I have this trick I do.

Every holiday I go on, I book a massage.

Yes, I’m bougie, and yes, I wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t finding out new ways to live beyond my means on a trip, but it’s not what you think.

It’s my most genius holiday hack. It’s the reset I need, physically, mentally, financially and spiritually. I basically put myself in timeout, and I never regret it.

Don’t want to get too drunk? Book a massage.

Hate the person you are on holiday with? Book a massage.

Love the person you are on holiday with? Book a massage.

Introvert? Book a massage. (And a facial. And a blow out). You get that alone time, girl.

I willingly pay £120 to block an hour out where no one can speak to me. And this is no reflection on the people I travel with.

If I have a friend to play with, I will do ANYTHING but relax. I have a friend who, when we were little, our mums had to separate us so she could concentrate on eating her dinner, then again at bedtime when we chose giggling over sleep, and now in adulthood, I also need physical intervention so that I don’t blow off too much steam or run out of it.

Left to my own devices, I make friends around the pool, kiss waiters and frolick with wild abandon. I perform. I throw money like confetti. It’s a trauma response talent. But then I get over-tired and cry into my twelfth spicy Marg. Somewhere in between, my alter-ego Helena appears, and chaos ensues.

Pure silence with the odd holistic gong sound is all I need to completely reset. Regardless of who I travel with, even if I love them more than life, I will book this hour so I know that at some point I can block out the noise and fully switch off.

Left to my own devices, like a hot version of The Hangover’s Mr Chow, I will chat until my voice is gone and drink until I’m singing a karaoke song even when I don’t know the words or the tune. (Telephone is my karaoke song and I’m always shocked by the rap).

My social battery will hit zero, and I will thank past me for blocking out some time for future me to recharge. The hardest part of this ritual is logistics. Finding an hour that I’m not blind drunk, chasing a man, dancing on a bar or being gravely hungover is not easy, but I’ve got it down to a fine art.

On my latest trip, I entered the spa; I was overwhelmed with smugness.

I wasn’t drunk; I wasn’t hungover, and I’d scheduled this massage before one breakfast wine had fallen in.

This spa had the most insane treatment list where you could tailor every aspect of your experience from the bed temperature to the pressure. Tick boxes as far as the eye could see to make sure you had the absolute best time. You could choose the exact products and scents you liked. My bestie and I sat in the lobby with our cucumber water and ticked off our preferences like kids on Christmas morning. We couldn’t have chosen more different experiences.

She chose love songs, and I chose nature’s bird song. She chose a rejuvenating massage; I chose a holistic one. She chose rose fragrances; I chose black cherry. She wanted a bone-crushing deep tissue; I wanted to look younger, thinner and prettier but settled for “light pressure.”

We laughed as I ticked off the injuries box and wrote sprained ankle in the tell us what box. We were met with our therapists, who led us down a corridor and through two separate doors.

Giddily, we waved goodbye at our doors in our robes and entered our treatment rooms, her slightly quicker than me due to my dodgy ankle. Imagine my surprise when we walked through our separate doors and entered THE SAME ROOM, meeting in the middle.

Two beds lay end to end. The hysteria hit me like a ton of bricks. I did the laugh you did at school when you were being told off by a teacher, and you couldn’t let it out. Doubled over but not wanting the therapists to think I was rude, I faked taking off my flip-flops for ten minutes, letting silent laughter flow into the floor.

It took me about 4 business working days to recover. The laugh that came out was completely noiseless and shook my body like someone had switched on an invisible power plate at my feet. It was so funny, I couldn’t even be mad that the universe had robbed me of my reset.

I truly lost it when I realised I’d somehow booked a facial so I couldn’t even put my face into the hole. Hadn’t I ordered a massage? What had I ticked?

The beds were arranged so that our heads were about 2 milimeters apart. I laughed so much that every lotion and potion fell directly into my mouth.

Just as I gathered myself, the calming birdsong music playing in my half of the room REMIXED with my friend’s love songs playing in her half, with the occasional owl hoot sending us into another fit of giggles.

I laughed so hard my left boob fell out of my bikini.

Which made me laugh even more.

Between gulps, I tried to explain to the therapist that my ankles had to be elevated because I had sprained them running the parents’ race at sports day and heard my friend snort from her bed when my therapist asked if I won.

I told her I placed fifth out of six runners.

Which set her therapist off.

Which set mine off.

Which set me off.

Only I could get a massage at a leading hotel of the world and pay £120 to get a couples facial. I didn’t get my alone time, but my inner child did get the wholesome time out I didn’t know I needed.

This post is for free subscribers, but as always, I am the gift.

A stamp for every time you ordered a £9 caffeinated milk instead of booking a therapist because:

• Someone emailed you.

• You had to look at your bank account.

• You got a job, and then you had to do your job.

• Somebody called your phone and left a voicemail.

• You dealt with a man on a dating app.

Tag Curiously Delulu with a photo of your loyalty card in your notes and posts with the line IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN A THERAPIST BUT…

And you can have a free one-month PAID membership to Curiously Delulu!

Love you besties! Share far and wide!

Welcome to the club where being delulu is the solulu.

OOH! A PRINTABLE!

Curiously Delulu Loyalty Card

3.92MB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

Motherhood feels like wearing a polyester Super Mario costume and running through the hardest level.

On fire.

With no lives left.

Gold coins flying out of your pocket with wild abandon.

And it’s never on a Birkin. It’s always on swimming lessons.

The melancholy bars of the game-over sound are on a loop in your head as you flop into bed each night and wonder, Dear Diary, WTF?

Wa. Wa. Waaaaaaaaaaa.

As mothers, we are hardwired to be in Mum Mode, climbing the levels of life like Olympic athletes, superhero capes billowing out behind us. Powered by cold coffee and sheer panic, 1000 tabs are open in our brains at all times. It’s fine, then it’s not fine, then it’s fine again.

Right now my daughter is at her Dad’s.

My heart knows she is safe. So why does it feel like the world is on fire? My cape rustles and I realise I’m braced for a battle that is only happening in my head.

Sharing my daughter hasn’t come naturally. With no off button, my cape flaps uselessly until she returns.

I use it like a comfort blanket, like a giant tissue to catch my tears and cocooned, I take myself off for any distraction that will mask the pain of sharing you. I write, I relax, I drink, I dance, spilling champagne on my cape as I go.

My cape is a buffer as every emotion from guilt to grief rains down on me like confetti.

There’s a glimmer of life before you. A frisson of excitement that is swiftly replaced with guilt. A whole day to myself, stretching ahead.

What do I like to do again?

Every step, my heart says I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.

There are things I excel at in life. Expensive bed rot. Spraining my ankle doing ordinary things. Dating a red flag.

Sharing is something I haven’t mastered, and I don’t think I ever will.

Learning to share with you was easy. From the minute you arrived, you shared my space, my food, my spare time, my good traits and my bad.

Like you were plugged into my mains, my energy levels, emotions, and sanity slowly drained from my body throughout the day to make sure you were fully charged.

You turn 8 soon, and my cape is tattered, frayed at the edges, with rips and tears from the milestones we’ve ticked off, singed from the birthday candles we’ve blown out over the years, memories scorched into its very fabric.

Battles both real and imaginary.

Yes, sharing you is hard, and with each level we move up, it gets harder. But I wouldn’t trade that shabby cape for anything. Not even for vintage Chanel.

I’ll be wearing it when I’m 80. When I can bed rot with wild abandon watching Practical Magic on repeat.

It won’t be a shield anymore.

It will just be a well-worn comfort blanket, stitched together by a lifetime of missing you, loving you, and letting you go.

Has anyone got a care instruction for this cape? And can someone sew a Chanel label into mine?

It started with a cheesecake.

Then a homemade casserole in a Perspex tub with a handwritten note. Then a spare Hello Fresh box. It was so wholesome that it didn’t register as anything but a friendly neighbourly deed. But I would later realise it was as strategic as a Tinder swipe.

The year was 2020, and I couldn’t open my front door without being accosted by a socially distanced food-related item on the doorstep.

Had I joined a food subscription after a few too many wines?

Or was I just pretty?

Men, take note: a daily weather report won’t get you laid, but an off-piste food subscription will. But it’s all in the execution.

There was one glorious week I didn’t even need to food shop. We were coming out of lockdown, and for a reason I couldn’t fathom but didn’t completely hate, all of my male neighbours were trying to feed me.

