea University, my accent wandered in and amongst the various English and American friendships I made, and the English boyfriend I acquired there, too.

A wandering accent is one part of what is known as the ‘chameleon effect’. This is a subconscious survival instinct, which describes people's tendency to mimic or mirror another person's facial expressions, nonverbal behaviours and verbal expressions. According to Psychology Today, it’s ‘considered a type of social glue that keeps us connected to others, as it makes us feel that others are more like us than not’. So the more we’re trying to relate to someone, the more we subconsciously mimic their ways.

And I have always been a pretty good mimic. As I child, I was frequently doing impressions of characters from film and TV, to the point where my parents encouraged me to take drama lessons, which resulted in me getting through to the final round of auditions to be a ‘Dumping Ground Kid’ on the TV show, The Story of Tracy Beaker. If you speak to me in a regional accent, I’ll probably be able to do a pretty good version of it back to you. (I’m currently trying to perfect my impression of Parker Posey in The White Lotus S3).

But I’m pretty sure my accent came with me to London, and even stayed with me in my first house share for a while, too.

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Many of us move to London because we feel it’s where we need to go to make something of ourselves. It is a city of people finding our paths. Opening our minds. Figuring out who we are, outside of everything we’ve ever known. Trying to stand out, while simultaneously blending in.

To move to London is a very big and daunting move for anyone. But especially when you’re from a small town – and a small country. I mean to start with, there are 8.8 million people in London, compared to 3.1 million in the whole of Wales. So before anything else, it’s a bit busier, like.

And when you exchange the green, green grass of home for the grey, grey rush of London, it’s hard to figure out where you might fit in. As many who have created a new life in a new city know, finding your people takes time – especially when you’ve landed there alone.

My family and closest friends were still in Wales. My still-from-university, then-boyfriend was living away in Hull on his graduate scheme. I had a handful of uni friends who had also moved to London, but they were all scattered about the city. And although my cousin eventually moved up too, she was living on the opposite end of the Northern Line to me.

Everywhere I looked, people seemed to be busy tending to the patch of London they’d already grown and nurtured for themselves. Even my new housemates in the house share I’d moved into seemed too busy to ever be in the shared living room. For a long time, I felt lost and far too aware that I had swapped my comfort zone for Zone 3. And in that zone, there were no other Welsh accents to be found.

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Like many of us do, I looked to my first job to find my people. And really, there was no better place to be than at an early-stage startup that sold personalised dog food on the internet. The company had just had funding, and there were only about 50 people who worked there – all super interesting, super smart people in their 20s and 30s who’d joined this fast-paced environment to make an impact.

Throw in a pretty special company culture created by the co-founders, no remote-work and weekly Friday Beers on the company card, and it’s no wonder that many of the friends I made from that special time of our lives are still some of my closest friends today. One of them even became my husband.

Here, I was surrounded by brilliant people who’d been to Oxford, Cambridge and other top UK universities. People who, unlike me, had gone to university with intention, determination and a really good set of A Level results. Some people were like, award-winning data scientists who’d done PHDs, too. There was no doubt that I was completely out of my depth.

At one of the Friday Beers sessions, a guy from the marketing team asked me which school I’d gone to. I’d excitedly replied with, ‘Archbishop McGrath School in Bridgend! Why, do you know it?!’, not understanding that what he was actually asking was whether I’d been to one of the well-known private schools in England. He had not heard of my school.

Nevertheless, despite this obvious sticking out as a sore, practically dragon-tattooed thumb, I was very happy in this world. My job as Social Media Editor was to write and create engaging content for the brand. And I found that it came quite naturally to me. According to nearly every monthly performance audit I did, the most engaging content was simply: footage on Instagram Stories of the office dogs running around. So a lot of my time was spent crouched down on the floor, talking to dogs and trying to create a good story out of whatever they were doing.

Jokes that I felt I was in on started to be made. My job was the best job in the company (it was). My job was not a real job. My job was easy. My job was silly.

Whether this was true or not didn’t matter to me. As the youngest person in the company, the only person with a Welsh accent and this being my first ‘career’ job, I already felt like an imposter anyway. It didn’t matter that I was holding down the silliest job in the company – I was just so grateful to be in this brilliant, exciting new world. Writing articles, sending funny tweets and giving personalities to each of the office dogs was a pretty great way to spend 40 hours a week.

And the job suited my personality, too. I was chatty, silly and inquisitive. I took my unserious job seriously, and began getting asked to take on more writing tasks. I asked questions without thinking whether I might sound stupid for not already knowing the answer – and I asked them in my Welsh accent. Everyone seemed so unapologetically themselves, and there didn’t really seem to be a reason as to why I shouldn’t be too.

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Next year, it’ll be 10 years since I moved to London. In that time, I have found myself in rooms and have taken opportunities that the girl who squeezed herself, and all her belongings, into that little white Peugeot 107 would never have dared to imagine for herself.

After nearly two years, I left that brilliant startup to become European Copywriter at a tech company. Then I moved onto an advertising agency, then another startup, then two more startups and then another tech company. But of all the jobs in all the teams in all the companies, I am still yet to see another Welsh person walk into mine.

As I met more people and expanded my circles outside of work, I began to feel a lot more self-conscious. I was a copywriter now, so my job wasn’t the thing that was a bit of a novelty – but instead, my accent was becoming one.

I would meet new people and they would detect a not-from-around-here accent, and they would ask where I was from. I would say ‘Wales’, and they would roll out their best attempt at a Welsh accent (which somehow always sounds more like an Indian accent) and ask, ‘Oooh, you’re from Way-uls are yew?’ Yes. I just told you that.

Upon learning I was Welsh, people would tell me that they’d never been to Wales before, but that they loved Gavin & Stacey (understandably). Men would tell me that their mother loved Tom Jones, and that they used to really fancy Charlotte Church. Was I a good singer too, they’d ask? Could I pronounce that really long train station name? Could I do it for them now? And then finally and inevitably, did I shag sheep?

I would smile and laugh and make sure that the chip on my shoulder was never exposed. But it began to feel like I’d exposed myself. It was almost as if the very revelation that I was Welsh was an admission that I was not supposed to be there. I’d been caught out as an imposter, disguising myself to take the place of the person who was actually meant to be there. And now my game was up. Shit.

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Somewhere between getting bored of the same jokes and leaving conversations feeling like I now had to prove myself as deserving of the position I’d already earned, my accent slipped away. It became only really detectable by a little lilt, that got stronger if I was excited, angry or drunk. And when you work in advertising, you are quite often drunk.

At an agency party, I’d had a few wines and a creative director interrupted me mid-sentence to point at me and say, ‘God you sounded REALLY Welsh, then’. It wasn’t a compliment. Again, I felt embarrassed, but this time it wasn’t about sounding Welsh – it was about why I usually didn’t.

