I’m still trying to work out why that feels so ironic. Is it because AI is destroying the planet… that’s in space… amongst stars and y’know, the stuff the app is supposed to be making sense of and working with, not against? …and/or because this is SUCH a Scorpio thing to do.

However the irony lands for you, delete your account now. I’m looking for an alternative, so if anyone can advise…?

Your vision has been clear regarding your romantic or creative life. There will be frustrations in the way you've always existed in the world.

Am I romantically creative, or creatively romantic? Both and neither. I haven’t been seeking romance recently but my creative energy has been pushing out from under my bug-bitten skin — seeping out through the crevices but stopping just below the surface and blocking my pores. Sadly I’m too poor to afford my monthly enzymic treatment appointment right now. I had a 40-minute call with the collections department yesterday.

I had some shags recently, which weren’t necessarily romantic but definitely creative — in how they came about and were executed.

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Here’s something I already wrote about it, early on…

Week 3 was when we explored The Readymade Form (ugh, don’t Google that looking for a succinct definition of the writing style, because you’ll only be served sales pitches for ‘quick and easy’ digital form templates that you probably have to reformat entirely anyway once downloaded).

Basically it’s a way of putting narrative across in a particular medium that may seem restrictive (or it certainly did to me at first!) but can be a really great creative device; i.e. time-stamped receipts from a month-long relationship (read this piece here for reference — I loved it), letters to a specific person or business (see the latter here, in a piece by Lydia Davis, and an attempt at it below, in the exercise we were given) or instructions/recipes (annoyingly I can’t find this reference piece online but it was by this guy, and my attempt which was actually just a brutal edit of a pre-existing and beloved — by me — BBC recipe, below)…

I think this format has been my favourite to explore so far. I hope my short pieces (each written in 6-ish minutes, please bear in mind) reflect that.

*

Exercise 1; a complaint letter that has more depth than it may initially appear to.

Dear [town name redacted!] Theatres team,

I have to express my disappointment in the recent production of ‘Punk Rock’ at your [redacted] Theatre. This in no way reflects the play itself — I actually studied it at school, and then performed it at sixth form! I played Cissy, the most popular ‘top dog’ lad’s girlfriend who was fierce and determined to leave her small town life behind and not let any other girls take her crown. I actually found the young woman who played the part quite amusing and believable.

It could be argued that the play is unnecessarily violent with sexual themes also, and that its script contains too many expletives — actually I was slightly surprised to see it was to be put on in a town with a huge elderly, Conservative and middle class population such as [town name redacted], and as I anticipated, a few old grannies walked out during — but that’s not what bothered me.

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1995 — 2011

Where you come from isn’t always where you belong.

I grew up in Battle. That sounds dramatic… For those of you who haven’t visited that historic and twee little town, shame on you, but also, don’t worry too much. You can walk around the entire place in under half an hour, there’s only one decent coffee shop — and if the scarecrow festival isn’t on, WELL, there really is no point. Save yourself the trouble and stick on an episode of Gilmore Girls, it’s almost uncanny.

I had a safe and mostly steady childhood there; walking to school every day over the cricket field behind the pretend castle, and coming home to a calm little cul-de-sac up the road from the station. The back of our house was only a row of garages and gardens — a very steep drop — and a wall of trees from the tracks. I’d hear trains coming and going on particularly still summer nights. In winter, after the leaves fell and the mulch had frosted over, the platform announcements would carry on the wind. My friends would complain about the noise when they came for sleepovers, and ask me how I could stand it. Everywhere I’ve lived since then has been within reach of a railway.

I always say, it was a great place to grow up. But when I came back after uni, quite unexpectedly, I realised quickly that… it wasn’t me.

*

1993 — present(?)

Where else do I belong?

I have another home, and half a family, in Australia. I grew up with a ten-pound pom mum (that’s why I speak a bit funny) who moved back over here for love in 1988.

I’ve never lived there long-term, but I’m a citizen on paper between embossed squares of leather and have probably visited enough times and for enough weeks to accumulate a good year or so of residency — why do I always feel the need to say that?

I often wonder, how can I feel like that? Like I belong somewhere so far away, have only seen certain sides of, and never truly set up camp?

Still, I yearn for it sometimes, with my entire body, and whatever tired old organ is buried in my chest. I can’t explain the pull — it’s intangible but firm. I can’t say it’s the culture, or even my family ties. It’s in the air. The smell of hot tarmac, tea tree leaves and factor 50 sizzling on T-zones. The sound of parakeets returning to roost at the beach in the evenings — and the bendy ‘i’ in ‘flat white’. The blue of the sky that goes on forever, much further than ours.

I may well end up there, one day. That passport (with a golden kangaroo and emu facing off on the front) is safely stowed in my back pocket, slowly wearing a hole through to my chub rub shorts.

*

2019 — 2022.

Do you belong because people know you?

I dated a guy once — would you believe? — who was well known locally, in this town and its little brother Leonard. Mostly because he regularly roller-skated along the seafront which caught a lot of attention, but also because he had the best smile probably in a hundred miles.

When he and I would walk through town, innocent people would pass, smiling, waving, giving him an ‘alright’ — raising eyebrows and metaphorical cups. He’d respond warmly, matching their energy effortlessly. Then we’d continue walking, I’d turn to him and say ‘who’s that?’

It would be 50/50. Half the time he’d be able to give me a full character profile, follow invisible strings and unpick whatever faded tapestry they came from — at the same time adding a crucial corner piece to the puzzle of him I’d been lovingly poring over on my living room floor since the day we met… then the rest of the time, he’d shrug, and say ‘no clue’. We’d laugh.

After a year living on Silchester Road (the quiet end), I became that person too. Once it was safe to, friends would come and visit me at my place — the tiny flat with shoddy floorboards, sash windows that whistled and a ‘bath tub’ that was about the breadth and depth of a banana cake tin. They’d obediently follow me through the window out onto my patch of roof then patiently listen as I told them all my lockdown stories, point up at all the windows I’d spied in then down at the gardens I’d have died for. I told them I’d befriended the fox living among the flowerbeds — that I planned to get him tattooed. Then when my adorable, bizarre tour of the place I didn’t and couldn’t leave for too many months came to an end, I’d take them for a coffee on Kings Road.

That’s when it would happen.

It was when I’d realise, time and time again, that I knew people but didn’t really know them all. Because as we strolled down the street, from the edgy opticians past the piles of forgotten gem furniture, the beauty salon whose name nobody seems to be able to pronounce, and the bakery where they apparently sell a ‘flat black’ coffee… I’d see, smile at, and even ‘alright?’ what felt like a whole train carriage’s worth of people.

The visiting friend would ask, ‘how do you know them?’

And I’d reply, either — ‘we went to school together, and I was her prom date. She’s been married once and is now engaged with baby number two on the way, and she’s working at the estate agents next to the charity shop right now but also training to be a lawyer, she’s coming to my mum’s 60th next year’ — OR — ‘no idea… we’re just faces we know’.

*

2022 — 2024.

Letting someone else belong with you.

When he left (not the rollerskater, a more recent one), I went through a period of mourning for the place we’d made together. I’d shared my hometown with him, not for the mere fact that he’d moved down here from that city up north with all the roundabouts, but because I could tell he needed somewhere.

He’d never had anywhere, really. And I remember seeing a light come on beneath his heavy brows as he settled by the sea — not literally, he hated the beach.