Everyone’s approach was unique. Some had game. Others failed in such spectacular fashion that it will go down in the WhatsApp group chat hall of fame. The man who packed a homemade casserole in Tupperware only to ask for the empty Tupperware back when I didn’t want to go on a date with him is a classic example of what not to do. I still have the photo of the Tupperware box on my wall where I said he could collect it remotely. Also. He lost points for his lack of research. He gave a veggie a meat dish. Wah wah waaaaaaaa.

The winner? The man who left espresso martinis on my doorstep and added my favourite meal to his weekly Asda food delivery, cooked it for me every Friday evening in candlelight with an old school playlist. Yes, he did get to date me, but unbeknown to him, this weekly small act of kindness ultimately led to him getting the name Fajita boy in my girl group chat, which he is still known as to this day.

Dating your neighbour is a dangerous game. Dipping a French polished toe into online dating comes with a little privacy screen that you can choose to let down when you know the person. I have a ten-date rule before I let someone know my address. These rules go out the window when you are in the talking stages with a man who can see you from his living room window.

But dating a man who knows your bin schedule? Priceless. Right?

*I am not qualified to give life advice on many subjects, but dating a neighbour is something I’ve done twice accidentally while living at the same house, which makes me basically an expert on the matter.

Do not do it. Put that in bold, capitals and underline.

Even if said neighbour bakes you homemade cheesecake and gets his angelic daughters to drop it off.

Even if he is a STONE COLD FOX with a six pack.

Even if he puts your bin out and brings it back in again on the right day.

Another tip. All of your neighbours might fancy you, but you should not fancy all of your neighbours. Chaos will ensue. It’s also an expensive mistake because one of you will have to move house.

Let’s talk girl math.

Now, full transparency here, I have lived at my current address for 13 years, so that makes one illegal neighbour encounter every six years, and doesn’t every cell in your body regenerate every seven years? So I am going to argue that the person who kissed the first neighbour was actually an entirely different person from the one who kissed the second neighbour.

GIRL MATH.

I first realised my neighbour fancied me at 1 am on a Thursday when I was woken out of sleep by him putting my bin out and shouting up at my window about what a great neighbour he was. Which would have been fine if bin day wasn’t on a Tuesday and this wasn’t an instant sign my neighbour might like to do some recreational drugs. A waving red flag for some, it turns out bin day has been my nemesis since I got divorced and little did he know that this was, in fact, the way to my heart.

Tick tick tick.

Dating a neighbour is fine until it isn’t.

There’s a level of safety that is comforting if you are a girl. Usually, dates come with a frisson of is this going to be fun, or am I going to die?

There’s the undeniable convenience factor, which is fun, but it means you tend to skip the formal dating part and dive straight into watching box sets on the sofa. Sometimes we would watch the same show two houses apart and text about it. You haven’t had fun until you have run down the street in your silk PJs and fluffy sliders with a bottle of Minuty straight into your neighbour’s bed. But it comes with downsides.

Regardless of your schedule, once you have kissed a neighbour, you will INSTANTLY sync with their routine and end up seeing them every time you leave your house or pull into your driveway. Once the dalliance is over, there will be a LOT of awkward waving until one of you relocates.

I’ve learned a lot from this scientific study. I learned why we are told not to accept food from strangers, that no cheesecake is agenda-less, especially when it comes in Tupperware, and that I would be incredibly easy to kidnap.

I’ve learned that simply being nearby is a great strategy if you want to date someone, and the way to someone’s heart is actually a cracking biscuit base.

*This is, of course, a made-up story. You can’t have neighbours if you live on a yacht in Monaco.

Toodles.

Free dresses: 0

Work crushes: 0

Illegal office romances: -1

Iced coffees: 1001

Millions made: 0.00000000000000000001

Mental breakdowns: one per minute

Get in, loser; we’re going to work.

If you have ever watched The Simple Life, where Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie get jobs, this is exactly like that, but with ever so slightly fewer bleach highlights and no Juicy Couture.

I got a corporate job 10 years after working for myself as the CEO of Lah de dah and a little bit of Substack here and there.

Here’s what I know:

You want the job, but then you get the job, and then you have to do the job. Dear diary. WTF?

Work is a trap, and the only reason to go is so you can buy Manolos.

We have been gaslit into thinking working in an office is cool, and I blame 100% of this on J Lo films.

There are two types of people in this world. Those meant to work and those meant to test out swim-up bars around the world, trying out different rums. I lean towards the latter, but the Gemini in me plus my ego make me think there is nothing I can’t do. Plus, I need pennies to fund my swim-up bar obsession and my second favourite pastime, which is paying to throw roses at unavailable fuck boys on Hinge. JOKING (or am I?). This is how I found myself driving on the motorway to a corporate job at 5 am with only Enya and an iced coffee for company.

I have about ten thousand thoughts on the way to work, but the one I come back to most is wondering if I paid an Etsy Witch to put a spell on my career, would I be doing this journey every Monday or working for Kris Jenner writing cute but hysterical notes for Kylie’s latest lip kit.

You can be 41 years old and be a (self-confessed) genius in your field and still shit your Vintage Levis on your first day at work. The founder will walk past you without acknowledging your existence, and you will feel like Andy in The Devil Wears Prada then watch the film when you get home to compare.

Every work circumstance can be made better by cookies, cake or carrying around a small emergency tin of sprinkles, or what I like to call Delulu on demand.

I absolutely cannot, and I mean cannot, look hot for 8 hours in a row.

The thought “This would be more fun with a work crush” crosses my mind at least 24 times per hour.

A half-hour lunch break is not enough time to eat and keep up the charade of trying to look 24.

You don’t need to fret about what to wear in an office of young people. Just buy three Rixo dresses and rotate. Take a moment to acknowledge how proud your 18-year-old self would be that we get to wear a £300 dress to work like it’s nothing. Success is a chic maxi.

You can say yes to everything and deal with it later. Can you make a lookbook on SharePoint from the Trello brief and catch up on Teams later? Erm. Sure.

Bonding with your young co-workers is easy. You just have to watch every episode of Euphoria, The Summer I Turned Pretty, and Tell Me Lies. Watch reality TV. Watch it all. And if you don’t have time, just say I’m team Conrad. It works in almost any situation. It’s the only way you will bond with anyone in the office. Unless you bring cookies. Which you should bring. I think this might apply to Chanel under-eye patches, but I’ll let you know when I’ve tested it next week.

Never use a notebook and pen. Nothing shows your age like writing things in a notebook. Do not write anything down physically. Even if HR hands you a branded notebook. It’s a trick. Save it for home and go ham with your new fancy highlighters and Tippex tape in secret. Just me?

Tears are part of corporate life. At some point in the day, someone will cry. For some, it’s burnout; for me, it’s not being on a yacht in the south of France.

It can be fun if you make it fun. Stir the pot when you get bored and say you didn’t. Drop in things like, just so you know, I don’t think your outfit is inappropriate for the office at all.

At some point, the girls at your table will start sharing their boy drama, and it will be the most fun you’ve had since you started.

You will recognise yourself in one of the younger girls who thinks success is working until you cry with zero boundaries and find it hard not to give her life advice. But she isn’t you. Even if she did say, " This would be better by the pool”. Same, honey.

Things I like about my new job:

The branded entry fob. The frizzle of energy around 3.30 pm that means the working day is almost done, and we can all go home and bed rot with our LED masks on and watch New Girl reruns. The girl in the office who asks about everyone’s weekend and actually listens to the response. Having a Substack that no one knows about. The general message section on Teams, where the fun announcements live. The sample sales, the terrace drinks, the surprise cookie delivery, basically any message that doesn't ask for some urgent copy for an email banner. The days I don’t work.

Should I get a Seth Rogen calendar for my desk?

Minutes spent thinking about my new job: 7

Minutes thinking about my new fake boyfriend: 10927

Yes, yes, I got a real corporate job this week, but before you abandon the delulu ship, thinking I’ve got my life together, while my career got an upgrade, my dating life took a nosedive, which made me question everything.

YES. I have a dating announcement to make.

Due to real-life men being unbearable, I will only be dating ONLY fictional characters and celebrities from here on out.

I was having dinner with a girlfriend last week, and we were debriefing the downs and downs of my dating life when she asked me who I would date if I could date anyone?

Anyone in the whole world.

Instantly, I blurted out…

SETH ROGAN.