When you have an accent that’s not like everyone else’s in the rooms you’re in, you do draw attention to yourself. And it’s not always for the right reasons. At work, I don’t want to stand out for being the only Welsh person in the room. I want to stand out for being good at what I do. For being good at what I do, as well as being Welsh, instead of for being good at what I do, in spite of being Welsh. But the latter is often how it feels.

It feels like this when people repeat words you’ve just said to get a laugh. It feels like this when people tell you that the road signs are hilarious, and our words are so silly. When you’re asked if you grew up with electricity. When you’re asked if there’s internet in Wales yet. When you’re asked if you lived down a mine.

It also feels like this when your cousin’s boss tells her that he has to turn the transcription setting on for all their meetings, so that he can understand what she’s saying. And when your husband’s brother says that Welsh universities ‘don’t count’. And when your husband’s mother repeatedly refers to your family as the ‘Welsh mafia’, and tells your husband that he shouldn’t be with you because you’re just after their English money.

So when people tell me, ‘Oh, you don’t sound that Welsh,’ it makes my little Welsh heart hurt. I smile and say, ‘Aw, I know. But I’ve lived away from home for nearly 10 years now.’

But what I really want to say is, ‘I know. Isn’t it sad? It’s it so sad that the language of access and opportunity isn’t usually spoken with a Welsh accent? Isn’t it so sad that it’s basically been drilled into me that the more Welsh I do sound, the less seriously you’ll take me? So now that I seem to have lost my accent, maybe you could tell me where I could find it again?’

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Over the last year, I’ve noticed that my accent seems to have found its way back to me again. It still ebbs and flows depending on who I’m with. When I’m with my family, I hear it getting stronger after a few days. When I’m at work or with English friends, I hear it getting flatter, with clearer pronunciation. That’s just the way it flows.

But what’s different now is that I hear it more consistently sounding unmistakably Welsh. You could argue that this is because I’ve spent a great deal more time in Wales over the last year, what with getting married there and working remotely from there a lot more to spend time with family. You could also argue that it’s because my cousin and I now live 10 minutes away from each other in London, so we’re exposed to another Welsh accent a lot more.

But I think it’s more than that. The last two years have been a game changer for me. After being made redundant and things coming to a head between my husband and his parents in 2023, I took a maternity contract role that allowed us to step away from our lives and move to Amsterdam. It was the first time I’d taken a job because of the life that job could give me, rather than taking a job that could become my life.

There, away from our everyday lives, in a small walkable city full of expats with countless different backgrounds and accents, we found ourselves again. On a call with my then-boss, Sadira, I made a throwaway comment about being ‘too much’ in relation to how excited I was about a project. She stopped me mid-sentence, and said, ‘Too much? If anything, I want more of you.’ I had never heard anything like that at work in my life. I burst into tears.

Together with my husband, I picked up the pieces of my shattered confidence, and unravelled a significant amount of tangled opinions about myself that had never belonged to me in the first place. I stopped doing the things I thought I should be doing. I started doing the things I wanted to be doing. And over time, I heard my accent start to come back.

A few months later, I was organising a Copywriters Unite event at the bar across the road from our flat. One evening, my husband and I were cycling down the street adjacent to ours, and I noticed a design agency. I got off my bike, and knocked on the door. ‘Hiya!’, I said. ‘Sorry to just knock out of the blue, but I’m organising an event next week for writers and creatives to meet up and just chat about all things words. It’s just around the corner, so thought I’d pop in and see if you fancied it?’

The three men in the room just looked at me, until one of them said, ‘Oh, are you Welsh?’ And I said, ‘Uh, yeah! Are you?’ About a minute later, I’d established that two of the three men were Welsh, and one of their mothers lived about 20 minutes away from mine. A week later, we were watching Wales beat Georgia in the Rugby World Cup at a sports bar across the city. I was so glad my accent had be there, ready and waiting to be noticed again.

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We’re back in London now, and though I spend most of my days with my English husband, our English friends and my English co-workers, my Welsh accent is still with me.

This English husband of mine is the first man I’ve ever loved who has made me feel completely at home in who I am. Not once has he made me feel like I’m not enough. Not once has he made me feel like I’m too much, either. And he fiercely defends me from those who do.

For too long of a time, I let my insecurities about needing to blend in and needing to prove myself take my accent away from me. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence that since I’ve stopped carrying the weight of the opinions from people who make me feel small, I’ve found more success and happiness in my career, too.

It’s a weird thing, an accent. I never thought it would mean so much to me. But our accents are quite literally the voice of our identities and our heritage – and I couldn’t be any more proud of mine. The person I am today is stitched together by everything I’ve ever known and done, and my accent and I have done a lot of wandering in that time. But not all accents that wander are lost. And I don’t plan on losing mine again.

At the end of every calendar month, there is this magical moment where my bank balance restores itself to where it was before I spent four weeks paying boring bills, buying yet another pair of trainers and simply existing on this planet in this exhausting financial climate. For a brief moment, I feel financially competent. This feeling does not last long.

Most months, within approximately 2-3 business days of this magical moment, a WhatsApp group chat will be created by a well-meaning woman I have never met, followed by a request to fling her a minimum of £100 to make sure we give [insert soon-to-be-married-friend’s name] the best weekend everrrrrrr. I bow to the peer pressure, the friendship guilt and the FOMO and I say goodbye to the fleeting moment of financial competency. I fling the money, not knowing where it will go (or where I will go, for that matter), what it will do or how much more of it will be asked of me in the upcoming months.

This routine has gone on for the majority of my mid to late twenties, and will continue to go on for the majority of my thirties, too – until the divorce wave hits and we begin again. I am, of course, talking about the inescapable concept of The Hen Weekend.

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The Hen Weekend is always well int(h)ended. Traditionally, hen parties (note: not full weekends) started off a fun send off for a bride-to-be, as she entered the institution of marriage. Back in Ancient Greece, the day before the marriage was known as the proaulia, where the bride, her mother and other women in her life would make offerings and sacrifices to appease the gods who might see fit to ruin the day – especially Artemis, the goddess of chastity and childbirth. Not very nice of her, really.

These days, for many Western couples, the transition from unmarried to married now involves less change than it used to. In many cases, couples will have been living together in a place of their own for a good few years before marriage is even on the cards. In 2022, 22.7% of couples in England and Wales were living together without being married or in a civil partnership.

So these days, The Hen Weekend is less of a send off or sacrifice (imagine), and more of moment to celebrate yet another brilliant, wonderful woman in your life – along with all the other brilliant, wonderful women in hers. It’s a lovely concept, really, that should make The Hen Weekend should be a thing of joy. And yet so often, it’s not.