Before long he was asking if we could go to ‘the place off Queens Road with the freshest pizza’, expressing a preference of supermarkets, and following routes on foot without checking his digital maps.

He’d ask for ‘our usuals’ when we visited our almost-local, and formed a friendship with the genius who made my cucumber margaritas.

Soon it got serious. By which I mean, we’d be walking past a terrace, along the seafront or through a cute twitten and he’d nod or point (subtly) to secretly say ‘that one would be nice’.

So after he was gone, I was suddenly surrounded by a lot of haunted houses and sad shopfronts — old faithful cocktails that didn’t hit quite right and coffees I couldn’t taste past the first burn. He’d tainted my town. The one I’d given him, to belong in.

I took photos of places when I’d pass them. Our home of 10 months on Mount Road, with pure white seagulls painted above the front door. The pizza shed that’s been shuttered up for over a year — I even saw their enormous oven up for sale on Facebook Marketplace. The house we viewed with the pink door on Plynlimmon Road. The One Stop-slash Post Office I only recently felt brave enough to take a parcel to. The flat we offered on, round the corner from my parents’, that I never really saw us in.

I tell people I get tattoos to reclaim my body and feel more at home in my skin. (Also, they look cool). At some point I realised I had to do something similar with my town. I had to go to each place, and make new memories of my own. Something else had to shift and peel away, too — the festering resentment I felt at his rejection of the space I made for him, and the things I shared with him. Instead I needed to admire myself for that kindness and bravery.

I gave him a place to belong, in me and by the sea. And now both are mine again.

*

2026 — ?

Will I belong here forever?

You’ve seen — or heard — some snapshots of my twisting timeline now. I often find myself reflecting, wondering if I should be trying to find a home, another chapter, elsewhere. But where else is there? I do wonder.

We all know about the Crowley curse. So it won’t surprise you that I have collections of hagstones in every corner of my flat. They’re in Selenite bowls on side tables, or the cheap chipped dishes I adopt from charity shops — they’re tied on light pulleys, sitting beside my computer monitor and spilling out of a big hamper in the fireplace. I wear them around my neck. Some are even sunk into my freshly set patio.

I find them on the beach within seconds of stepping off the pavement, and I know it’s because I wasn’t born here — not in the Buchanan or the Conquest, or any living rooms in St Leonards. It could be argued I was a DFL of sorts at the tender age of two but with a Dad from Bexhill and a Mum from Sydney… It’s complicated. So, I suppose the stones feel they can be seen and held by me — even dropped in my pocket — because there’s no risk of loss on their part. I used to think maybe they wanted me gone, but I’ve reframed it — they know I won’t go, but if I did, they’d let me come back.

If they could speak, they’d say in undoubtedly croaky tones ‘go about your business, we don’t own you’.

All of this to say… My choice to be — to belong — here is evident every day, and it may well change, but for now I’ll stay.

*

Thank you for reading. It was a particular treat to read this aloud to an audience of over 80 people, on a summer’s eve amongst some castle ruins. Thanks also to Hastings Writers Workshop for that.

The fresh ones towered over the others — although to be fair, the latter were all tatty and deflated from too many months of tote bag travels. Still. I was baffled. That’s when I made a mid-year resolution: no new notebooks. I’d stifle the impulse when I walked by WHSmiths (or whatever it’s called now), and silence that little voice I hear when I chance my luck in TKMaxx — the little demon elf that screeches hopefully, ‘this one will be different!!’

I felt sad I’d let so many innocent notebooks fall by the wayside. Some were gifts, of course, but actually that was worse somehow. I vowed to use them all up, and keep every scrap. I told myself that someday I’d do a little gallery show — very vainly, centred around my scribbles (I promise there’s more to it than that). Or maybe… I mean, definitely not, this is way too huge to aspire to even in my legacy, but hear me out… My dad went to a Bowie exhibition years ago at the V&A, which as you can imagine was a rich mixture of colour, costumes, lightning bolts and glittering artefacts. Even with all of this on display, however, Papa said he was blown away the most by the scrunched up notes and torn pieces of paper covered in his hero’s handwriting — thoughts, lyrics and themes all carefully curated and preserved behind glass for fans to stare at. How would David have felt if he’d been told all that time ago that his rough drafts and half-baked musings would be publicly shown — and not just that, but marvelled at? Okay, maybe that’s a weird dream of mine that I won’t admit to without a long-winded run-up.

…anyway. Before I moved into my place and had that unpacking epiphany, I had a notebook adventure to my favourite seaside city and got a coffee in the relatively new and terribly chic cafe opposite my favourite silver jewellery shop. And now the teeny pages of scribbles have resurfaced unexpectedly.

Read on.

*

31/03/2025.

Everything is beige, except the sunlight on my blue denim skirt. A couple, I assume, in fleeces and jeans and round glasses, kiss outside.

I wonder as I scribble in my tatty old notebook, when did the shape of my ‘w’s change?

…and why must I take a photo? The latte art heart isn’t even that good.

A slight, silver-haired ‘man’ brings an assortment of crockery and cutlery back to the bar and says he should be their waiter. The sweet (beige) barista politely laughs.

I see Chappell Roan totes and daffodil pins on jacket collars, short blonde bobs and glinting gold hoops. Expensive bottles of juice cast colourful shadows across the bland wood and white sinks.

If I didn’t have these tights on, I’d get a tan.

Instagram poetry has recently/finally come under fire. Words in empty space don’t cut it now. And nothing is free to consume any more. Not when everything can be copied and stolen away.

Clumsy handwriting is romantic.

I just found an emergency panty liner stashed in the back pages of this notebook. Thank you, Past Me.

*

Red Pen Books has (with permission) reposted my silly little collection of sentences as a short story on their platform and their DM/asking/posting has reminded me of a few things; keep scribbling, sort the old blog out, and short stories can be anything.

What shall I scribble about next?

Thank you for reading (in all the different forms).

Liked this? You might fancy these…

This half-cooked deck of cards is really just going to be a repeat/redraft of the one I already have pinned; I’m going to use the same snippets of information, more or less, but with a different font and newer photos — maybe a little more flair? We’ll see.

Because the thing is, I don’t need to reintroduce myself. None of us really do. People can just scroll back through our profiles if they’re that curious, surely? And much like writing a book (she says, as though she’s an expert), you have to trust the audience.

Can you tell I’m in one of my strange philosophical/f-ck the online world* phases currently? Apologies, they only happen once every couple of months, and then I go back to the empty grind of creating frivolous 11-second bids for attention…

* ‘online world’ here referring specifically to social media, and by ‘social media’ I mean Instagram and it’s affiliates — you lot are fine. I don’t know why I don’t spend more time here, to be honest. It’s a freeing, mostly fun space, full of creative souls and/or admirably ambitious hustlers. Although it does hold me more accountable, and maybe that’s what I’m avoiding. I still need to finish That Book.

Oh look, a distraction!

I’m turning 33 this weekend. I haven’t done one of these posts in a year; not since the old blog days — actually, number 53 of the ‘series’ dropped quite sloppily about a week before my first Substack article…

Huh, they even have the same photo! Was Past Me consistent, or lazy?

These posts always did well on the blog. I used to think it was because readers were nosy. But maybe it was also the element of human connection through the screens — something we’re so spoiled by these days, it’s gone off, and smells unpleasant.