That stoner guy from all those funny movies? My friend laughed.

The exact same.

Remember when you used to score your name with your high school crush? Well, this is nothing like that.

Ok, fine, I couldn’t resist. It’s 68%.

Now I’ve paid tarot readers, Etsy witches and mediums to give me dating advice, so what happened next shouldn’t shock you. Never one to shy away from making something weird, I asked Cosmic Sushi if she would enable my delusion with an astrological chart reading to see if Seth and I were written in the stars? Just to see. Totally normal, right?

And who is Cosmic Sushi, you ask? Well, she is an astrological goddess. She’s cool, she’s quirky, and seriously delulu. GO SUB HER.

She couldn’t find his time of birth, so naturally, I slid into his DMs to find it.

Imagine my surprise when I realised it wasn’t the first slide!

Sorry about me. And my 1% battery.

Turns out 2021 me had Seth Rogan very much on the brain.

Cosmic Sushi compared our charts, and I thought I’d include the comparison here so you can all be as heavily invested in my dating life, both real and imaginary.

Here’s what she had to say:

“I assumed I’d be analysing some hunky Adonis and downloading photos from the internet strictly for “research purposes.”

Then Curiously Delulu came back with:

“My celebrity crush is… Seth Rogen.”

Record scratch.

Da fuq.

But the heart wants what the heart wants.

And as any good Cosmic Sushi would do, I rolled up my sleeves, opened the chart, and asked the only question that matters:

Should Curiously Delulu date Seth Rogen?

The Players

Curiously Delulu:

In looking at your chart, you’re not just a Gemini. You’re a super Gemini. Almost quintuplet-level Gemini.

Your twins have twins.

You are a charmer, a natural flirt, and someone who was not put on this earth to be dull. You come across as a boss bitch; internally, you identify as a princess from another realm.

This is also where in your dating life you can fall for potential, get swept away before realising you’ve accidentally agreed to emotionally executive-produce someone else’s entire indie film.

Basically, you have a hard candy shell and a truffle soup interior.

Power themes? Oh, you have them.

You have Saturn, the South Node, and Pluto in Scorpio in your 9th/10th houses. Add in your Capricorn Ascendant, and you are not just playful — you are formidable. People may experience you as polished, composed, and more powerful than you realise.

But your Scorpio South Node says you’ve done the public power thing before. You don’t need more external validation. You are not here to beg the algorithm, the audience, the ex, the crush, or the invisible council of judgmental women in basic beige to approve of you.

You are here to love, treat, and build yourself as a luxury brand as you define it.

Not anyone else.

Elementally, your chart is heavy Earth, Air, and Water with very little Fire. This means you can think, feel, build, brand, analyse, romanticise, and create the hell out of something…

But you may need a human matchstick to get the whole thing moving.

Enter: Seth Rogen, apparently.

Your Neptune in Capricorn can give others the impression that you are more ready than you actually feel inside. Privately, you may question whether you can do the thing at all. (all the damn time)

I’m here to tell you: yes, you can.

You are internally a real-life Carrie Bradshaw with a tailor on speed dial and a The Row Margaux in millennial pink. (Should this be my new bio?)

You’re here to create content, cultivate beauty, make people laugh, and say the unexpected thing.

Seth Rogen

Because I couldn’t find a confirmed birth time for Seth, I’m reading his chart as a time-unknown chart.

Translation: no houses for him.

We are working on vibes with what the cosmos and the internet have agreed to hand over.

Unless someone has been living off-grid with no Wi-Fi and ridiculously strong media boundaries, everyone knows Seth Rogen. He is most famous for his films like Superbad, Knocked Up and The 40-Year-Old Virgin.

And honestly? I see the cosmic attraction.

Seth brings heat into your life. Not only does he have an Aries Sun, but he also has both Uranus and Neptune in expansive Sagittarius. So the fire he brings is not quiet candlelight. It is raw drive coupled with irreverent vision, weird optimism, and a willingness to say the thing most people would only think after two drinks and no HR department.

You will never know his take.

He may not know his take.

And for a Gemini like you, CD, this can be exhilarating.

His Moon is in Capricorn. A Capricorn Moon is cool, strategic, structured, and more serious than the public persona might suggest. This is someone who may joke, riff, and play the lovable chaotic loser onscreen, but emotionally? There’s a part of him that takes commitment, work, and loyalty seriously.

When Seth meets you, you could feel instantly familiar to him.

Almost like coming home.

Especially if home were a penthouse in Dubai or some other city with a skyline, a financial district, and hotel slippers worth stealing.

His Jupiter is in sexy Scorpio. His growth is literally tied to taboo, shadow, intimacy, risk, and saying the thing you are not supposed to say.

Remember Zack and Miri Make a Porno? Exactly.

This sits dangerously close to your natal Pluto in Scorpio.

That is magnetic.

You may be drawn to his irreverent optimism.

He may be drawn to your intensity, polish, and willingness to laugh at the things we are told not to.

His Venus is exalted in Pisces. This gives him a romantic, porous, self-sacrificing love nature. He can get lost in love. He can idealise. He can merge. He can turn affection into a fog machine.

With your Moon in Pisces, you can psychically sense that they could both get swept away into one another.

Could this be romance squared?

Should they elope immediately?

Ummmm.

Not so fast.

Every one of us carries a little cosmic baggage with us. It’s only a matter of whether there is space in the overhead cabin.

On paper, Seth looks like the guy who brings the missing Fire into your life: all that Aries/Sagittarius energy lighting up her dreams, play, humor, and appetite for creative mischief. You are Capricorn rising with a Gemini 5th house — a fun brain in a serious wrapper — and he absolutely wakes up your inner hot mess.

But then we look closer.

When Seth’s chart is overlaid onto CD’s, his Capricorn Moon and South Node fall into your 12th house.

That’s not “marriage material.”

That’s “situationship in an overworn Burberry trench coat.”

So yes, the connection could feel fated.

Weirdly intimate.

Hard to define.

Perfect for late-night confessions, ambiguous flirting, and half-remembered almost-moments.

It is great astrology for a male muse, a friend, a secret creative spark, or a chapter in your memoir. And you must write a memoir.

It is terrible astrology for: “So, what are we?”

Your presence may drag him back into a past-life emotional script he is meant to be moving beyond. His presence may activate something in you that feels romantic, karmic, and slightly impossible to explain without looking unwell in a group chat.

Relationships are one of the main arenas where he meets power struggles, control dynamics, projection, and karmic tests.

This is the guy who can burn down or rebuild his entire life multiple times through who he partners with and what those dynamics demand of him.

How do I know this?

Um.

I also have an Aries Sun with the exact same Pluto opposition.

Facepalm.

Seth’s Sagittarius placements, when overlaid onto your chart, light up zones connected to collaboration, expansion, humour, and shared possibility. This makes him an ideal creative collaborator, travel partner, idea generator, or flirtatious agent of chaos.

He would expand your world.

You would exceed the carry-on limit for charm.

Together, this is perfect for widening each other’s worlds.

Not necessarily for holding each other’s hearts.

Should Curiously Delulu date Seth Rogen?

Romantically, I would keep the emergency exit illuminated.

Creatively? Absolutely.

This is the kind of synastry that could produce voice notes, inside jokes, a suspiciously brilliant screenplay, and one emotionally confusing layover in Vancouver.

You do not need Seth Rogen to complete your chart.

You need him as a plot device.

A firestarter.

A man-shaped improv prompt from the universe.

Plot twist:

Curiously Delulu and Cosmic Sushi should get our own G7 charter. CD likes an Aries, right? wink

Besties, this is your permission slip to slide into a celebrity’s DMs, and Paul Rudd, this is your permission to slide into mine and laugh me into bed because Seth Rogan is married. And we don’t flirt with married men. Real or imaginary.

But on a serious note, subscribe and slide into Cosmic Sushi’s DMs; she’s a riot.

Sidenote: It’s my birthday today, but I, of course, am the real gift.

There’s a heatwave coming to the UK, you guys, but if you haven’t had time to glance at the weather app, fear not. The men of Hinge have us covered. If you are a single woman in your 40s, you will have already received a rundown of today’s weather in detail from an array of emotionally unavailable men who think flirting is giving you a blow-by-blow account of the air quality index.

Which is 2, in case you wondered.