A lot of hens end up being a weekend of far too much organised fun, in weird accommodation, packed with a schedule of things the bride-to-be would never do on a normal weekend – some of which even make her uncomfortable.

A friend told me they’d ended up sleeping in a child’s bunk bed in a room with four strangers, one of who moaned in her sleep. Another said they’d stayed in the husband-to-be’s grandmother’s old country house, which had no running water or indoor toilets. And another told me of a hen where a naked butler turned up with no agenda or games, wearing only a pinafore and sliders that were two sizes too small for him, really showcasing and his long toenails. I am sure there are far worse stories. Please tell me them in the comments.

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I know of hens where the costs get too high, so fringe friends (the more casual friends you only see occasionally, or only know through someone else) are invited later on in the planning process to make up the numbers to bring the cost down for everyone else. I’ve definitely been the recipient of a Hen Fringevitation, and that’s fine. In a way, it was flattering. But in another way, it was a request to finance a hen I didn’t want to go on. So I just said no.

It’s these things that have historically put me off attending hens, or ever really wanting one of my own. In my early twenties, the hens I was invited to were those of mainly older friends or relatives. And they all seemed to follow the same format: pick a city in the UK, spend a load of money on a bottomless brunch at a venue with a sticky floor and head out in pink feather boas, ‘L’ plates and then end up in a Pitcher & Piano, with one of your party throwing up and another in tears. At one point, I had a blanket hen ban where I automatically just said no to hens unless the hen in question was a very close friend. This ban once nearly caused a family rift when I declined an invitation to an ex-boyfriend’s brother’s fiancée’s hen. I just didn’t have a spare £350 (or any spare desire) to spend on a weekend in Nottingham.

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When it came to getting married myself, I was initially very against the idea of having a hen. For starters, my husband and I eloped without really telling anyone. We did things pretty backwards, doing the legal (but very fun) bit first, followed by a ‘We Got Married’ celebration exactly one year later. We didn’t really think about hens or stags until our friends started mentioning it. ‘Oh but you’ve GOT to!’ they said. ‘Come on, it’d be so much fun!’ they said. The boys seemed to be more excited than the girls, actually – they were all practically begging for an excuse to get together for a boys’ holiday. But also, for an excuse to celebrate their excellent friend.

My friends and family felt the same too. They wanted to celebrate me, and the life I’d already built, and had now committed to, with my husband. It still felt a bit silly to me, and I couldn’t shake off the discomfort that this celebration was only happening because I’d decided to legally bind myself to a man for the rest of my life. There are so many other milestones in a woman’s life that deserve the same spotlight, like moving to a new city, buying a flat alone, leaving an unhappy relationship, quitting a job, getting out of debt or writing a book. When you find the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, it can indeed feel as though at last, everything has fallen into place. (From experience, I can safely say it’s the best feeling ever.) But, we are so much more than our relationships, and women need to be taught that actually, they’re not the be-all and end-all.

In the end, my husband and I figured that life’s too short (and too hard) to not to grab onto every chance to celebrate the best bits with our best people. After a turbulent few years with my husband’s family, we’d been forced to navigate some pretty tricky waters together. Along the way, we’d discovered that sometimes, it’s your chosen family who can make you feel the most loved, seen and supported. It’s the relationships you make, choose and work hard at for yourself that matter most – whether it’s friends who become family or even family who become friends. And so we decided that we wanted to scoop up those magical people, and use this time of celebratory love to just bask in it all some more.

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So, on brand as ever for the both of us, Jonny enlisted his best man, Joe, to organise his stag, very happy to be entirely surprised and unaware of any plans whatsoever. But given my existing thoughts and experiences on hens, the fact we’d already got married and my inescapable inner control freak, I had no desire to ask any unpaid labour or additional stress of any of my friends. Nearly every woman in my life is bursting at the seams right now, whether it’s with work stresses, family demands, relationship woes – or just the reality of trying to function in a life that keeps you feeling like you’re always one step behind everyone else. So I decided I’d organise it myself, arranging all transport and accommodation, planning themes and activities, banning all penis straws and insisting on no surprises at all – instead wanting it to be a celebration of the female friendships and relationships that got me to where I am today.

So alongside wedding planning, moving to, and then back from, Amsterdam, planning a wedding, starting a new job and then moving house – I got stuck in. I mean, when you’re already stressed, what’s one more thing to chuck on the burning pile of chaos?

I settled on Fréjus in the South of France, because it’s my favourite place in the world, where I’ve spent months of my life with family and friends, thanks to the caravan my grandparents have had there since before I was born. I wanted to show my special place to my special people, give them a holiday and be somewhere familiar where things would feel easy – especially if things didn’t go to plan. Also, there was a great deal on a villa with a pool that overlooked the sea.

I invited my closest female friends, my mum, my cousins, my aunties, both of my grandmothers (that’s Nannie and Granny to you) and of course, my own best man, Tom. The youngest of us was 24. The oldest was 80. I’d already introduced the majority of these people to each other at previous birthdays, nights out and dinners, which meant for the most part, people slotted into a vibe of picking up where they left off with someone they at least already kind of knew. Together, everyone formed the best group of humans to have ever existed. No nervous vibes. No tension. No drama. It felt like five days of total escapism from all our life’s worries and woes.

I planned an itinerary and sent it to the group chat beforehand, making sure everyone knew they could opt in and out of whatever they wanted – safe in the knowledge that they were also entirely entitled to spend their days sitting by the pool reading, if they so wished. I set up payment plans that felt affordable for all, covering accommodation, food and drink. We were also all organised enough to bag the cheap EasyJet flights as soon as they were released. The whole trip was just under a year in the making.

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We spent our days by the pool, on the beach and on one day trip to Cannes. Each night (not the day) had a loose theme for outfits. We had French Riviera Chic (so like, stripes), All In Orange (as an ode to a very special pair of shoes I once spent too much money on), Barbie (just… pink) Taylor Swift (something that resembled your favourite era, or just the one you’d heard of). My cousin Sally even hand printed (!!!) ‘Who is Emily Powell anyway? Ew.’ t-shirts for all of us. These outfits were donned for a variety of activities hosted by my gorgeous and talented friends. We had quizzes, dinners, karaoke and funhinged wine tasting (more on that later) that left us all laughing until we cried. I banned hen paraphernalia, but Abi, my cousin and maid of honour, did not listen.

When I got back, I spent most of the next working day wiping away tears of joy at how unbelievably lucky I felt to have such truly incredible women in my life. The quest for another reason to do it all again is still ongoing.

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WHAT WE DID

DAY ONE

On day one of the hen (Wednesday 29th May, to be exact), two flights of hens landed at Nice airport. One came from London carrying the early girlies, and the other from Bristol carrying the Welsh Mafia – my family and friends from home.