I’d always try and use a ‘different’ photo, rather than the usual posed jobs, so here you go…

Now, let’s see what comes out. (are you enjoying the mildly cynical running commentary? If not, I’ll send some more apologies, as I haven’t had my first gulp of coffee yet)

Hi, I’m Grace. I went through a Gracie phase, but now it’s over, and only a select few are permitted to call me that. I hate instant coffee, but will drink it out of politeness. My theme for this year, going in, was ‘learn more’. I know Ms McKenzie from that pop video. I wish I could afford more art. I’ve rescued a lot of seagulls recently, and want to be trained in pigeon handling. I’ve made 11 silver rings in my college classes this year, and suddenly want to make more shiny things in my spare time. I might paint my boring kitchen trolley pink. I like my new job, I think. Reading or speaking in front of audiences doesn’t seem to scare me any more. One side of my neck has been hurting for a week. I’m really appreciative of our little town’s long-awaited castle (ruins) reopening. Silent discos at 7am are a recently discovered joy.

I strongly believe that all TV shows, especially sitcoms, only have a couple of good years in them, maximum three, before they need to end — and yes, that includes Ted Lasso.

Yesterday evening, my therapist and I broached the (big) topic of sex again, after me attempting to last year and not feeling comfortable — I’m much more positive now, but there’s still a lot to unpack.

There is one googly eye hidden in each room of my flat. My cat needs to lose half a kilo, but I hate depriving her. I’m still fascinated by the road into town from my front door, and deciphering all its different personalities. I’m getting REALLY into my garden. This year I had a heap of purple poppies appear, slightly different to the deep pink crop last summer. I believe in the art of asking.

I keep checklists everywhere — To Dos, work tasks, reminders for my next trip to the supermarket, icks and pet peeves, cringe Instagram post ideas, long-term hopes, home improvements, body count, everything comes with a box to tick.

I’m thinking about moving back over to my own web space. ‘Web space’ sounds so uncool now. I haven’t had the tattoo itch (literally, or metaphorically) in a hot minute. I didn’t fall in love with that sailor but that’s not to say I wouldn’t want to try again. I think I’ll steer myself away from gin, once my current supply has run dry. I’m woefully behind on my 2026 Bingo Card/List, but already excited to make the next one in January ‘27.

I wonder how many ‘fun’ facts I’ve repeated in the 15(!)-year history of these posts — and how many aren’t true any more.

…okay, I think I’m out. Not as many pop culture references as usual (I say ‘usual’, and think, it’s been a year?!) and a bit more intimacy than expected, but I’m happy about it all. If there’s anything here that intrigues you, let me know — maybe a post can be made here or there.

1 minute ‘til the end of Writing Hour. Thank you for being with me for this time. And happy birthday to me.

Liked this? You might tolerate these…

‘Not particularly,’ Young Me sighed — ever the dramatic August Leo.

‘Oh, because you won’t be—’ Dad cleared his throat, ‘twenty-twoo-oo-hoo!’

‘That’s definitely one of the reasons,’ I admit. Then I half-mutter, ‘but also, nobody likes you when you’re twenty-three.’

There’s a pause. Then Dad asks, ‘is that a Blink song?’

When I tell you, I’ve never been so proud of him?!

I am obsessed with numbers and dates. My synaesthesia provides me with colours and shapes for each digit (i.e. threes are pillar-box ruby red, eights are the deep pink you wouldn’t expect a real ruby to be, and tens are a mature businesslike black — all of the above have rounded edges, and soft gooey centres), and while my memory struggles day to day, thanks to my meticulously kept and arguably analogue diaries I have a wealth of references to reflect on, like gel pen pushpins.

33 is obviously a double whammy of redness, but the two 3s side by side are a balance of warm and cool. Here are a few other feelings about this number — and this age I’m turning in less than a week…

3 happens to be one of my lucky numbers. Or rather, the numbers that follow me around. 2, 3 and 8. 28, 33 and 38 are also lucky ‘blends’. 22 and 23, not so much — they’ve failed me before, or been apt warnings I didn’t heed. I try and include all of these somehow when I play the lottery (which is, funnily enough, only two or three times per year — definitely less than eight) but it’s hard because I think they’re all too close together to work the system.

So… two threes. Double luck, squared? The number is attached to my address too, and was in part of my postcode growing up. How funny to think.

Recently people have been telling me they found themselves, their biggest passions and even a few true loves at 33. I’m very aware that this will happen every year, particularly as I’m now a single early-30s girlie with a flat and a cat — everyone wants to tell me it’ll ‘get better’, things are just about to change and bloom and develop into more than I could have ever expected. Or I’ll find myself starting over and connecting with more like-minded people. My social (media) algorithms are bursting with these glimmering positive reassurances. I’m taking them all with pinches of salt, preferably licked from around the rim of a cucumber marg.

More niche content currently being shoved up my nose is ‘August Leos’. Obviously I lean into the lore and hilarity of Leo season with every sunny revolve, but this extra layer on top has intrigued me this time round. August Leos are supposedly more self-aware/self-assured/self-involved (delete as appropriate, or agree to all of the above), and 8x more fun to have as a friend. We’re tinnies on the beach, charity shop wins, shouts across the crowd and sweets smuggled into the cinema.

My birthday is 01/08. I don’t know many people with that date stamp. I used to joke that the month was mine — it had to be, because it began with me. I could drag out my festivities for the entire four weeks if I wished; stretch the brightly coloured bunting across the calendar page and draw flowers, crowns, ladies and lion heads in every square with my initials tucked in each corner. I keep that Big Date Energy to myself more these days, and say I’m sharing the love around or not making it about me, when really I don’t feel the need — and secretly, I think that is the best sign for my self-worth.

What else is 33? Unfortunately my CofE school drilled it into me that someone important died in a cave on that day, or something — and the traumatised teen book nerd remembers a manically depressive mother character getting a Celtic cross tattoo on her elbow when she reached that age and was trying to seem cool to her most unfortunate kids. It’s the line in the Busted song that they changed (to 53) for the 2025 tour. The number of the house I’d like to own on that terrace, the one everyone drools over that’s only inhabited by old money or London’s ex-lovers.

It’s a new chapter, as each age is. It’s really not that big a deal, she says. She, who cried every day for the fortnight leading up to her 32nd. She, who’s asked her parents for a Shark vacuum cleaner as a ‘main present’ — the one with the pet hair attachment. She, who still hasn’t moved on from two out of three of her teenage crushes. She, who isn’t done writing through her feelings — not now, not ever.

*

Thank you for reading. I have a new ‘thing’ developing currently, so stay tuned, and [whispers] please show some support when it comes…

Btw, if you enjoyed this, try these?

Eyeing up my crinkled sharing bag of Lidl’s finest (no wait, that’s another brand?) sea salt and black pepper crisps which yawns open, inviting our hot grubby hands, on the ‘window ledge’ of a VIP box at the O2. One of the few upsides of someone else’s corporate life. We sip cocktails and watch Lily Allen tying a frilly pink apron on, the word CUCK embroidered across the chest. Hearing the whole crowd scream ‘who the fuck is Madeline?’ was magical.

Re-reading one of my first Substack posts and being smacked in the face by the all too apt metaphor I casually conjured up in writing about a favourite song; ‘[my ex] was always incredibly efficient at learning lyrics but never quite absorbing the meanings’.

Thinking ‘this was worth the £80 Google Home subscription’ when I scroll back through my living room camera (intended to be a Kitty Cam) history and watch that guy kiss me fully and run his hand up my thigh — swaddled in chub rub shorts. My cat looks on, curiously but not passing judgement, from her cushion on the floor.

