Hey age, you scurrilous demon, you thief of time and wrinkle-free skin. Could you just stop chipping away at my body, mind and soul?
They say growing old is a privilege afforded to few. And I am very grateful to still be here. But youth is beginning to fade like a setting sun over a cloudy horizon. And I’m sorry to see it go, before I’d really had a chance to befriend it, enjoy it and realise I had it.
Things I hate about drifting into my mid 30s:
I’ve STILL got spots. Weren’t they supposed to be a teenage thing? I’m kind of bored of them now.
Crows feet, or soften the blow and call them laughter lines. For indeed HA HA HA at ageing! It is hilarious. But seriously, wrinkles and spots? Not fair. Continue reading
The time has come for me to pass the baton of cool, which I never really had a firm grip on anyway, to my 15 year old nephew. In under ten minutes, he added over 200 songs to a personalised Spotify playlist for me. Which was desperately needed, because I had been listening to Nightmares on Wax since 2002.
Amidst Skepta, Bugzy Malone, Twenty One Pilots and Mungo’s Hi Fi was Snoop Dogg – I’ve heard of him! And Damian Marley – I’ve heard of his dad! Boom, still got it.
When I’m not listening to 200 new songs gifted to me by my musical muse of a nephew, I’m listening to podcasts these days. Bloody love me a podcast. I didn’t pay attention in school and now I’m trying to get smart. Continue reading
Fijian? Or just a cavalier attitude to sunscreen?
We build a brand. The minutiae of personality that has our friends say ‘Oh, typical Fred!’ and ‘Classic Sally!’ My brand was built on the story I’d been telling myself since I was a child, based loosely on a story my parents told me, with the necessary exaggerations and fabrications to create the unique human being I liked to think I was. Continue reading
Warning: contains graphic material. MAN IN PANTS. And out of them.
Some might wonder what it is, to be a feature writer for women’s magazines. You won’t, after reading this.
So, funny story. Continue reading
The closest I’ll ever get to Taylor Swift. My headline on her head.
Four scores and eight years ago (or just eight years ago, as I don’t know what four scores are) I was nearing the end of my post-graduate course in journalism. I untacked an advert pinned to the school’s noticeboard looking for feature writers to work for the UK’s biggest press agency, based in Bristol, and took it home.
Then I invited a friend over for dinner. This friend was already a journalist and much further along her journalism career than I, for she did not stop to wang about smoking weed and achieving nothing for a few years. While we discussed my career options, I remembered the ad that was stuffed into my satchel and I pulled it out to show my friend. Continue reading
Look at me, so brave.
In the never ending saga of my big bad bastard back, it’s Magnetic Resonance Imaging week, a clever contraption used to have a peek inside my anatomy and see what’s what. I’ve been looking forward to it for yonks. The poor old NHS had to defer my appointment after the MRI machine caught fire a while back. I know, not exactly a relaxing image for when you’re stuck inside the tube trying not to be claustrophobic. Continue reading