Us early girlies touched down, dropped our luggage at the villa, marvelled at the view and headed down the hill to the beach for an immediate lunch (with immediate rosé) by the sea. We then headed back up the hill (with less ease) to meet the Welsh Mafia and to get our tired brains into the pool, complete with inflatable flamingos (another excellent surprise from Abi), more rosé, crisps and a nostalgic ‘Em’s Hen’ Spotify playlist we’d all spent the last few weeks contributing to. My friend Katie had her first taste of ‘quality pool time’ which in hindsight, was the opening ceremony of her spending more time IN the pool for the five days than she did out of it.

Our theme for the evening was French Riviera Chic, so we all got dolled up in blue, white, red, stripes and sunglasses (obvs) for an Aperol Jonny Knapperol Spritz hour, followed by a wine and cheese night, with a hilarious quiz from Katie – which led into singing and dancing around the table until we literally couldn’t keep our eyes (or mouths) open any longer.

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DAY TWO

The second day of the hen was quite possibly best day of my life, to the point where I had a cry in the pool after realising that future days might not get better than this. We had fully charged social batteries. We had more aperols in the pool. We discovered that bowls of crisps float in the pool. We had flamingo races. Everyone was in their best silly billy girlie forms, forming deeper bonds that then ran through the rest of the trip.

Our day was meant to include a Whispering Angel vineyard tour, but upon realising that it would cost us over £800 just to get there in taxis and ubers, we scrapped that idea and my gorgeous friends/comedians Katie and Sanya offered to do it instead – despite having no knowledge about wine whatsoever.

What ensued was the funniest thing I have ever experienced. They Deliverooed wine to our villa and set about fabricating lies, jokes and fake wine traditions for a two hour long sketch as French sommeliers (complete with moustaches, beards and inaccurate accents). We tasted good rosé, we tasted bad rosé. We debated pale rosé and dark rosé. We all laughed so hard until we cried (I actually thought I was going to be sick) and I can safely say it was the greatest Plan B of all time.

For the night, our theme was orange: my favourite colour. I have loved this colour for a long time, but it was solidified as my favourite after I bought a gorgeous pair of orange shoes because they reminded me of my friend Elsie – bright, bold and beautiful. They were from Russell & Bromley and are still, to this day, the most money I’ve ever spent on footwear.

Somehow, my husband’s mother heard about this purchase, and it became another item on her infinite list of reasons as to why I wasn’t good enough for her son. She started telling the mothers of his friends about just how much of her son’s money I’d spent on them (a number exaggerated with every version of this story we heard from someone else) and as such, they became a bit of a legendary item within my close circles – eventually becoming a mascot for never ever letting anyone steal your sunshine. I wore them on my wedding day and dedicated the branding of this newsletter to them, too.

And for the record, reader, I spent my own, hard-earned money on those shoes – and then made that money back by renting them out on ByRotation.

So, with me in the shoes and everyone else in orange outfits, we took our sunshine mindsets down to the beach for dinner where we ate excellent food by the sea, drank more pale rosé, paddled our feet in the water and laughed our heads off again. We came home, sang songs and danced until the early hours again. A perfect day. A perfect reminder to never let anyone dull your brightness, and to never let other people’s comments, opinions and judgements affect how you feel about yourself.

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DAY THREE

Day three of the hen was the day we (ok, the Swifties) were all waiting for. It was Taylor Swift day.

Before we all went full Swiftie, half of us donned our red carpet best and jumped on the train to Cannes, where we wandered the old town, sipped some more aperols and had a free round of shots given to us by the owner who heard it was my hen, and took a special liking to my gran. We took in the views, ate lunch on the cobbled streets of the old town, downed one last rosé before our train and headed back to join the more introverted of the gang who’d stayed at the villa to recharge their social batteries, splashing about in the pool and practising their dives. In silence, I think.

When we got back, we changed into outfits that represented our favourite Taylor Swift eras, ready for my fabulous friend Poppy’s epic Swiftie quiz, with performances of favourite songs from those who won rounds and points. My friend Alice and I recreated the time we ‘popped in’ to a karaoke bar in Amsterdam to down one drink, sing ‘Mean’ and leave immediately. My cousins Abi and Sally, and my Auntie Ceri (their mum) sang ‘London Boy’ because it’s Ceri’s favourite Taylor song. Sanya, Alice, my mum and Nannie sang ‘I Knew You Were Trouble’, despite Alice being the only one who knew any of the words. Sally and I screamed ‘Cruel Summer’. We all sang ‘Love Story’. It was glorious.

We ate dinner, Poppy hosted a karaoke night with incredible High School Musical performances from herself and my cousin Olivia. We played card games until 3am and then Alice, Tom and Sally stayed up smoking in the hot tub until 7:30 to watch the sunrise, with Alice asking my Auntie Ceri if she could make her another G&T as she was ‘already up’ making coffee. Needless to say, they weren’t very well the next day.

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DAY FOUR

On our final full day of the hen (and final night), we sacked off the original plan to head to the market in favour of lazing by the pool and the beach. Our social batteries were low, our cumulative hangovers were heavy and our ability to string thoughts and sentences together had disappeared. It was a perfect day of lazing, giggling and just existing together.

And to really go out with a bang, our final theme was Barbie – because it was a) easy and b) had dominated so many of the conversations we’d all had since the film came out. I’d seen it in the cinema with my cousins Abi and Sally, and we (ok, mainly me) had all sobbed through the nostalgia and girlhood of it all. It felt like a perfect theme for all of us to celebrate the joy of girlhood, what it is to be a woman through the good, the bad and the ugly.

Just before we went out, Abi revealed that she truly had broken the ‘no surprises’ rule, and broke out a laptop that played an ‘I’m Just Ken’ music video she’d asked Jonny to make, featuring Jonny, his friends, and men from all corners of my life (including my dad, uncles and my Pappy). We all watched it together and died laughing. I don’t think I have ever been so shocked and surprised and overwhelmed.

For our final night, I took my Vampire’s Wife dress from our Vegas wedding out for a second spin (had to get that cost per wear down somehow, didn’t I?) and took everyone down to the port in Fréjus, where I’ve spent countless nights with family and friends over my thirty years. It was so special to bring everyone together in the place I’d loved for so long. Elsie staged an impromptu photoshoot on the carousel I used to beg to go on as a child. At a cocktail bar, Sanya asked everyone to share a funhinged and an earnest memory of me. Some of them made me cry. Some of them made me cry laughing. Some of them will never be repeated outside of our hen safe space.