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Hearing the word stable, or at least the casual equivalent (‘your brain is fine’) then catching up with my consultant/surgeon/hero for a further 40 minutes while tension mounts in the nice new waiting room down the corridor. We talk about AI, he tells me about his (now adult) kids and their differing achievements, I give him one of my silversmithing course creations and assure him I’m working towards my dream, which he knows has always been writing books. He doesn’t know that when I get my publishing deal he’ll be the first to receive a proof — and his name will be a couple of pages in from the cover. I say my parents send their love, and he smiles.

Eating smacked cucumber and stir-fried aubergine with Izzy in the South Lanes sunshine, served by perhaps the sweetest wait staff who totally get us. We gossip and giggle as we snack and sip before packing up and pottering along Sydney Street — there’s time to catch a swift one before getting our trains home and we promise it won’t be this long before we next catch up. I climb on at platform 8, sit backwards, I think how lucky I am.

Making a Canva graphic for my birthday garden party, I know who I definitely don’t want to come. Somehow already feeling anxious about the amount of food I’ll need to get in. How much is too much?

Stumbling upon a particular pop culture podcast eight years late to the game, hosted by two Australian women and produced/co-yapped on by a third, feeling familiar warm fuzzies while having their voices accompany me in the shower and then as I get dressed.

Looking down at my dry, calloused hands to see things I made… with those same hands. Every hammer mark, solder blob and fire stain, all mine.

Wanting to laugh my head off when he’s on top of me, because? Who’d have thought but also how could he not? Then I wonder if he feels any pressure. Then I reflect on how much healthier I am mentally — how little I care about his opinion of me, or what he’ll inevitably tell friends that once upon a time were mine too, how much happier and at home I am in my body even now it’s aged ten years since he last saw it and of course, he’s known for liking skinny youngsters who secretly know better. My self worth has not only come up from the floor, it’s created itself a space at the table with a fancy place setting, five forks and a wine-coloured cloth napkin. I enjoy the night for what it is, and am delighted when he leaves in his wedding suit before 10am.

Attending a mini AGM with the team of volunteers behind the local digital rag — barely being able to get a word in without being hurried along by the chair, dipping in and out of social media wormholes when my opinion isn’t desired and topping up the hotel bar’s glass with my own handbag mixture. As we all depart, a friend offers me her old white Panda for £600 — it needs a test drive, and four hubcaps. Then I walk along my favourite stretch of beach with excited eyes following feet, grabbing fingers picking up my favourite type of pebbles, before sitting against a groyne and staring out to sea, munching my packed sandwiches and smoking a rollie I worry looks like a spliff. I count my hagstone haul. 25.

Chuckling when the crowd cheer ‘1066!’ in response to the musical ‘oh-eight-hundred, double-oh…’ posed to them by a panelist on the third ep of ‘new’ Mock the Week. (my review as a former Dave TV watcher: starts off a little bumpy, but gets better)

Looking up from my screen in my second Writing Hour this month (two up on June, get in!) to see all the growing collection of event flyers, course ads — cabins and houses wanting creatives and holidaymakers respectively, the other way round. The most recent additions are branded bookmarks from the new bookshop around the corner that I still have yet to visit, and a scrap piece of paper with a WiFi code and book names scribbled on. Plusnet X8F. Password *m****13****9 (capital H, small B). ‘Reverse Cowgirl’, Mackenzie Wark. ‘Everything for Everyone: An Oral History of the New York Commone, 2052-2072’. I have college in an hour. Billed as Summer School, but it’s more of the same, which is good. I remember now about my face being put on the back of a bus next month, advertising adult classes at the college. Won’t that be hilarious?

— this almost became a blog post, but I caught myself. Until next time… thank you for reading.

So, here’s what I’ve been doing this week instead of writing my novel — or advertising my writing workshop, texting that guy back, and paying my service charge.

Having a check-up and clean at the dentist, then telling her my tongue is still not normal, but I’m happy with this being my new normal… for now.

Getting home from bar shifts at midnight but not skipping important cat quality time, playing with her in the living room — her favourite things to chase and try to catch are potato starch eco pops, pulled-off paper bag handles, and spare shoe laces. I stopped buying her catnip-filled fuzzy characters a while ago.

Visiting my new workplace, and feeling like it’s where I need to be.

Falling in love with pieces of furniture that could never fit in my flat.

Accidentally leaving a scrubby coffee face mask on for over an hour instead of the advised 10 minutes while I half-watch a podcast on the expensive little screen that sits on my biscuit tin as I pile in loads of laundry, wipe surfaces, eat overnight oats and refresh my propagated plants’ jars of water — then suddenly remember to take my 30mg of Elvanse.

Following new people on social media, and trying not to stress about it.

Finding other people’s supermarket shopping lists left on shelves or at the checkout, having a nosy, taking a pause to ponder poetically what kind of life they lead or led — and then thinking about how this could be a great punt in experimental fiction.

Taking far too many photos of my cat as she rotates snoozing spots.

Reminiscing about my trip to New York City in 2024, all alone and freshly heartbroken, but determined to take leaps, trust the process while doing it for the plot — and make my own memories in this magical place I’d only ever seen with him in my periphery.

Thinking about going to yoga classes in the church hall, as I somehow struggle to simply search and scroll on YouTube and then roll out a mat in my living room.

Coming alive in the sunshine. People are telling me how ‘well’ I look, that my skin is glowing and I seem happier than ever — I smile, and reply ‘it’s my sun’.

Thank you for reading. I promise I’ll write more soon.

Did you enjoy this? Even if you didn’t, here’s some more stuff I wrote:

When did it get like this? I think, as I look at that particular Gmail tab. I don’t remember signing up for this many mailing lists, this amount of admin… this life. People say ‘you need to touch grass’, well, I need to get my feet in the sea and let my toes grab some pebbles. I need to climb up the beautiful metal mermaid-esque statue growing out of the pond in the park, and chat to the arguably ugly geese who guard the tallest trees.

I recently cleared my cache after hearing some worrying statistics and very valid conspiracy theories but then got SO upset when the three key filters of Primary | Social | Promotions slipped into one loud mess of review begs disguised as discount offers / weekly horoscopes / writing course updates / my accountant patiently answering all my most basic queries / Dad’s sharing of hopeful BBC articles and important updates about the Albion / local creatives asking for studio space and then offering studio space and then complaining about the costs of studio spaces — oh, it’s just so much.

My Co-Star horoscope subscription has dropped. It starts with, ‘you’ve been analyzing analysing the deepest parts of your psyche. There will be frustrations in the fields of your natural talents’, and I roll my eyes. Their emails always seem to contain the words ‘frustrations’, and ‘natural talents’. They don’t even know what mine are.

It continues, ‘these frustrations will see their beginnings in your subconscious in conjunction with deep truths. Beware of difficulties relating to the ways you’ve been working through old trauma and psychic habits’ — I work through my deep truths and old trauma in therapy each week, you silly creatures. Psychic habits, though. Not sure about that one. I knew a friend was pregnant recently, before they did. That isn’t a habit, though.

And finally, ‘The current hold-ups are signs that it’s time to do things differently. Every challenge will force you to discover a new path’. The do it differently/new path wording is too easy, too vague and honestly a bit bland. Although it is apt for me, right now.

Okay, what else is happening outside of my emails and above my beloved pebbles?

I’m running a writing workshop locally soon, and I really need to plan/advertise/do something or anything for or about it.