Dating today is getting less like Sex In The City and more like a subscription to the Met Office that I didn’t ask for and can’t cancel, not unlike the U2 album that was forcefully shoved into my iTunes without consent that still pisses me off when my songs are on shuffle.

Today, the weather report is brought to you by Dan, Brad, Chad, Dave, Chris and Tim from Hinge. If you didn’t know, Dan said it’s sunny but chillier than you would expect, and Tim thinks it looks like it might rain later on.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

I can barely move for men sending me their weather reports, and every single one has been left on read. Don’t get me wrong, I love a weatherman, Nick Kosir is a total Baldwin. IYKYK.

Now, if you read my Substack regularly, you will already know how to deal with nonsense men on dating apps. So why are you getting this weather report? Because I had to listen to it, and so now you do too.

If I had a penny for every time I’m asked why I’m single, I would be a multi-millionaire. The answer is quite simple. It’s because every man on Hinge is more interested in giving me a weather report than asking me out.

If you had asked me when I was younger what dating would be like in my 40s, I would have said lounging on a Billionaire’s yacht with a wardrobe full of Dior shades where I could see the weather with my own designer-covered eyeballs, not a constant barrage of weather updates from Dan from Bumble with the occasional “u up” text thrown in for good measure.

No, Dan, I’m not up. I’m 40. I go to bed at 8.05 pm with mouth tape, magnesium lotion and a meditation that tells me I’m going to wake up a rich bitch.

Will Dan ever ask me out, or will he just tell me it’s sunny or rainy until one of us dies?

Replies you can give to weather reports:

To the boring weather report man: I unsubscribe from this weather channel at your earliest convenience.

To any weather report man, when you are bored: Any weather song lyrics. Everywhere you gooooo, always take the weather. Kiss the rain. Anything by M People. etc. See how long it is until they notice.

To the cute weather report man: Great, are we drinking Mimosas in it?

Men. Tell me it’s grey sweatpant weather. Tell me it’s a Campari spritz weather. Tell me the weather looks cloudy with a strong chance of champagne. LET’S TAKE IT UP A NOTCH.

Let’s face it, we all know that the man I really need is behind a bar serving bottomless LPR under a waxing crescent moon while I chat to all my Substack friends.

Leave me your best weather lyric. I’m going to need them.

I took myself on a date last week, and quite frankly, I want a refund.

Everywhere I look, I see women championing solo dates, telling me not to miss out on coupley experiences just because I’m single and urging me to simply GET OUT THERE and date myself.

So I did.

In my head, there was something so Carrie Bradshaw about it.

After testing the waters on the group chat about going to see the new Housemaid movie and getting a wishy-washy response, I had what the internet promised, was my empowering activity. I was going to lose myself in a movie, turn my phone off for two hours and spend some quality time with myself and good snacks.

There are a few basic rules to follow on a date. Don’t talk about yourself endlessly, don’t mention that you want to hit your ex with a car, don’t send a nude because it’s fun when you go to the bathroom, and never ever get messy drunk. All very easy to do when you date yourself, I’m happy to report. Check check check.

But something felt off.

The sense of unease began as I booked a singular cinema ticket. It felt so final. Was I really going to go and watch a movie alone? It felt sinister.

Places I would have felt less dodgy driving to.

A tattoo parlour

A strip club

A crack house

Prison.

Driving myself to a solo date was like an out-of-body experience and came with a twang of shame, like any activity that you would hide from others. Like going alone to a casino or an AA meeting. Ordering a full red velvet cake to your door, answering a U UP text from situationship no 3 at 2 am, asking for a breakfast Cava in Spain at 8 am.

I was suddenly convinced that if I was capable of doing this alone without telling anyone, what if I started doing stranger things, and this was the first step in a long string of serious, prison-worthy offences?

Suddenly convinced that I was on the verge of starting a cult, joining one, turning to hard drugs or worse, developing an insatiable taste for crochet. This is because work is quiet, I thought, you’ve left society, and now you do weird things during the day. Isn’t this how every Catfish documentary starts?

I texted my friend to tell her I was going on a solo date, so I didn’t feel so shady.

Her reply just said:

Who are you really with? A hinge date?

Reminding myself I was only going to the local Odeon and not the happy ending Thai massage parlour, I parked my car and went straight to the bar for an emotional support prosecco and a pizza slice, failing to see the little box where you need to type in your car number plate.

The cinema had four other people in it, and not one of them was dating themselves despite Instagram gaslighting me into thinking this was how everyone was spending their days. This is fine, I chanted with every step as I gaslit myself into thinking I was having a great time with a force I usually save for the gym or any form of jeans shopping IRL.

I chose a seat in the back row. Somewhere in the middle of the first advert after the lights went down, a man who was about 11 feet tall and 11 feet wide stood up, and I suddenly realised with a start that in an empty cinema I was boxed in alone with no exit by a gladiator-sized man wielding a Coke.

As he rose to his feet, my knee-jerk reaction was to immediately stand up and sit back down, which in hindsight must have made me look insane. We did this dance every time he got up to go to the toilet like an unhinged game of stand-up, sit-down bingo. I sat for the duration of the film with a glass of prosecco in my left hand and my house key as a makeshift weapon in my right.

Relaxing.

I cursed every female influencer who had ever told me to date myself and the Odeon for not putting a panic button in for solo female cinema goers, or at least a break in an emergency bottle of bubbles or a Marlboro Light. By the time the film started, I’d already produced, branded, directed and starred in a female safety campaign in my head for women who wanted to date themselves.

If I wasn’t already having a mental breakdown, I was sure that two hours of this would bring one on. As I tried to reassure myself that if the man at the other end of the row tried anything, I could simply jump the rows, I was immediately humbled by my sprained ankle housed in its compression sock. I turned the seat to the highest elevated level in defiance. If I’m going to die, I’m not doing it with puffy ankles.

My prosecco and pizza were stress snaffled before the film had even begun, and I was instantly bored out of my mind and scrolling on Instagram while the ads still rolled. I realised this was the first and last time I would ever date myself. I asked myself what I thought I was ever going to get out of this. Part of me thought I might see a cute stranger, airdrop my number, and the rest would be history. Part of me thought even if it went badly, it would make a great story.

The funny thing was, I found I’d been dating myself the whole time without realising.

Taking myself to the spa for massages, booking myself a reiki session, tucking myself into bed with a glass of champagne (silk eye mask on the side), buying myself flowers, giving myself a little compliment (and a medal) for washing my own hair, surprising myself with a new pair of sunglasses, and just making sure I felt loved, valued and cherished at all times.

I’m the type of person who will flirt with everyone and everything I meet, but when I really fancy someone and intentionally want to flirt, I will become Seth Rogan levels of awkward and shout something unhinged like ‘shall we kiss?’ and totally ruin the vibe. Dating myself intentionally was exactly the same!

My advice is, if you want to try dating yourself literally, go big. Way bigger than I went. Hire a yacht, take yourself for a macaroon in Paris, eat pizza in Italy, not your local movie house and rent a jet while you’re at it.

The parking ticket I got two weeks later was another sign from the universe to never date myself again.

Check on your single friends. We are not ok.

Not to be dramatic, but there has been a direct attack on my personal brand. Please respect my privacy as I navigate these extremely challenging circumstances.

As a woman, life is 70% admin, 20% beauty olympics, 8% trying to find clean knickers and 2% frolicking in Chanel.

Being an adult often means doing a whole load of tasks every day on repeat that you know will need doing again in a hot second. So when we find a foundation that we love, we can box that job and feel satisfied that we will never have to attempt the extreme Olympic sport of finding the right shade and texture liquid foundation for our face ever again.

My beauty schedule runs like clockwork: nails, toes, lashes, hair, brows, facial, massage, reiki and a quarterly tarot reading thrown in for good measure. But none of this matters if I can’t put my foundation on my face in the morning. And putting on a backup foundation will only lead to me going about the day with a level of rage I usually reserve for people who say things like ‘Oh, I probably won’t get a dessert.’

Let me tell you. You simply don’t know fear until you’re scraping the very last drop of your staple Chanel foundation, armed with hope and a singular Q-tip, with no legal way to source another bottle.

Que a crise de panique.

Life as you know it has changed overnight, and you wonder if you should use, save or freeze the last drop in the hopes they will invent a way to clone it in 20 years’ time.

You know how, when you are financially fighting for your life, all of your makeup runs out at the exact same time?

Spoiler alert: It’s because you bought it all at the same time, because it ran out at the same time.