It was the perfect end to the perfect hen, with the most perfect group of women that teenage Emily could never have imagined being lucky enough to end up surrounded by. Coming home, I felt so full of love and spent the next week at work in and out of happy tears.

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MY 10 RULES FOR PLANNING A HEN

So after all that, I had some thoughts. There are things I’m glad I did, and things I should’ve done. Planning the whole thing was A Lot. But planning it myself meant that no one else had to second guess what I wanted, no one had to navigate conversations with people they didn’t really know that well and no one had to add an extra dollop of stress or worry onto their already full plates on my behalf.

In the end, I think everyone had a pretty good time (I mean, they said they did). People went home with their hearts full, their tans topped up and their stress levels slightly reduced. And that was all I really wanted.

So based on a decade of attending hens, and now having organise my own one myself, here are my rules – based entirely on my own thoughts and opinions. Don’t come for me. But do let me know your thoughts, too.

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1. COMMUNICATE ENOUGH, BUT NOT TOO MUCH

No one needs another WhatsApp group, really. Especially one with 18 people in it. But when people are parting with time, money and energy – they should know where that time, money and energy is going.

So tell people what you’re planning, and tell them what they’re paying for. Figure out costs up front so people know what they’re committing to. And please don’t just request £60 on a random Tuesday in the middle month for ‘activities’ without further context. People need to budget, ok!

Sharing information and plans in advance will also get people excited and maybe get a few vibes going in the chat ahead of the big weekend, too. And it’ll make things a lot nicer for the bride-to-be if she feels like everyone’s already getting on.

2. CREATE PAYMENT PLANS

Hen weekends are getting expensive. Mine was in the South of France but somehow, still worked out cheaper than other UK hens I’ve been on. Times are tough, everyone has different financial circumstances and priorities and, as I said earlier, people need to know where their money’s going.

If you plan in advance and figure out all the numbers, you can create payment plans to make the weekend feel as affordable as possible. Nominate someone as treasurer (my mum was mine) to manage the finances and figure out a monthly amount that works best for everyone. We did £50 a month. And as we all reasoned when we arrived in the South of France, paying for it monthly and ahead of time meant that it was then technically free. Thanks, girl math.

3. ASK THE BRIDE TO PAY FOR HERSELF

This is probably going to be an unpopular opinion. But ultimately, if you want to have a hen weekend that’s ultimately set up to be all about you, and you’re asking your friends to part with time, money and probably annual leave – I think you should pay your own way too. Especially if you’re also asking someone to organise it for you. There is no other scenario where you’d expect someone to pay for your place, and I don’t see why you making the decision to get married should warrant it.

People spend a fortune on attending weddings as it is. From travel and accommodation to gifts and outfits – a summer of attending weddings is enough to significantly impact your financial situation. If your hen weekend costs £350 per person, an extra £350 coming from the bride can mean you either all have more money to play with and benefit from, or it can cost everyone a little bit less.

On my hen, I paid the same as everyone else for flights, accommodation and a little extra to top up the general fun fund. There were only a few things I didn’t contribute to – and that’s only because everyone insisted I didn’t. On our day out in Cannes, the girls insisted on paying for my lunch. And on our last night, they insisted on paying for my meal, too. I argued against it, but I was overruled and actually, it was such a lovely gesture.

4. BE REALLY CLEAR WITH ROLES AND RESPONSIBILITIES

During the hen planning, the people pleaser, perfectionist and control freak in my met up, joined forces and took over. Not a great combo, really. I initially didn’t ask anyone to do anything with the planning and then when I realised I probably needed to, I was too into the detail to be able to delegate anything properly.

That said, I asked my mum to be treasurer, which meant she was in charge of all things gathering money and spending it, too. The girls who wanted to ‘host’ something were all given an evening each, which meant they were free to plan quizzes, karaoke and (impromptu) wine tasting. Ahead of the weekend, we created a shopping list and assigned cooking and clean-up duties out evenly, so that everyone did their bit. A hurdle for us was that I hadn’t been clear on who would do the shop on the day we got there, so we wasted time and when the girls who did go volunteered, it meant they missed out on prime pool time.

I guess the takeaway is this: if you need someone to do something, be upfront with what you need them to do and when they need to do it. On a good hen with good people, you’re very unlikely to find anyone who won’t want to pitch in and do their bit.

5. PITCH IN

On that same note, if you’re not a person who has a specific clear role, you should still pitch in. This isn’t even just about hens – it’s about all holidays or group outings. Does something need cleaning up? Do it. Did someone forget to organise transport? Find options. Does the person who is in charge of organising something need a hand? Help them. Has a plan gone wrong? Figure out solutions. You’re all in this together, and you just really don’t want to be that person who sat around doing nothing, not pulling their weight. Everyone will notice.

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6. REMEMBER THAT YOU PROBABLY DON’T KNOW EVERYONE YOU’RE INVITING

Ok this one wasn’t applicable to me. It would’ve been weird if I’d invited people I didn’t know. But if you’re planning a hen for someone else, chances are that you don’t know every single person on the bride’s guest list. Find out answers to questions like whether there are any dietary requirements, health restrictions, allergies, disabilities, preferences etc. Try to get to know them as best as you’re able to ahead of the big weekend, and plan things that work for the majority – with options for those who don’t want to (or can’t) always go with the flow. Not everyone wants to spend three hours learning a dance routine to a Spice Girls song.

7. INVOLVE PEOPLE ENOUGH, BUT NOT TOO MUCH

If you’re organising the hen on behalf of the bride, lucky you. This probably means she trusts you the most to get this right. That said, the bride is likely to have invited women from many different corners of her life to her hen. And chances are, some of these women know the bride in a different context to you – and this should help you shape your plan.

For example, maybe the bride did love going to Revolutions for flights of vodka shots when you were both 18 and living at home, but maybe she doesn’t anymore now that she’s 30 and living in London. Consult those who can give you snapshots of different times of her life, and weave those insights together to make decisions that feel fully reflective of what she might actually want to do.

Remember that you’re also asking people to spend a lot of time and a lot of money on this weekend. So give them the opportunity to input on what you all do together. Share details. Get people excited. Let people feel that they’ve shaped this epic weekend in some small way.

8. DON’T PACK THE SCHEDULE WITH TOO MANY ACTIVITIES

There always seems to be a temptation with hens to plan for every minute. And while having activities and specific events over the course of a weekend is great to bring everyone together, too many can be exhausting – especially if they’re all compulsory. Chances are, you’ll be a mixture of introverts and extroverts, so if people want to go off and have an hour or so to themselves, let them. At one point on my hen, my friend Sanya sat in the hot tub reading her kindle alone. At another point, half of the group decided they didn’t want to get the train to Cannes, so they just hung out by the pool instead. Flexibility is key to joy, I think. As is giving women the freedom to relax.