My hair is coming off my face more and more — at this point it’s just a pair of very thin curtains hanging in there, adjacent to my recently-tinted eyebrows, and I’m not averse to scraping it back completely and showing the world my short forehead which would shock teenage me. She was always hiding behind a sandy-blonde, warm brown or deep purple block fringe — the colours changed with the weather, but the style never wavered. I suppose my post-op self (x3) would be surprised, too; she struggled for far too long with the disproportions and wonkiness that no amount of reassurance from loved ones or medicinal botox could fix. Poor things, both of them. I’m trying to work out if my not caring about this, or a lot of other things (including dating, people pleasing, FOMO or fashion) is a sign of blossoming self worth or worrying numbness.

I’m going to revive my blog soon, since we’re still on the analogue-nostalgia-revival trend and/or boycotting all the big platforms and, hey, I pay for that precious URL. I’ll move everything from the past year over from here, bit by bit, if I can bear it — and finally archive all the teenage angst. I don’t know how some folks are able to exist and thrive across multiple accounts; uploading regularly, having schedules and strategies, growing and climbing and collaborating while remaining fully engaged with followers in weekly live streams or exclusive podcast episodes, meanwhile most days I struggle just getting through my very demanding inbox. Tell me your secrets.

Thank you for reading, and remaining.

If you enjoyed this, you’re obviously a wacko like me and appreciate you. So, why not try these on for size…?

Thread 1: a very simple journey narrative, i.e. leaving the house and going somewhere before returning home. Write it in little paragraphs of just a few lines each, gaps between.

Thread 2: (italicised) a completely different written something — in tone and subject matter, with no relevance to the first thread.

Read more

The cat wakes me at 4:23am with her tragic diva-level mews. I tell her no, because 4:50am has been fine for the past few weeks as I can placate her with some cuddles and strokes from a dead arm hanging over the side of the bed as she bashes herself against the teal velvet, or plucks at it with her claws to get my attention — and if that doesn’t work, she’ll leap onto me/my pillow and yelp in my face — before I let her out at 5am when the sun is high enough. 4:23 is outrageous.

I told my family at the pub last night how much I love her. How ‘there was this time, recently, when she snuggled up with me under the duvet with me as she does most nights and I almost always offer her a hand, right? She can bite it or push against it or rest on it, I don’t care. Well, this time she put her chin on it, fully, I felt the whole weight of her face — and then I felt her paw, just one paw, come up and onto my wrist. I peeked under the duvet and wow, she looked so calm and happy and she was holding me in place, y’know?’

I doze for a while somehow, before stumbling through to the patio doors at 5:13am and letting her out. The little zingy noise she makes tells me she approves, and appreciates me. I flop back into bed and have an incredibly intense dream about nearly missing a flight with my family; fortunately a gaggle of empathetic airport staff put me in their car with all my luggage (and cat) then screech through twilight traffic to get me right onto the runway. One of my carry-ons is a large paper Bag For Life, full of smelly washed kale. When I board the plane my sister is waiting for me, which is the weirdest part.

My 6am alarm coincides with a task in my calendar: Wash Hair. My hairdresser of many years is currently fully booked until July, and I can’t afford him right now anyway. I’ve taken a recommendation from a local women’s WhatsApp group and am paying £30 cash to have my hair trimmed later on this morning by a lovely woman who happens to live just down the road — and right behind the spenny salon. I have to wash my hair myself and then she’ll wet it later, which is fine by me.

I wander into my living room naked to lock the patio doors now my girlie is inside — once again, forgetting I recently invested in an indoor camera. I’ll send another hilarious screenshot to my (fully consenting, and female) friends later. I have been pondering a lot lately what a true shame it is that nobody is enjoying my body with me, because it really is marvellous and I’m more comfortable and confident in the (thick) skin of it than ever before. But then I remember I can enjoy it and that’s the really important thing after all — and ponder within the ponder (ponder-some, squared) if the reason I feel this positive and radiant lately is because nobody else is getting a look in. There’s a lot to unpack here and I don’t have time — I’m already anticipating I’ll be late.

The We’re Here To Help podcast soundtracks my shower and I feel grateful once again that they brought their show over to YouTube, as those guys were my only real sacrifice when I finally stepped away from Spotify. Jake Johnson really is Nick Miller, just a little older and wiser.

I start a new job in June. That’s the reason for the haircut. And the brow tint/lash lift I’ve booked for tomorrow. It’s perfect timing really, because it means when I actually start at the office my hair will have settled and the tints/lifts will have softened so it’ll all look very calm and natural — not too try-hard. I’ll be working for a charity as well, so I don’t want to seem too ‘glam’. I’ll hopefully learn on the job how to strike the perfect balance of ‘she’s got style and her act is totally together, we can trust her with our cash’ and ‘she’s so hard-working and very down to earth, let’s help her with some funding’.

I put a bath mat on the floor of my bedroom, in front of my full-length mirror. I rub thrush cream that isn’t that kind of thrush cream into the sole of one foot and between toes of both. I think to myself, ‘when this heals, I can get a pedicure’. I don’t know if it actually prohibits me medically or if the beauty therapists who charge £52 for bathing/scraping/painting have any issue with a bit of discoloured flaking — the issue is all mine.

I adorn myself with the usual silver suspects — the claddagh, the signet, the herkimer diamond, all those quirkily-shaped studs, the slim hoops I’ve been wearing consistently for three years at least — but today I mix in a particular pendant and battered little ring, both of which I made myself. I smile at them in the mirror.

I’m late for Writing Hour, as I knew I would be. I don’t blame the cat this time.

We all hear and feel the vibrations of the upstairs dweller’s alarm. It goes on for a good while. Long enough for me to think, they must be away. Surely nobody could sleep through those vibes for more than 8 minutes? I wonder how long it’s programmed to go on for*. Eventually I accept it, and let the noise buzz between my ears as I type. The sound of all of us typing is a good antidote. I’m reminded of how thin my own walls and ceilings are, and try not to wonder what my neighbours above and on all sides — Charles, Ben, Nina, John, Rach — have heard, at one time or another. I am surprised to find my biggest concern is them hearing the cat’s 4am mews, because I’d hate for them to think I’m a neglectful mum.

I just opened a new tab to book a haircut at the salon, two days before my birthday. Another excuse for a treat. My hairline is receding despite all the oils I rub and pills I pop, but I tell myself it’s okay, because a) I have a strangely short forehead so there’s room for some backwards growth, and b) I plan to shave my head again in 2028 — a whole decade after the first time.

Everything is going to change soon. I’m getting closer to the ‘semi-routine’ I’d desperately craved, obsessed and wrote about far too much. I’m excited and worried about only the silliest things. I’ll share those another time, maybe.

*…20 minutes. It just stopped. And almost immediately, all of us in the room started typing faster.

Thank you for reading, and bearing with me.

If you liked this one, you’re mad and I like that. Try these on for size…

‘Ohh, Hastings! Where the battle happened?’ they asked me from across the stalls at Freshers Fair, in my first few seminars as we did those terrible ice-breaker exercises — and shouted it over the music as we queued for the bar at the Student Union club. It would be that question, or the insurance company jingle we all knew so well would be sung delightedly in my face. I’d be tasked with a tough choice — do I go into more excruciating detail and explain that the Battle of 1066 did not happen in Hastings, would you believe!? It was actually just outside, and I grew up in the adorable little town that was built on the battlefield! The town called… Battle.