Well, this is like that, but worse, because when I went willingly to hand over my fifty-two English pounds to replace my holy grail foundation, I was met with the most offensive D word in the dictionary.

Discontinued.

Excuuuuuuuuse me?

I am bereft.

I have worn the exact same brand and shade of foundation since I was 18. Yes, I might have cheated a few times, depending on what Sienna Miller is wearing this week, but like the fuck boy in your DMs, I come back every time. Chanel beauty is my most stable relationship to date. Being left on read when I’ve sacrifed 80% of my hard-earned salary hurts.

I got married wearing Chanel foundation, I got divorced wearing Chanel foundation, I gave birth wearing Chanel foundation, and I planned to be buried in it.

This post is for every woman who is currently scouring eBay for Chanel Vitalumiere foundation in shade 40 Beige or 50 Natural. Instead of sending drunk texts, I’m triple-messaging Vinted sellers to see if the tester they have listed for £120 is still available. I’ve turned to Google looking for a Chanel black market foundation Facebook group and have spent hours researching dupes. All of which I’ve tried and written off.

I cannot comprehend how I am supposed to adapt to this severe level of change in my 40s. I have a strict capsule beauty lineup. Chanel base, Dior eyes, Nars cheeks and a Kiko lip. There’s a system, and it works. I would say this is going to directly affect my dating life, but that would suggest there has been any dating this year.

For those who haven’t registered this as a full-scale crisis yet: Let me explain:

Things you can do with Chanel foundation on your face:

• Get away with anything

• Flirt with single dads

• Lure unsuspecting men into bed and still look good the morning after

• Look flawless for 8 hours even after 8 spicy margs

• Charm a cop - I’m sorry, officer *flutters lashes* etc

• Dance around in compliments as they are showered on you like confetti

• Look good on your wedding day

• See free drinks materialise like magic

• Get on a yacht

• Look immaculate after 8 hours of labour and some minor forcep drama

• Be a cougar

Things you can’t do without Chanel foundation:

• Lure unsuspecting men into bed

• Get away with murder

• Flirt with anyone

• Put foundation on your face

• Use facial recognition or do digital banking (Hello HSBC)

• Avoid your natural skin texture

Suffering from SFL? (Sudden foundation loss)

Head to my subscriber chat to join my SOS Chanel beauty grief support group. Or email: myfacelooksscary@prettyprivilege.com

PS: Full disclosure: I know that when you are ghosted, you are supposed to go no contact, but I accidentally fell into Chanel in Milan last week, forgot I was mad and came out with a new pair of shoes. Don’t judge me until you’ve walked a mile in my two-tone flats. I also need pretty shoes to distract from my bare face. See also reward for sprained ankle (s).

Race you to CC rehab! First one there gets a flap bag! JOKING. Chanel and I are on a break.

Sponsored post: Besties, if you have been a victim of a foundation recall, there’s a super simple way to get your perfect shade match with no hysterics. Join the group chat to be the first to discover shade match heaven. MYRRAR, which uses advanced AI to analyse your unique facial features, provides tailored product recommendations and guidance. No more menty b’s at the makeup counter. You’re welcome!

Read more

Days in Vegas: 3

Boys kissed: 405

Girls kissed: 2

Husbands found: 0

Threesome Invites: 3

Threesomes attended: 0

Dress casualties: 1

Gigalos: 1

Rollercoasters: 1

Runaway bagels: 1

The way I feel the depression (and all common sense) leaving my body whenever I enter the state of Nevada.

Fun fact. I have a holiday alter ego. Let’s call her Helena.

Helena appears the moment I’ve cleared passport control, activated by no less than 7 pre-flight mimosas. The second she enters duty free, she has more money than Lisa Vanderpump, and Chanel makeup is her birthright.

She won’t queue, she won’t fly coach, she gatecrashes VIP with no invite, and only takes Limos to get from A (Aria) to B (Bellagio). She’s pushy, but it does have its perks. She’s the CEO of the complaint letter, which is how we found ourselves checking into the Bellagio spa for £1500 worth of free treatments.

Unlike Helena, the UK version of me is low-key; she gets her steps in, she does the school run sober, but more importantly, she gets her nine hours of beauty sleep. She Gua-shas her face religiously after her 10-step skincare routine and never steps out without SPF. No carbs after 5 pm. Bath, book, bed. In that order.

I’m an introvert. My circle is small. On British soil, I have no situationships, no drama, just peace and harmony and the odd complex crochet project. Helena is an extrovert, she leaves Las Vegas with no less than five new boyfriends, one annulled marriage and a new best friend she found in the strip club.

Question. Are you even having fun if your first night in Vegas doesn’t end with having your dress safety pinned back onto your body by six strippers before chasing a bagel through the halls of The Aria, via one Magic Mike gig after accidentally dining next to Michael Jordan?

Let me start at the beginning.

Helena and I are like night and day, but Vegas is our spirit animal.

The minute she lands, she forgets we’re 40, she forgets we’re a mum, she forgets I sprained both our ankles, and she forgets we need sleep. Helena is nocturnal. She can also drink me under the table. Her signature drink is spiced rum and Coke. HEAVY on the rum.

Worst of all, she uses FACEWIPES.

In the daytime, we get along, we like to spa, go to pool parties, and we like to drink breakfast wine.

After dark, Helena goes rogue.

Powered by 85 espresso martinis and the love of her own reflection, she flirts her way down the Vegas strip, throwing dollars we can’t afford around like confetti. She thrives on a 90/10 fun-to-sleep ratio, and not even a wardrobe malfunction can stand in her way.

The night started like any Vegas night. Full glam in the room, a fancy cocktail at the Cosmopolitan bar, pre-game pizza slice at The Aria. Helena’s chatty, so of course, we make four new friends at the bar. Our new friends invite us to a club off the strip, and we say yes. As I hop in the limo with the new friends we made, I hear a rip and look down to see the whole side of my dress gaping open.

My friend glances at it and matter-of-factly tells me to simply ‘put my bag over it.’

So that’s exactly what I do.

Luckily for me, our new friends (whom I still follow on Instagram) were going to a club where girls wore no clothes, so I didn’t need to worry about not being let in. But it’s not lost on me that somehow I’m the most naked woman in the strip club.

20 dollars can get you a whole lot of naked in Vegas, but it can also get you three very well-placed safety pins and a piece of tit tape. As I was trying to zip my broken dress back up by myself in the toilets, a beautiful girl wearing full suspenders and a lace bra with six-inch heels approached.

Being British, I struggled on in silence. She pulled a safety pin out of god knows where and began to put my dress back together. She shouted for backup and a sewing kit.

‘We need a bigger safety pin.’

Another girl arrived wearing a neon one-piece holding a speaker blasting gangster rap, and handed the girl a needle and thread.

‘We need more thread’

A third girl appeared with a vodka shot for us all and some tape. You haven’t been humbled until you’ve had your back fat artfully folded back into your dress and taped in place by six strippers with fire bodies all singing Fetty Wap. But have you even lived if you haven’t?

Do you want some lashes too? A stunning redhead asked.

Helena did.

And just like that, I had a brand new dress, a fresh set of false lashes and five new best friends. I wonder if this is what it feels like to join a sorority or a really fun cult?

Dress intact, my best friend and I hauled ass to our dinner reservation at Catch at The Aria, where we sat at the next table to Michael Jordan and about 600 women who were all trying to date him. We stared a lot and got shouted at by security for trying to take a picture. Delighted with how the night had turned out, we sashayed our way to a VIP table at the Chainsmokers concert, supported by Tyga, who, I swear, looked me dead in the eye.

It turns out that stripper tit tape is no match for a three-course meal. The night ended with me trying to hold up my dress that had burst open after dinner while trying to eat a post-Magic Mike bagel that I dropped 506 times in the hallway. I recruited a male gigolo (see bloopers) we found in the corridor to carry my food and drinks back to the room.

Gravely hungover but without missing a beat, the next day, Helena hit the strip in search of our second husband, armed with a footlong daiquiri and a t-shirt saying as much.

God bless Helena.

Outrageous things Helena did in Vegas that I would never do:

• Put Baileys in her morning coffee

• Gambled before 8 am

• Wore a t-shirt with a QR code on that said Looking for Husband no 2 (see blooper reel)

• Went to a strip club wearing fewer clothes than the strippers

• Befriended a gigalo (see blooper reel)

• Paid for a limo (see blooper reel)

• Rode the Stratosphere Rollercoaster

• Got on stage at Magic Mike (see blooper reel)

Helena, I love you, but we’ve got a crochet project to complete back in the UK.