And when choosing activities, maybe ask yourself (on behalf of everyone else), ‘would we actually ever really want to do this in real life?’ Who knows, maybe all 18 of you usually spend your weekends making penis pottery. But if you don’t, it’s probably best to keep things fun, but (mainly) relatively normal. Remember, people are spending their hard-earned money on this.

9. DON’T TAKE FANCY DRESS TOO FAR

I saw a post on Instagram recently where a theme on one night of a hen weekend was ‘Rixo dresses’. You know, those dresses that cost like, £200 each. Insane. If you’re doing themes or fancy dress, try to make it as accessible as possible, choosing things that could easily be created by something already owned, or easily found on Vinted. Then, those who want to spend, can. And those who don’t want to, don’t need to. Trust me, your pals will thank you later.

10. DON’T MAKE IT ALL ABOUT DRINKING

Easier said than done, I know. My hen was very much centred around drinking rosé, because we were in the South of France (duh). It was also very centred around Aperol Spritzes too, because they’re orange and also I love them.

But I’d like to think that it was still a good environment for those on the hen who weren’t drinking, too – and that’s important. Try to keep things so that those who aren’t drinking can still very much be involved and enjoy the vibe. Oh, and if someone’s not drinking (or is clearly pretending to drink, even) – don’t go asking them why they’re not. It’s none of your damn business.

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That’s it. That’s everything I know about planning my own hen, and the 10 rules I’d live by if I was doing again. Which I’m not. I’ve decided that planning my own hen means I’m exempt from being tasked with planning anyone else’s. How sneaky of me.

The five days I spent on my hen are up there with the best days of my life so far. It really was phenomenal. But that wasn’t because of the planning or the organising or the tiny little details (though all of that helped, of course). Really, it was because all of the women (and the one best man) who showed up for me are some of the greatest people I could ever have dreamed of knowing. And what an unbelievable privilege that is.

You’ve probably seen it already. That clip of four men laughing at a joke while a woman tries, and fails, to interject with her own lived perspective as to why actually, it’s not really a laughing matter. Maybe you haven’t seen the clip. Maybe you just recognise that scene as something that’s played out in your own life before.

The clip I’m talking about went a little something like this. Denzel Washington, Paul Mescal, Eddie Redmayne and Saoirse Ronan are sat on Graham Norton’s chat show sofa, as Eddie Redmayne is telling a story about the self-defence training he had to do for his recent TV series, Day of the Jackal. He goes on to say that in one part of his training, he was shown how to use his phone as a weapon if attacked. The response from Graham Norton, Denzel Washington and Paul Mescal is that of ridicule and hilarity, with Mescal interjecting to jump off the story and into an impromptu bit of his own, asking the sofa, ‘Who’s actually going to do that, though?’ Norton joins in, Washington laughs along. Saoirse Ronan, however, is not laughing.

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As Ronan attempts to interject, she’s talked over, laughed over and ignored, as the men continue to joke about other possible self-defence tactics. After a while, she raises her voice and cuts through with. ‘That’s what girls have to think about all the time.’ Mescal reacts with a little shrug that says, ‘Oh. Well. Ok.’ The men fall into awkward silence, as they’re either embarrassed by their own ignorance or simply, don’t know what to say. Unsurprisingly, the onus of lifting said awkward silence falls on the woman. Ronan lifts it and puts the men ease again with a lighthearted call to arms from the audience, ‘Am I right, ladies?’ Yes, yes she is.

This prompts a huge applause from the audience, and has received the online equivalent, too. In just a few seconds, Saoirse Ronan summed up a universal female experience: that if the thing that happened to you didn’t happen to a man, he’s not really going to take it seriously.

And as demonstrated by the calibre of the men on that sofa who forgot to check their privilege, (or ignored it for the sake of landing a joke as part of a ‘bit’), even the the nicest of guys can be short-sighted and ignorant. After all, she was with some of Hollywood’s most unproblematic, universally loved men. Men who we look at and assume probably ‘get it’ more than most.

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But even the nicest of guys don’t get it. The nicest of guys still don’t have a clue about the reality of navigating life as a woman. The mental gymnastics we have to just to leave our homes. To not wear heels that clip clop too loudly. To not wear anything that’ll draw too much attention. To keep our keys in our pockets, in case we need to use them. To keep our headphones in our ears so we don’t invite unwanted conversation, but to not be playing anything through them so we can still hear everything around us to stay vigilant. To share our locations with our loved ones on Find My Friends – just in case.

And it’s the ‘just in case’ that gets me. Because it’s no longer only, 'just in case someone abducts me on the way home’. It’s also, ‘just in case I my mother and I get stabbed in Leicester Square in broad daylight’. It’s, ‘just in case I get found dead with multiple injuries in my own home.’ It’s, ‘just in case I’m coerced into a car and raped by two men’. It’s, ‘just in case my husband of over 50 years drugs me, rapes me and advertises me on the internet for over 50 men (some of them, I know) to come to my home and rape me while I am unconscious’.

The men on that sofa all thought the concept of having to think about using a phone as a self-defence object was hilarious. But this is prime example of, ‘just because you’re not part of the problem, you’re not automatically part of the solution’. The nicest of guys will listen to all the examples of when you, as a woman, have experienced violence towards you because of your gender and they’ll say, ‘Wow, that’s mad. I can’t believe that happened to you. I didn’t know that was something women had to think about.’ Well now you do. So what are you going to do about it?

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Hello. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? It’s been three months since my last post, to be exact, and my hair has grown about three inches in that time, too. I’m practically a new woman.

Like a school child missing a science class for a flute lesson, I feel as though I should apologise for my absence. I didn’t exactly leave Substack, but I did press pause on my personal writing as the day job got busier and more intense, and a number of massive life things ate away at the time, energy and brain power I’d previously been dedicating to this newsletter. It has, quite possibly, been the busiest three months of my life.

During this three month hiatus from the ‘stack, I:

• Moved back to London from Amsterdam

• Turned 30

• Single-handedly planned, organised and went on my hen (five days in the South of France with 18 epic women, hello)

• Double-handedly planned, organised and hosted our wedding celebration (a four day weekend with 130 in in West (Best) Wales, which included a sports day on the beach, too)

• Went to Glastonbury (two days after our wedding, with four of our closest friends)

• Moved (again) from West London to North London (two weeks after returning from Glastonbury)

• Marked six months at my no-longer-new job

• Finally saw Taylor Swift on the Eras tour

I told you I’d been busy.