After a while I’d just say ‘near Brighton’, when asked where I was from. Much easier.

And I actually went to college in Eastbourne. I did my A Levels in the old Hampden Park campus — do I have to say when? Fine, 2009-2011, WOW that was a while ago, I know — and I travelled there from Battle, two trains each way every day, until I finally passed my driving test. I’d walk down to the station with my Dad most mornings, as he would be beginning his daily commute to London (he’s retiring this year! Can you believe?!) and we’d wave goodbye to each other across the tracks as both our trains came in around 7:02. I’d change at St Leonards Warrior Square and meet friends along the way from there; some would have hopped on at Hastings, others boarded at Bexhill, we’d all find each other and crowd round a table to catch up on gossip, swap songs on our phones via Bluetooth (the latest cutting edge tech at the time) and/or do last-minute homework. Then we’d all trek from Hampden Park station to campus via the big Sainsbury’s, where we’d usually split a baker’s dozen of jam doughnuts because it was 8:20am and it just made sense. Self checkouts had only just come to be around then too, and that would bring us a lot of joy — why am I so determined to date this story!? Well, hopefully you get it — these days I’m in my early thirties, I have a mortgage and a cat and a whole career somehow, so of course I’m prone to wistful reminiscing. It’s actually really fun to reflect.

Actually, let’s backtrack the reflections. I went to secondary school in Battle, and obviously when the GCSE chaos was happening, all my peers and pals were looking at sixth forms. Everyone seemed to be looking at one in particular that was very close by, and then a select few were going for the grammar schools further away — I attended the open day of the former but wasn’t a fan, and decided not to stress myself out by aiming for the latter, because a) my predicted grades weren’t that impressive, and b) honestly, I didn’t fancy wearing a tie for another two years. Hastings College had only just come to be in its newer, shinier form, and none of us knew anything about it yet — so I chickened out of that option. I started to worry I wouldn’t fit in anywhere. I’d have to do my best with whatever hand I was dealt…

Then, I found Park College. I went to an open day and as soon as I stepped through the doors of the old A Level block (RIP) I felt a familiar, friendly warmth. I knew then and there it was right for me. The early starts and ‘four trains a day’ thing suddenly didn’t scare me or even matter that much — what mattered was that I spent the next two years of my life learning, growing and blooming somewhere I belonged.

I knew what three A Levels I wanted to do, based on what I’d done best at and enjoyed the most in school (and the fact that at the time I loved to read, planned to spend at least a year living in Paris, and maybe secretly wanted to be an actor) — English Literature, French, and Drama & Theatre Studies. Unfortunately, it seemed at the time, I had to pick one more subject to do at AS Level for the first year. I was stuck. I didn’t like any other subjects I’d done previously, or did particularly well at them. History bored me almost to death, Geography was as dry as the river beds we would painstakingly scrape on school trips, my Maths skills were beyond zero — and to this day I maintain that I haven’t done any since I left my GCSE exam hall that day. Every B and C I got in those subjects was a shock, and a triumph. Reluctantly, I checked the timetable to see what would ‘fit’ with the other three subjects I’d already chosen, and realised that my only option was Sociology. Cut to the end of AS year, I’d failed my French exams (did you know there were three MORE tenses to learn!?) but got close to full marks in all things ‘big society’, hidden agendas and social norms. I continued with Sociology. It was an accidental joy to learn something new and I think despite the many changes we’ve been through in terms of mass media, social culture and, well, society as a whole, it equipped me for a fair bit of what was to come later in life.

I struggled a little studying English Literature as I quickly realised my strengths weren’t reading quickly OR conventional written exam environments, but I poured my heart and soul into coursework and my brilliant teachers helped/hauled me through the rest. Their passion for the topics and crafts we covered inspired me so much — I still remember the man who happily wept while we examined poetry, and the silver-haired literary queen who wore Dr Martens, championed Angela Carter’s weirdness and LOVED our hot takes and debates on Bronte vs Austen. I have worked in the book world, on and off, for many years now, and have those teachers to thank for helping unlock the editorial and critical side of my fiction-loving brain. One of my favourite roles in the publishing industry was at Walker Books, many years ago, where I assisted in the Editorial department. My working days were spent reading ‘raw’ submitted manuscripts, fine tuning proof documents, and of course bringing ideas and pitches to the commissioning editors for them to consider taking on and turning into beloved books — usually over coffee and homemade cake, in the office’s little library!

Of course, my English studies helped me with my own writing skills, too. I’ve been blogging for more than half my life (I actually created my first ever Blogger account in the Learning Cafe during a lunch break at college) as well as writing articles for online publications (including Huffington Post and The Guardian) plus pieces for authors’ themed collections, and over the years I’ve been approached by literary agents and publishing directors asking for novels or even memoirs. I currently have a novel in the works, but can’t say too much about it just yet. Stay tuned…! so intriguing, G

So, Drama… I can honestly say that studying Drama & Theatre Studies at A Level was miraculous for me in so many ways. Not only did it bring me skills that have served (and saved) me so many times in my working life — public speaking, thoughtful reactiveness, improvising within a short time span, connecting with and relating to a variety of audiences, to name a few — it also gave me something valuable on a personal level. That old black box theatre space was where I truly became confident. I’d had a bit of acting and presenting experience before this, of course — not to brag, but I starred in my school’s infamous Christmas pantomime every year — but this was a new level entirely. Our classes were led by Nicola Chambers, a theatre practitioner known for her work in bringing stories out of darkened, or often unseen, spaces and shining the brightest light on them. As strange and cheesy as it sounds, I feel like she brought light out of a lot of us. I wasn’t the only student with a slightly shy disposition, for instance, and although I’d been given all the freedom of expression and spotlight I could want in my very happy and wholesome upbringing, I was still keeping myself in a very cosy comfort zone. By the end of the two years studying and exploring in that safe space with the most supportive and creative people all around me, I’d not only broken out but also blossomed.

Skipping ahead slightly, I had a period of illness after university, and while getting back ‘on track’, I found a lot of joy in hospitality work. I enjoyed serving stressed commuters coffee at 6am, working under intense time pressure in a team atmosphere — and even improvising a little, here and there. I think serving a good long period in hospitality should be mandatory for all humans in the privileged world, by the way — it makes you a much better customer, and person!

…anyway, eventually I moved into the book world before beginning the biggest business era of my life to date — LUSH HQ. I spent 7 years in the world of bubbles, before hanging up my metaphorical bath robe at the end of 2025 to finally pursue a freelance life, and train in something very exciting (I’ll share more about that someday… maybe).

My Drama experience definitely came into its own when I began my soapy adventure in the retail side of LUSH. The stereotypes are true — the full-time bathers tend to hire the cheeriest, bubbliest (!) people to greet customers and help them find the perfect scent or shower companion on the shop floor. Then I moved into the company’s head office, through a stint in Customer Care (the most resilient and heroic team!), into the marketing and branding department — with some copywriting with social media management mixed in. After a while I took the leap into Product Launches and, finally, became an ED&I project manager within Product Development. I was a one-woman team, facilitating the design and creation of products for ranges in alignment with seasonal, religious and/or cultural celebrations — such as Diwali, Hanukkah, Día De Muertos and Eid. I’ve always been passionate about equity, diversity and inclusion matters, so I was delighted that this role meant I could bring new minds and voices into the creative process. I’d send callouts for each range months in advance, create focus groups with all applicants, and ensure I spoke with every person who submitted a design to better understand the relevance and importance of what each signified. I’d then have the hard task of running virtual ‘vetting’ meetings with the focus groups to narrow down the selection, before working with the compounding teams to develop the products as samples and then submit them for approval with the powers that be. Along the way (and beyond, all the way into the marketing and PR phase of product launches) I worked with every team you could imagine within LUSH, and not just in the UK, but across the world. I’d frequently travel to the factories in Dorset for development work, but I’d also get up at 4am to present in meetings with my colleagues in Japan — and most evenings I’d be liaising with Lushies in North America. I brought product designers over from the States, Asia and Europe for fun factory tours, meetings with directors, and a chance for them to get hands-on with their heartfelt creations. I watched as their ideas came to life, and dreams came true.