Now for the blooper reel:

Share

Read more

Read more

Since becoming single, I’ve naturally leaned in to being a Yes girl. You’ve all probably read the Power of Yes and flirted with the idea of accepting every invite and opportunity in the hopes of levelling up a little career-wise or casually meeting the love of your life.

So, when a dinner invite landed on my lap from a new friend I barely knew to have drinks with three girls she barely knew, I, of course, said yes. What could go wrong? It helped that the venue was one of the most exclusive hotels in the county.

I’m a Gemini. My superpower is being able to fit in anywhere from a Slipknot Concert to a Royal wedding. I can flirt talk to anyone about anything, so socially I am a delight. My Mum taught me a valuable piece of advice when I was younger. Walk into every room like you own the place. So I did, and I still do. Feeling like you belong in any environment is a powerful skill and one that has got me into many an adventure.

I learned a lot of things on this particular evening. I learned that when you combine four beautiful women with 80 Pornstar martinis, you will have the time of your life. I learned that 79 pornstar martinis is my limit. Lastly, I learned that if you dress in black and don’t wear heels to a restaurant, people will think you are a waitress and ask you for more water for the table. And you will pour it for them because you are toxic.

I laugh this off because, honestly, it happens to me so much, especially in Zara. I don’t know if it’s because I’m naturally quite helpful, so people assume I work for the place, or if it’s a reflection of my fashion sense (or lack of).

Subscribe now

We were a mixed bunch. One of us was rebuilding after her husband up and left before her c-section healed, one was rebuilding after leaving a man and dating a woman, one was rebuilding after a stay in rehab, and one was slap bang in the middle of a high-profile divorce. But at this table, we were anonymous, we listened, and we didn’t judge. All of us had children, all of us had lost something. All of us were bored AF.

The conversation flitted from what facial we all needed to what dating app we had tried. One was worried she was being left behind, one was worried she was on the wrong path, and we all worried we had no idea what we were doing. But we all decided we were doing our best.

For one, recovery looked like new boobs and a Porsche; for another, it was a pilot’s licence and a law degree. Me? For me, it was saying yes to a tour of the closed underground nightclub and kissing the waiter in the grounds, feeling like a slightly pissed version of Cinderella.

For all of us, recovery was a Girl dinner. Fries, Caesar salad and countless dirty martinis. One of us left with a champagne bucket as a souvenir but forgot it was there and was sick in a friend’s Chanel bag, one of us left with a branded, stolen cashmere blanket as a souvenir, one of us left with good vibes and a situationship, and one of us left with her dignity and pride. Lucky her.

I have since been back to this establishment with my daughter and been met with many a raised eyebrow.

Were we outrageous? Yes.

Do I care?

Not at all.

My advice to anyone feeling lost, make a new friend and go get some girl dinner.

Great gifts not pictured above. Energy (Supplements). Youth (Botox and red light therapy). Mental stability (Therapist). Relaxation (spa day). A Porsche.

On a scale from cold hard cash to Ritz Carlton Yacht, how ready are you for Valentine’s Day? Fear not, the delulu gift guide is here. Girls, bookmark it, print it, restack it and send it to your boyfriends/girlfriends/lovers/sugar daddies. Men, if you’re reading this, print it, laminate it and let it live rent-free in your head.

So, we’ve all heard of the hot crazy matrix (created by men for men), which maps a girl’s hotness level against her crazy level. Naturally, I rank very high on the crazy to hot scale, so I’ve created a gifting system to cater directly for us girls in the danger zone. The redheads, the Geminis, the Hooters Girls, the red flags, the single mums and anyone named after a US state or alcoholic tipple. Dakota, Candy, Brandy, Crystal, Remy, Montana, I see you, and I salute you.

If you’re dating a girl who is a 5-8 on the hot scale but below the crazy line, you’re dating in the fun zone, and you can choose any normal gift pictured and even go off piste and favour charm or wit over a material gift. Easy street.

Obviously, no generic petrol station flowers, socks, mundane chocolates, bad sexts and worse, practical gifts.

But what should you buy for girls who are above an 8 hot and an 8 crazy?

Buckle up.

We want to look thinner, younger and richer in that order.

We want to cry less, and we want to sparkle more.

We’re talking diamonds, Augustinus Bader skincare, your cash on a Net A Porter voucher so we can buy youthful potions with wild abandon, your cash inside a love letter or kisses engraved on a Cartier love bracelet that we might return for… you’ve guessed it, your cash. Can you say gift receipt? SAY IT LOUDER FOR THOSE AT THE BACK.

We are lawless, so we want our parking fines paid, our credit cards cleared, and our speeding points erased. We want your credit card, too. We want money on account at our favourite bar so we can always be tipsy, our laser clinic so we can be silky seals, and please fill up our petrol tanks because we’re riding on 1%.

Champagne is always welcome, but add an unexpected element to it so it doesn’t get an eye roll. Personalise it with our Substack name or, better yet, a quote from one of our Substack posts! Pair it with a visit to a very exclusive vineyard or create a vineyard in our honour.

Wouldn’t Curiously Delulu look stunning on a Rosè label?

*Single mums are in a crazy hot category of their own. 11 hot/11 crazy. We want sex, but need to be powered by caffeine to have it. A Porsche coffee machine is the only way to get us into bed. Don’t forget the beans.

We probably don’t have clean knickers, so leave sexy lingerie on our doorstep. We like La Perla and Kiki De Montparnasse.

We are available February 14th 3.10 pm until 3.13 pm, and this will need to be booked 4 weeks in advance. Our love language is acts of service. Don’t leave until you’ve assembled any flatpack items.

I think I’ve covered all bases.

And what do I want for Valentine’s?

I want a fully stocked red retro fridge to arrive on my doorstep filled with Ruinart champagne and Augustinus Bader sheet masks. Plus 100 red roses to match. Duh.

See also: Go back in time and unsprain my ankle. Water that tastes like champagne. Red velvet cake with no calories. Someone to invent a way to tattoo my favourite fake tan on my body, plus a lash lift that lasts forever. A press for champagne button that actually works.

Oh, and all of you to upgrade to paid subscriptions. FLUTTERS LASHES

So nothing too wild.

Remember. It’s the thought that counts, and in this gift guide, thoughts are code for YSL.

Sidenote: This is not real gifting advice, but rumour has it the hot crazy matrix was inspired by me.

We all know that vacations are meant for drinking pina coladas and kissing boys you’ll never see again with wild abandon, and I never ever pack gym kit.

This is how I ended up running beside my bestie in Dubai, armed only with vibes and a borrowed neon Lululemon tennis skirt. Note to self. Don’t travel in trainers; people will try to make you exercise in them, and you will say yes.

There are two types of people in this world.

Those who look chic in the sun and those who do not.

I’m a shade girlie.

It was 42 degrees, and unlike my bestie, who is a personal trainer, fully acclimatised to Dubai heat, perfectly tanned, and who can pull off a cap like an off-duty supermodel, I was beetroot red with questionable fake tan, double Ds sandwiched into her spare sports bra, giving classic Amy Schumer vibes.

It’s the taking part that counts, I chanted as I almost lost a limb trying to fit into a size 8 tennis skirt.

I left my phone at the house because I had no pockets and didn’t want anything to slow me down. (Har de har ha).

After 1k, I started to regret my life choices. The air had no air in it, and every step felt like running through treacle. I told my bestie to run ahead, and I’d walk until she met me on her route back.

It took me about 3 minutes to realise that I couldn’t actually stand in the direct sun without my skin blistering, and I hadn’t brought any extra SPF. Maybe I’d go back to the house.

Panicked, I realised I had no recollection of her address or how to get there because I had arrived in the dark the night before after approximately 16 wines on the flight. (God bless the free business class bar).

Even stranger, all of the road names were different here, and instead of blah blah blah street, they said District X, Y and Z.

I was sure there was shade when we set off.

Too scared to ask for directions and not even sure how I would ask for directions to an unknown address, I reached for my imaginary phone to send an SOS to my friend. Who must be on her way back soon, I rationalised.

No phone.