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I’ve missed writing this newsletter but over the last few months of, frankly, insanity, it’s felt impossible to carve out the time and brain space needed to write at all, let alone well. But although I haven’t published any posts during my three month hiatus, my Notes app has truly taken a beating. So over the next few weeks and months, I’ll be back to sharing essays and debriefs of thoughts, feelings and opinions on the aforementioned massive life things, plus other bits, too. I have more brilliant interviews with more brilliant people lined up, and Vibe Checks will be back, too. If you’ve been here a while, you’ll know what to expect. If you’re new around here (I know I’ve had quite a few referrals and new subscribers during my quiet period, so hi and hello – I’m usually a lot louder than this!), I’m excited to show you what Hurdling is all about.

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But to get things moving again, let’s talk about… moving again. On Easter bank holiday weekend, we packed up nine month’s worth of Amsterdam life into our car and drove it back to West London. And then in June (three weeks after our wedding), we packed up four year’s worth of our London life into several car trips and two massive moving van trips and moved it all to North London. It was wildly stressful, to say the least, but I guess it’s as the saying goes, ‘Move me once, shame on you. Move me twice, shame on me.’

Our decision to move (again) was driven by a desire for a change and a reset. While we’d loved our West London life, we’d moved to Amsterdam in search of distance from the things in our life that were making us unhappy, a new routine and a change of scenery. While we were still out there, we concluded that we might be able to satisfy those same desires in our old city by just moving to a different part of it. Because that’s the thing about London – it’s basically just a load of big towns, all stuck next to each other.

So we did, and we’ve swapped a bigger flat in a somewhat residential and suburban area for a smaller flat in a younger, more exciting area. Living in the heart of the Jordaan in Amsterdam made me realise how the majority of my problems can be solved by living an 82 second walk from a great coffee shop, a pub, an epic sandwich shop and an overpriced grocery store. And somehow, we’ve managed to find another flat in North London that gives us this exact setup again. We now have a garden, new places to explore – and we live closer to loads of our closest friends. It is completely perfect. There’s just one big hurdle. We have too much stuff.

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When Jonny moved in with me, we sort of just managed to squeeze and combine all our furniture and things into our old flat, which was bigger and very generous on storage. But we’ve downsized to a smaller place that’s less generous on storage, which means that a gigantic possessions cull has had to take place, forcing us (me) into a new era of ruthlessness with what we (I) keep, sell and donate. It feels very unnatural to me, a sentimental hoarder who still holds onto teenage birthday cards.

Along with parting with things I never thought I’d part with, this mammoth task of sorting through my possessions has forced me to confront my relationship with money and purchasing habits. For as long as I’ve had a bank account, I’ve spent all that was in there. I started my first ever job at 16 (as a Topshop girl, no less), and almost immediately, I could’ve broken records for how fast I’d spend it all (usually before I’d even left the shop after my shift had ended). I’ve never feared overdrafts or credit cards, seeing my available balance as more like a gift card to use up and spend before it expires. I have always ended up with too much month at the end of my money.

And so, I’ve taken stock of all these things I’ve spent money on over the years, filling up a flat. I have endless prints in frames, bought to fill walls just because there was a space to fill. I have endless mugs, bought on whims in Anthropologie because I’d had a bad day at work and needed a dopamine hit at lunchtime. I have scarves in every colour and print, bought to match coats in every colour and print. I have books I’ve never read, bought because everyone else was reading them. I have vases, trinkets, pots and decorative dishes and trays, bought as another colour option to change up a room.

And then there’s the clothes.

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When we moved to Amsterdam, I only took what I needed. I filled one big suitcase and one carry on suitcase with a capsule collection of clothes to take me through the four seasons that fell between August to April. I was picky about coats and jackets. I was choosy about jeans and trousers. I was fussy about tops and jumpers. I put everything else in storage, filling up IKEA Dimpa bags (which for £3.50, is one of the greatest moving purchases you can make) with things that didn’t make the cut. I told myself that there was a reason they didn’t make the cut, and that when we moved back to London, I would have a huge cull. Reader, I filled twelve IKEA Dimpa storage bags. And I procrastinated from that cull when we moved back, meaning that I moved those bags with my into our new, smaller flat – and proceeded to be drowned by them for weeks.

But last week, the cull began. What started as a hopeful mission to achieve a level of catharsis never seen before, actually ended up in a big reality check – and in tears, too.

I sorted through things bought and never worn, still with the tags on. Skirts bought with the intention of becoming a new, cooler person. Dresses bought to try and convince others (and myself) that I should be taken seriously at work as a young woman. Jeans bought to try and incentivise myself into losing weight in order to fit into them. Tops bought as a, ‘well, when you finally have a breast reduction, you’ll be able to wear this’ and finally feel good about myself. An absurd amount of bikinis bought in the hope that ‘this one’ will make me hate myself less as I walk anxiously into the sea, covering up myself and the bikini anyway.

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Up until very recently, my clothing purchases would go a little something like this. An event would come up and I would find myself filled with dread. What will I wear? Who else is going? What will they wear? Oh god, I’m going to look like the ugliest, biggest person there. People are going to talk about me, aren’t they? Ok, buying something new will surely solve it? Cue an ASOS order of more black tops and dresses, never to be worn and never to be returned, piling up on ‘the chair’ as a visual representation of failure in more ways than one.

There are also clothes I’ve held onto for sentimental reasons. I seem to remember events and feelings with clarity through clothes. Ask me a question about when I went somewhere with someone and I’ll stare at you blankly. Show me a top and I’ll be able to tell you where I wore it, who I was with, exactly what happened and how I felt. I can even tell you exactly how much an item cost and where I was when I bought it.

I turned 30 feeling more at peace with myself and more at home in my body than ever before. I now feel more confident, more settled and more empowered to make choices based on who I am, not who I think I should be. And clothes-wise, I think I’ve finally figured out which shapes and styles work for my body, so I dress for the body I have, not for the one I wish I had, and now feel a lot more comfortable existing in it every day.

I think I’ll forever mourn my twenties and how I spent them hunching my shoulders to feel smaller, buying clothes that never got worn, and not understanding that just because I felt I wasn’t enough for myself – it didn’t mean I wouldn’t be enough for everyone else.

And so we move onwards. This big cull has been a big lesson in learning to live with less in order to find more. I am finally parting with clothes and household items that for years, I’d kept ‘just in case’ or for unnecessary sentimental reasons (there’s a difference between ‘it reminds my of my grandfather’ and ‘but I once dropped a whole box of chicken outside Chickloand Swansea in that top’.) Both my husband and I feel like we have more space, more clarity and more of a desire to do things rather than have them.

Over the next few weeks, more and more of these clothes will going onto Vinted. I’ve promised myself that any money I make will only go to smarter, more mindful purchases or towards future experiences – not collecting things to fill my confidence void and the limited storage space we have. You can see my things on Vinted here, but prepare yourself for a further onslaught of uploads over the next few weeks.