This role was by far the hardest I’d ever taken on, not just in this particular company but in my whole working life up to that point. I could never have imagined I’d be doing something so important and wholesome — and if you’d told teenage me, as she walked from one college classroom to another carrying all those books and wondering where all these newly acquired skills would take her, I think she’d have fallen over in shock.

It’s often said that college is the ‘stepping stone’ between school and university, which is true for a lot of people of course, but I’d argue it goes much further — and wider — than that. I followed what I’d call the ‘classic’ and well-worn path, A Levels to degree, but I know many of my peers went straight into work after doing apprenticeships or diplomas also offered by our college. Everyone has a different journey, and it’s important that it begins in the right place.

*

Thank you for reading the full story (with some details still airbrushed for appearance’s sake).

‘just’, ‘proper’ — wow, c’mon G. Have some gumption. Btw, did any of you enjoy the ‘live edits’/tongue-in-cheek editorial decisions in my last post? No worries if not. oh no, now that too?!

In case you missed it…

Anyway, in this day and age we’ve all been taught (and/or forced, by other people and the financial climate sh*t show of it all) to monetise everything we do. It’s not been a fun time. However, I feel like we’re slowly coming out from under this pattern of pressure and a lot of us* are reconnecting with ourselves, exploring curiosities and using creativity to heal in a lot of ways. Inner children are being beckoned and held more than ever before, by the sound of it.

*I am painfully aware that this could just be my particular neck of the woods, geographically and generationally. I live in a very creative seaside town where money for the most part isn’t a ‘huge thing’ — except when it really is — and my thirty-something peers around here while also chattering in my social media echo chamber are all saying the same thing so??

…all of this to say, it feels cathartic and joyous but still slightly rebellious to be doing something almost entirely for the fun and fascination. At least, from the beginning — I’ve now decided to start yet another small side hustle with the bits and bobs I’m making in class, but that’s not a serious thing, I swear!

I think the same could be said for the 8-week experimental fiction course I attended recently. Well, it’s hopefully going to help me with that big project I’ve been pushing up a hill for many years now, but for the most part it was simply an opportunity to learn and try something new. I say ‘new’, but I realised a little way into the weeks of sessions that it was in fact one of my favourite types of fiction to read. Not new! Who knew?

Speaking of (cheesy TV host voice), scroll on to see something I wrote in one those sessions!

— we’d be given little creative exercises with structures and specifications to try and play with, between the text discussions and workshopping business, but never had to read anything out. The brief for this one was: ‘A description of a character with blanks the reader can fill in themselves — maybe decide what info you’ll always give, and what you’ll always leave up to readers)’;

He’ll always catch everyone’s eye when he enters a room, on account of him being so _____. It’s undeniable and immediately becomes an invisible elephant nobody dares acknowledge or touch. He dresses much like a _____ would, which makes sense in a way — although while his eyes are piercing, bright, and a _____ kind of hue, they’re not what you’d expect necessarily from everything you’ve already taken in about his appearance. His hair, meanwhile, is just _____. Which is neither here nor there.

*

Another brief was, ‘write your own two-sentence story with a descriptive title (without which the piece would lose something significant)’;

‘What If Kombucha is a Divine Scam?’ by Grace Beal.

‘My gut needs this,’ you’ll say.
I don’t, the gut replies, but you never listen.

*

What do you think? You don’t have to tell me. As you should know by now, I just appreciate you reading.

I’ve been up since 5am. The cat woke me, as usual, and instead of trying to appease her while half-asleep with kissy sounds and lazy strokes from an arm dangling off the edge of the bed, I threw off the duvet and swung my legs out. She leapt with joy. I showered, dressed, forgot to wank, opened the patio doors, put a small collection of laundry on a warm wash (all my greys), and made a smoothie. I often think of my ex when I make smoothies, and how he’d always tell me to add a splash of water and/or only let it blend for 33 seconds.

Even with the surprise early start, I still managed to set off with zero minutes to spare. Today is a writing day. Writing, working, meeting and speaking. I have coffee dates booked with various local ladies; a literary agent, a social media marketing whizz, and a seamstress who’s hoping I’ll be a bit of both the latter of the above for her. Then there’s a rogue (male) marketing manager, recently returned from paternity leave, in the maybe pile.

As I walk, I think of Waterloo station, for some reason. Of the newest bar that’s opened on the mezzanine, and who might be in there today. I think of Mum, and how right now it’s coming up to the end of her first full day in Australia. I think of the cocktail I had, alone, at that hotel’s rooftop bar before seeing a show starring Michael Urie and home-wrecker / home-wrecker’s new girlfriend Sutton Foster on Broadway. I think of just how big the world can be, and how small my own is.

The fish smell finally evaporates and gives way to the not-unpleasant odour of petrol and potatoes as I pass the supermarket service station, and notice that the boards and steel on the windows of that cursed former queer hub of a pub have come down. I briefly wonder which hopeful sucker which ignorant ex-Londoner who is responsible for that, and judge wish them luck. I continue to the charity shop section of the road, and the baby shop on the corner that I always joke is where you buy newborns.

(Yes, I am still obsessed with this road.)

My Grandad still doesn’t know I left my full-time job last year. He still asks me if I’m going into Soho to work any time soon, or planning any trips to the factory in Dorset. I don’t lie necessarily, I just say ‘nothing to report’, ‘they never paid me enough anyway’, and ‘I’d definitely like to see my friends over that way sometime soon’. He told me the other day over lunch that my bigoted Tory wanker great-uncle and his hard-done-by wife said they’re disappointed I haven’t brought out a book yet. I bristled and queried this, as what business is it of theirs!? I haven’t seen them in years and why do they care? — he explained that it’s only because they think I’m a great writer and it’s ‘a shame’ I haven’t sold something yet. I tried and failed to calm myself with a brief breathing exercise, then told him it wasn’t that simple, that while I was halfway done with my novel — ‘oh Grace, but you said that last time I asked! You must hurry up!’ — that didn’t necessarily mean I was going to be published, and even if I was, it would take years. Dad opted into the chat then with an attempt to help, reminding me unhelpfully that I have a literary agent (I don’t, officially), and I snapped curtly informed him that the average literary agent receives and vets dozens of submissions per day — some of the ‘big name’ agencies? nearly a hundred — and then commissioning editors even more, so that didn’t make much difference. I told Dad a few days later, as we drove back from dropping Mum the airport, that all Grandad had to do was tell me he enjoyed my writing and hoped I’d get somewhere with it someday — that all or a few of my dreams would come true, while he’s still with us. I know that’s what he was trying to say anyway, between all the swings and roundabouts.