Running under the radar in Dubai isn’t a thing for a blonde girl with double ds. It’s too hot for leggings and long sleeves. The roads were teaming with construction workers with power tools, and I felt like an extra in the Benni Bennasi music video, which I would have enjoyed if I didn’t feel like death was imminent. I wished I’d brought some music.

I contemplated asking a construction worker if they knew a Sam who lived nearby, but lost my nerve. Two minutes felt like an hour. I fixed my gaze on the horizon, waiting and praying to see the neon twinkle that would indicate a Sweaty Betty tennis skirt heading in my direction. It never came.

I imagined running down the street shouting my best friend’s name at anyone who would listen, but my last shred of dignity told me my friend would be back any minute. But with no watch or phone, I couldn’t tell if I’d been standing still for an hour or five minutes.

Somewhere between District E and L, I cursed Lululemon for not putting trackers in their sports bras like that fancy skiwear that lets everyone know your location in a snowstorm. I made a mental note to email the founder if I ever saw my phone again to let them know there is a market for trackable gym gear for over-adventurous vacationers.

I reached for my professional water vest and squirted ice-cold water directly down my top and instantly regretted it as my top went sheer, and I saw 5 more men appear out of the nearest manhole like giddy meercats.

The ice-cold water felt ice-cold for only 2 seconds before it felt hot again. More panic.

I imagined hitting the men who popped up out of the manhole covers over the head with a giant foam mallet like a game of whack-a-mole, and then let out an unhinged laugh that could only indicate severe heat stroke was setting in. This must be what it feels like to go insane.

I wondered if I was going to die of heat exhaustion, dehydration or sheer embarrassment of not being able to retain a street address.

Frantically, I found the only sliver of shade in Dubai. A thin and well-manicured tree cast a pencil-thin sliver of shade against a wall, and I contorted my limbs to match the exact shape. Standing like a praying mantis in broad daylight, I berated myself for not putting a snack in my socks.

I hoped that if I fainted, I would faint in a flattering shape and not be found with one tit hanging out of my Lululemon sports bra. I hoped my best friend would find me before the men in the manhole did, and I disappeared under the streets of Dubai forever.

I could imagine the headline. Beetroot red blonde woman, last seen wearing a neon gym kit, muttering about Lululemon alongside a photo immortalising me looking the worst I have ever looked.

I thought about my daughter and how she would have to grow up without her mum because, at the wise old age of 40, I decided I could run in 42-degree heat in a city I had never visited, with no way to communicate with anyone.

Tearful, I missed the times when my biggest problem was feeling like Mrs Trunchbull in a tennis skirt.

After 645 hours, I saw a flash of tanned limbs sprinting at super speed, and my bestie ran towards me with barely a bead of sweat to show for her run. Worried it was a hallucination, I clung to my sliver of shade.

I thought I’d do 10k! She said.

I collapsed into her arms like someone who had been thrown a lifeline after 7 days in the desert. Apparently, she had been gone only 37 minutes.

It took five glasses of champagne before I could speak of my experience. I politely declined the next morning’s run and celebrated being alive with a breakfast mimosa in the air con.

Lessons were learned.

This post was for my free subscribers, but feel free to send me an emotional support latte, or a mimosa!

Buy me a Coffee (or a Ferrari)

Fun fact: There was a celebrity in my DMs this week (it wasn’t Noel), which gave me ideas way above my station. Obviously, the group chat is on fire, but let me know in the comments if you think I should do it for the plot.

I’m leaning towards no, but that’s because I don’t fit in any date night outfits, and I still can’t find a dress that pairs well with an ankle sprain. Plus, it’s freezing.

So Vogue told us that having a boyfriend is embarrassing, but what if you don’t get embarrassed?

Dating me is fun because I have zero filter and I’m almost impossible to embarrass. That thing that most people have that saves their last shred of dignity during the dating process? It’s something that I simply wasn’t born with.

It’s both a blessing and a curse.

I am the CEO of both the double and triple text, and I’ll throw in 30 missed calls for good measure.

No answer?

A giddy voice note.

If you’re extra lucky, a voicemail, a smoke signal plus a polite follow-up email. That skywriting over your house that looks suspiciously like my phone number. That’s me. In the plane. In case you lost it.

I’ve done so many embarrassing things on a date, and honestly, it’s made the date better. Like the time I booked a table at a pizza restaurant only to discover I’d booked a table at the right restaurant but the wrong city.

Or the time my tomato from my full English breakfast flew off my plate and onto a STRANGER’S while I was walking back to the table where my date was sitting.

I get it from mum. My mum is the poster child for delulu dating and ageing disgracefully. She’s extremely proactive and leaves nothing open to chance.

When I was job hunting, she sent out a handwritten letter to some of the most powerful businessmen on the planet, asking them very nicely to employ me, so you can only imagine how helpful she is now that I’m single.

Did it work? No. Did we care? No. We howled with laughter and found waiting for replies really exciting. She didn’t put my CV in any of the letters, and so I still don’t know what she wrote to this day. But it’s always nice to receive mail.

My mum has linched men for me from the Ivy armed with only a screensaver and my Substack cards and not a hint of embarrassment. It’s not about the end goal; it’s your ability to put yourself out there with zero fucks and go for what you want.

Which I rarely do.

Dating today, it’s about swiping right with about as much emotional investment or creativity as it takes to Deliveroo a Starbucks muffin directly into your mouth.

I’m not anti-app, but all that dating apps ever brought me were emotionally unavailable men who were 6ft 3 5ft 7, who were either going through a bitter divorce or bitter about being divorced.

My Mum hasn’t given a fuck since 1912. Most days, she is a living reminder that, as adults, we can do it for the plot and have a riot doing it.

As I was scouring her wardrobe for some vintage D&G, I came across a signed photo of Noel Edmonds. Flummoxed, I asked her why she had it.

Oh, That’s Noel. I was mad on him! This one time… I asked him out at the BBC.

Three glasses of champagne later, and I was enthralled listening to how she hopped on a train to Kings Cross on a whim to ask him out. She knew he had a radio show, and she knew where it was.

Read more

We all know that IKEA is actually the Swedish word for divorce, and you should never ever under any circumstances go as a couple.

Your love for each other will combust as soon as you enter the revolving door, and if you ever find your way out (I think I still have an ex-husband in the modular sofa section), a Swedish person will serve you a Bratwurst wrapped in divorce papers with immediate effect upon exit.

I learned this very early on in my marriage. Much less publicised is the fact that you don’t need to be married for IKEA to ruin your life.

You don’t even have to go in person; you can bring total chaos into your life by simply ordering online. Whatever you order will arrive in 7809 small pieces with limited instructions and questionable tools to put it together with.

There’s a process.

It goes like this.

Ooh, my new desk. I can totally put that together.

Maybe I shouldn’t; I don’t think I can.

I absolutely cannot.

Wine.

You watch the gigantic box take up space in your hallway for 7 days. Only when it almost topples and kills the dog do you realise you have to make a plan. But as a single woman, you only have two options, and both come with a small to medium chance of death.

Option one: A man.

Wrangle your latest Tinder date in to assemble it under the guise of a movie night and promise of seeing your boobs (small chance of death). Wrangle your ex-husband to assemble it. (Death of any fragment of pride you have left). Play damsel in distress to your cute neighbour.

I have done field research on this last one (for Substack purposes, obviously) and I can’t stress this enough: a fully assembled FRAKTA is not worth six months of awkward waving every morning, so pick the ugly neighbour that you won’t be tempted to kiss. You will thank me for this.

Option two: Yourself

Putting it together yourself with wine always seems like a great idea, but your three types of screwdrivers are never the right ones, and you give up, but not after turning to hard liquor.

Before you know it, centuries have passed, you’ve aged 21 years, and you are surrounded by 8009 nuts and bolts on all sides, dangerously close to drowning in a pool of your own tears while descending into alcoholism.

The desk has taken precedence over your social life, your hobbies and your housework and you consider sending IKEA an invoice for your valuable time. Mariah Carey sued her husband for wasting her time. Can we do the same for IKEA?

So after seven days, the big heavy box still hasn’t materialised into a desk, and I’m cursing myself for being so naive. If someone has my Voodoo doll, can they teach it DIY?

It turns out that nothing will give you a menty B like an unassembled SKOGSGRANSEN leaning casually in the hallway, taunting you for being single.

I’ve written a complaint letter template. Feel free to steal it and edit it with wild abandon.

I think I’ve nailed it.

Dear IKEA.