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Thanks for waiting for me during this three month break. It’s so good to be back writing, and I can’t wait to share more with you.

Love,

Em

Back in 2009, I was a 15 year old girl who knew nothing of love or heartbreak. I lived a simple life with simple joys in South Wales. That was, until I read David Nicholls’ third novel, One Day, the story that visits Emma Morley and Dexter Mayhew and their lives, friendship and eventual love on St Swithin’s Day for twenty years. It’s the finest will-they-won’t-they story of them all and I can so vividly remember sitting in my bed reading and re-reading the line that told us of Emma’s fate, frantically pleading with the pages that I had somehow read it wrong. I hadn’t, and for years I was unable to forgive Nicholls for this first shattering of my heart.

This year, I turn 30 and the story has been turned into a 14-episode Netflix series with Ambika Mod and Leo Woodall. Despite the pain I knew it would inflict again, I watched the show with my husband last week. He hadn’t read the book or seen the film and had no idea what was to come. You will not be surprised to learn that I am banned from riding my bike for the foreseeable future.

But there was something that shocked me more than Em’s fate when I watched this new adaptation. Although I had always seen so much of myself in the character of Em, watching the Netflix series threw a big jolt of realisation into my already shattered heart (thanks again, David Nicholls). In my own friendship-turned-great-love story, it was actually Dexter I related to more. I too, took too long to see what was stood in front of me all along.

This year, my husband and I will have known each other for eight years. But we have only been together for half of that time. We both joined a dog food startup in the autumn of 2016 – me first, then him a few months later. In a company of less than 40 people, we were the youngest employees by a good few years and found ourselves drawn to each other at the Christmas party, where we talked all night. On my way home, I remember thinking that I’d never met someone like him before. And then I called my boyfriend.

After that, we spoke every day at work on Slack and our friendship began. He would send me links to songs on Spotify with a message that said, ‘Hey! I thought you might like this??’ and I would smile, listen and send a song back. (We have since turned those songs into a playlist that forms the soundtrack of our everyday life.) Eventually, we did things outside of work too. We’d meet for gigs of the bands who played the songs he sent me links to. ‘I’ve got a spare ticket to see Phoebe Bridgers, do you want to come?’ I’m pretty sure those tickets were never actually spare, but bought deliberately and hopefully.

Just a few weeks into our friendship, he went on holiday to Lapland with his family. When he got back, we saw each other at Friday Beers (the company’s monthly pub night) and he said, ‘Oh hey, I got you something.’ It was a bag of reindeer crisps that he’d seen and bought for me because I’d once said that crisps were my favourite food in the world. What I hadn’t said was that I was a vegetarian, and so those bizarre meaty crisps still exist today, kept unopened and untouched for all this time in a box of very important things at home.

But when he invited me to the zoo, I said no. When he invited me bowling, I said no. When he invited me to the cinema, I said no. Those were things you did with boyfriends and I already had one of those. This man was my friend and although there was an undeniable spark, I just couldn’t and wouldn’t let it ignite. The better friends we became, the more I didn’t want to risk losing him.

When we spent time together around friends from work and friends of his who would join us at gigs, I’d get asked about ‘us’ all the time. One of my husband’s very good friends (who is now a very good one of mine), drunkenly pulled me aside in a pub garden to ask me why on earth we weren’t together. Also drunkenly, I confessed that I didn’t think it was the right time for us, although I knew he was probably the right person.

I left the company we both worked at and our friendship continued until it no longer could. We saw each other most weeks and we spoke most days and eventually, he told me he thought he was in love with me and I said that I didn’t feel the same way and he said he didn’t believe me. Eventually, just like Emma Morley, he told me didn’t want to be friends anymore because it was just too hard. And so we didn’t speak and it was awful. Just as I’d feared, I’d lost my friend – not through taking too much of a risk, but by not taking one at all.

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It is 8pm on a Sunday and I am dropping two slices of wholemeal bread into the toaster. My husband and I have been binge watching yet another Netflix show all afternoon and we’ve reached the conclusion that the Dr Oetker Ristorante pizza (an elite choice) we ate at 5pm for an early dinner has not filled the gaping void in our stomachs and hearts.

I am spreading Lurpack butter on my toast, which I will elevate with a sprinkle of salt flakes. This is known as ‘special toast’. Jonny has asked for peanut butter on his toast. The peanut butter is crunchy (as it should be) yet relatively smooth in texture. I feel a pang of joy because I know this will be easy to spread.

I spread this crunchy yet smooth peanut butter onto his slice of toast and he interrupts me to ask a question that has haunted me ever since. ‘Did you put butter on first?’

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I am so incredulous that I think he is joking. Surely he does not want both butter AND peanut butter on his toast? That would be insane, wouldn’t it? But no. He is being serious. This man that I have shared a life and a bed with for the last few years has been combining both butter and peanut butter the entire time. Betrayal?

This prompts a wider debate on the relationship between butter and toast. I ask whether he would also have butter with Philadelphia. He says yes, I feel sick. He asks if I would have butter with jam and I say no, unless it’s on a croissant. He says that’s stupid. He asks if I would have butter with scrambled eggs. I say yes, obviously, but that’s different. I ask if he would have butter with Nutella. He says yes. This is too much.

He argues that butter is the base for all things and I agree, unless another spread is involved. I argue that a spread should exist in its own right and therefore does not need butter as another layer of spread before it. He asks if I would have butter in a cheese sandwich and I say yes of course, because that is a sandwich and sandwiches need butter to stick the cheese to each slice of bread to bring it all together. We are not getting anywhere with this.

We take the dispute to various group chats with family friends and I find that people are drawing very different lines as to where butter plays a part. There are riots when it is revealed that my mum would have pâte with butter but my aunty would not. My friend Meg says that butter and Philadelphia on a bagel is a game changer and that I’m missing out. My stepsister angrily declares that you should ‘never mix a spread with butter’, yet our friend Bekki is combining butter with Nutella even though she admits she feels it’s wrong. No one is aligned on whether jam and butter need to be together – apparently it is carb-dependent. Chaos.

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I worry that diet culture may have played a part in mangling my brain into being so afraid to ever add an additional 80 calories to anything, that I have potentially missed out on a considerable amount of joy. But the thought of two spreads working as one makes me shudder. And if I were a scientist who specialised in spreads, I would still argue that jam, peanut butter, Nutella, Philadelphia and pâte are spreads that should go at life alone without the claustrophobic chaperoning of butter.

This has lived in my brain for too long now and I’m sorry, but I need it to live in yours too. Please tell me where you stand. Am I wrong? Vote below, leave a comment and help me to figure out when butter should get involved with toast. Because at the moment, I’m considering never letting butter get involved with anything ever again.

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