• Subject Line: Formal Complaint: “FAULTY” SKOGSGRANSEN

• Opening: I am writing to complain about an unassembled and, quite frankly, unmanageable SKOGSGRANSEN...

• The Problem: I am crestfallen that this product came in 5007 pieces, and I would really like it if it came in one piece. I want my money back, my time back, my sanity back, and my dog wants its leg back. Please and thank you.

• Impact: Explain how this affected you (e.g., depression, insanity, dangerously low quality of life, a very sad dog, the vaping habit you’ve adopted to cope with the stress).

• Your Solution: State clearly what you want: I will accept compensation for sanity and pride lost in the form of one tall Swedish boyfriend to put together future purposes. Also: Therapy.

• Evidence: I have enclosed copies of... (Therapy invoice soaked with real tears).

• Deadline: I expect a response within 14 days.

• Closing: Yours faithfully/sincerely,

PS: This is not a real complaint letter.

Love you, besties.

The reason I thought about writing about my (still dismantled IKEA desk was this beautiful essay by Joy Sullivan. Go read her writing, you won’t regret it! I treated myself to a paid subscription just this morning!

The year is 1997.

You’ve got the Spice World album in your hand, and it comes with LYRICS. You can’t believe it. You study every word. You play every song in order, then replay Say You’ll Be There 63 times in a row, reciting every word.

Your mood ring turns purple with joy. It’s just as good as you imagined when you saw it in HMV sale in the 4 for 3 pile. This blows the Titanic soundtrack OUT OF THE WATER.

You hear your Tamagotchi beep in the distance, but it barely registers as the Spice World CD cover is now 99.9% of your personality. You pause only to put on the Miss Selfridge dress, which is the exact shade of blue Baby Spice wears, and wrestle on the white trainers you found in the sale at Barratts.

You feel like you might explode from sheer coolness as you smear on your Rimmel coconut-scented shimmer lip balm and your blue eyeshadow.

You are ready.

You make a mental note to phone your best friend after 7 pm on the landline to see if you can sit together in English tomorrow and to ask when she can come over to do the dance routine. Your pink Baby G watch makes it 6.50 pm. You still can’t believe you are allowed your own phone in your room. It’s a see-through handset with a neon light that flashes when it rings.

You place the empty CD carefully on top of your pile of prized possessions scattered on your Groovy Chick bedding. A tattered Blockbuster membership card (you must return the Clueless Video), a Sugar magazine, a folded Jane Norman bag and the holy grail, the Filofax. Just when you think life can’t get any better, it does. Jasmine and Kaleigh have phoned you and it’s a three way call!

You don’t phone Phoebe because she will want to be Baby Spice, and it’s imperative that you are Baby, and there can’t be two Babys. Although you do want to borrow her patent Kickers for school. You cross your fingers that she wants to be Scary Spice.

You call Chantelle because she always wants to be Ginger Spice. She has ginger hair and is the only one who wears a real bra. It’s a Little Miss Sunshine one. Pink gingham.

You promise you will let her borrow your hair mascara for the front bits if you can borrow the bra. You make a mental note to ask your mum if you can go to La Senza. You have no boobs but are monumentally excited to get them.

No one is sporty, but Jasmine has Adidas Poppers, and that is basically the same thing.

Kaleigh is Posh Spice because her Mum works in Waitrose and she lets her shop at Russel and Bromley. (Whole Foods and Nordstrom for my American friends)

You all agree to practise the routine at lunch.

You contemplate transferring the lyrics into your Filofax for safekeeping. Just in case.

Your Mum shouts you for dinner, and you quickly turn off your lava lamp and skip to the kitchen table while singing Zig a Zig ahhhhh. You add a high kick.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer is on TV.

Life is good.

Do you remember when you took out the booklet in your CD when you were a teen, to find the lyrics printed for every song on the album? That feeling of having struck gold?

Well, this is the exact feeling I want to conjure up for my readers with this post. Finally, a step-by-step guide to dealing with the nonsense men in your phone.

Gather round.

After seven years, I think I’m qualified to throw dating advice around like confetti. Dear reader, I won’t be telling you how to get a boyfriend or make a guy you like obsessed with you. This has sadly evaded me during the majority of my single years, but what I am qualified to educate you on is dealing with nonsense men. I have a degree in it.

I used to ignore red flags. Hot and cold behaviour, the immediate request for a bikini photo, asking me to download a cryptocurrency app, I could go on.

Now I call them out, and you can too.

I’ve been on dates with men who turn out not to have jobs, men with DUIs, men who say they have a housemate who actually lives with their mother, men with secret girlfriends, secret boyfriends, secret children and even worse, men who think axe-throwing is an appropriate first date.

Don’t get me started on wedge trainer Wayne, steak bake Jake or nude sending Nate.

Usually, men manage to keep their nonsense under wraps until at least date two or three, but the last man I planned to go on a date with couldn’t even hold it in until date one.

Right off the bat, he asked me if I wanted to FaceTime.

Cute, I thought.

He’s nervous and wants to get the small talk out of the way with an icebreaker.

FALSE. It transpired that he actually wanted to vet me. “Usually, I always FaceTime to check that you look like your pictures. The last bird looked like she ate her profile picture.”

Flabbergasted, I chided myself for being so naive. Then I laughed out loud that the average-looking Jo in my phone felt the need to vet my looks before a first date and missed out on it as a result.

I’ve been catfished before; it’s no fun, but I’m a girl, so naturally I found the man’s Twitter account and LinkedIn and alerted his place of work and his wife before he had time to say send me a nude.

It got worse.

My almost date then went on to set expectations for our first meeting by telling me more about his ‘nightmare’ last date. On and on he went. How he didn’t mind paying for a round of drinks, but that he was turned off that his date had waited for him to arrive without offering to get the drinks in for them both. He left after refusing point-blank to buy the third round of drinks.

At this point, I’m 100% sure I’m not going on this date, but I’m wondering how to let him know. I totally get that men don’t want to spend their hard-earned cash on a girl who isn’t floating their boat, but to relay this to another potential date with someone else and speak negatively about them is a huge faux pas.

In the past, I would have just ghosted him, deleted his number and never looked back, but I wanted to do a service to the next girl he tried to date.

I called him out. Nicely.

Here’s a play-by-play:

Step one: Go for lunch with your friends. Calling nonsense out is not a solo endeavour and pairs extremely well with a tasting menu and a flight of wine.

Step two: Tell him nicely you won’t be going on the date and why.

Step three: Await a reply.

If you get a nice reply, wish him well. Thank you, NEXT.

Don’t get a delightful reply? Here we fight red flag behaviour with red flag behaviour. This man has, after all, wasted your precious time.

Have fun with it.

Change your profile picture to the hottest, most naked one you have.

Send him a ridiculous GIF with zero context to confuse him and throw him off kilter. This could be enough. (I went a step further just because my almost date was doubling down on his nonsense).

*Then send him a stock photo of the oldest woman you can find, brandishing a thumbs-up pose with the caption, " This is what you missed.

Step four: Reward yourself with a dessert or two. Add sprinkles.

Step five: Remember who the F you are.

Step six: Block. Delete. Bye.

On to the next.

*My gorgeous and good-humoured aunt volunteered for the photo I sent, and we all cried our makeup off laughing at our unhinged behaviour. The story is now one we retell at every family gathering. “Remember that guy who was so worried you would be fat, he ruined every chance of seeing you naked? Yes, we do remember. And, oh, how we laughed”.

PS: No family members or fuck boys were hurt in the making of this post.

PPS: This is not real advice. Advance with caution.

Alexa, extend my vacation.

I want to let you in on the most unhinged way to wield your free will in 2026.

It makes no sense physically, mentally, spiritually or financially, but of course, that’s why it’s fun.

We’ve all heard of Fuck You money, a small pot of funds so that if you need to get out of dodge, you can, and this is a little bit like that. But instead of saying Fuck You to a situation you are trapped in or a relationship that no longer serves you, this is giving the middle finger to that voice inside your head that tells you to conform.

Create a stay another day fund, and even if you never use it, you can be gleeful just knowing you could. Think of it as a little hall pass to whip out when you truly deserve to say yes to yourself.

Today’s newsletter comes to you from my bed, wearing an Augustinus Bader (can anyone actually pronounce that?) sheet mask because it’s the only place left on earth that doesn’t cost money to exist, and movement of any kind seems to result in a sprained ankle.

Read more