I’ll find time to do it eventually, but I’ve been SO busy recently with wisdom extractions and emergency appointments and tour guiding lovely Americans and chaotic bar shifts and oat flat white-induced shakes, and feeling sorry for myself. Now I think of Prince Humperdinck. ‘I’ve got my country’s 500th anniversary to plan, my wedding to arrange, my wife to murder, and Guilder to frame for it. I’m swamped!’

Thank you for taking the time to read. I might not have.

Yesterday was a sad day. Well, I wasn’t sad all day, but I definitely started on the wrong foot — or side of the bed, or mindset, and/or all of the above. I snoozed the alarm too many times, and thus lost my mojo and motivation before it even entered my mind. From there, time slipped away from me and I didn’t have a direction to go in because I’d missed the crucial first steps. I need to learn. I need to stop going to bed at 11:38pm. I need to find a new sleeping position that doesn’t give me cramps and ‘crunchy shoulders’ (this diagnosis awarded by a deep tissue masseuse very recently). I need to remember to take my 20mg dose as well as the 30, and make sure it’s within a few hours rather than the other side of lunchtime.

I need a shag. I need money. I need routine. I need a purpose. I need to write the book.

I don’t know if it’s better to say ‘need’ or ‘should’. I learned not to say the latter a long time ago — thank you, therapist.

I, I, I. Too many of my sentences are starting with ‘I’. But then, it’s me! This is what you came for.

Let’s look at some positives, shall we? I managed to save one tower as it threatened to tumble recently — all it took was some tipsily honest conversation over pizza. I wrote a piece for that local online publication I’d had some talks with, did some work for an upcoming local event, and applied for some local jobs. I’m finally rehoming some of my plants in local coffee shops, where I can visit them if I wish. I attended a local peaceful protest that apparently scared off a supervillain who’d been scheduled to speak on the seafront. Local, local, local. Live, local, love. Friends are trying to help me get work. I’m applying for this, that and all the others, feeling hopeful for the sake of it. I had a dinner and theatre date with one of my dearest. I’m speaking with that vegan restaurant about a Creative Content Collaborative Opportunity™️. I’m really excited to get back to class at the end of this new month. I had a coffee date with my new writing mentor (who also happens to be an old-ish friend) and she told me ‘it has legs’ — hearing her suggest plot points, compliment me on the arcs, peaks and troughs, and identify with my beloved characters/cast was really quite emotionally magical. I wish I could say it’s lit a fire underneath me, but I still have many mental blocks to shift and a lot of literal things to get secured before I can give enough time to the project — much like the course I bought back in January and so desperately want to do, but can’t justify the devotion just yet. It’ll come, she says. It’ll all make sense soon, she insists.

My tarot pull before bed the other night brought me some known home truths — Queen of Cups, Six of Pentacles, and another one I can’t remember but it was definitely good and SUPER apt, trust me.

I’m enjoying walking everywhere recently. I think I’ve said/written before, it’s making me more aware of time and its pitfalls, encouraging me to plan further ahead — and while I try not to obsess about it, I’ve felt some needless kilos fall off and as a result I have a little more precious energy in my prematurely ageing body.

I have a crush on a barista. How hilarious, and very Vintage Me. It’s not serious of course, it’s really just a friendly appreciation, although it’s nice to know I’m still capable of crushing — it’s been a while. Maybe my heart is thawing out in the weak Springtime sun, and brave flowers are peeking out from between the bars. I’d like that to happen.

Tomorrow (which is today!) I’m having some teeth pulled out while I sleep. It’s strange phrasing it like that, isn’t it? Even though that’s exactly what it is…? We humans are fascinating. I’m in for day surgery from noon, so think of me while you’re wondering whether it’s too late for a second coffee, or too early for lunch.

Thank you for being here.

Liked this? Try these —

He puts a hand out to — stop me, or steady me? I don’t think he could do either.

‘…then there were two—’

‘…just us, then—’

We hum and laugh awkwardly. Is it awkward? I’m feeling completely self aware while also miles away from my own head.

‘It’s been a while, hey,’ I mutter. It was meant to sound light-hearted, but it came out like an accusation.

‘Missed you,’ he whispers loudly, through his red wine lips. He nudges me. ‘Am I allowed to say that? Well. So you know. Like, in case you wondered.’

‘I didn’t wonder.’

‘So you knew?’ His tone is accusing now. Gently, though.

‘I didn’t know either.’ I sip and grimace.

‘Well. Yes.’

‘That was a lie, actually.’

‘Which was? What?’

‘I did wonder.’ I turn and pull the tin out of my bag. I open it on my lap, but then he takes it.

‘I’ve got this,’ he puts a filter into his smile. ‘Assuming you still can’t roll?’

‘I prefer someone else doing it.’

‘Of course.’

*

‘Why did you block me?’ I finally ask as we stare out at the high street, lit in a haze of orange, through the crack in the window — both of us on our knees in more ways than one.

He shakes his head, smirking. ‘She made me.’

‘And you had no say in that?’ I realise I don’t want to make this easy for him.

‘It was just better to agree.’

There’s some silence. Smoke wanders out into the night. We both see a skinny fox slither across the road, but neither of us mention it.

‘Remember when we bumped into each other, that time at the supermarket?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer — he knows I do. ‘It was that night. I wondered why you didn’t stop to talk. You always stop to talk. It’s an admirable quality.’

I let the sound of my burning inhale speak for me. The crispy singe of paper.

‘Well,’ he continues. ‘I was still wondering when I got home. I checked your stories, and then found all the… The stuff you’d written.’

I blink far too slowly. It’s not quite a cringe, but I do feel embarrassed. ‘Did you read it all?’

‘Of course. You’re really good,’ he side-eyes me. ‘I liked the May Day one.’

‘Ah.’

‘That’s when she saw what I was looking at. She told me to block you.’

‘Because I wrote a story?’ I attempt a snort of disbelief, but it comes out like a choked gulp.

‘Because she could see how I felt reading it.’

I flick the end into the street, quietly sighing out the last embers. ‘I didn’t say much at the supermarket because I was running late. I had a dinner to make — and no make-up on. I wasn’t in the mood to chat.’

‘I believe you.’

I reach for the wanky tumbler, as he reaches for me.

*

Thank you for reading.

Liked this? Try these —

I asked if the coffee still tasted that good in Melbourne. She replied, ‘better than ever’. Her accent didn’t sound as mottled or misplaced any more, it seemed to have found its perfect mix — its home.

We went to sit at one of the tables outside, without debate, as we both knew it was our favourite spot. I met myself in her gentle eyes, deeply but firmly set amongst folded lines and beneath silver brows — a different, darker silver than the coarse shock of it on her head, so bright it almost reflected the Springtime sun.

We crossed our legs simultaneously, in perfect alignment with each other. She noticed me fiddling under the table, moving my rings from one finger to another. I explained that while some would call it ‘stimming’, I think of it more as ‘grounding’. I noticed that she on the other hand (literally?) was very still, but in a calm way, not controlled.

I was relieved to see she was still adorned with ink and silver. Almost encrusted. Ornate, oxidised creations broke up her fingers, lump-like pendants dangled and tangled together on her chest, enormous hoops swung either side of her head. I didn’t recognise all of the tattoos as some, I realised, were yet to come. Our coffees eventually appeared, and as she stirred her (oat) milky latte — ‘I can’t drink like I used to!’ ‘Oh, no more whisky or gin?’ ‘Ha! No, both of those, I mean the espresso of it all!’ — I caught a leafy crown peeking at me from inside her fluted sleeve and smiled to myself, happy to see the one I’d always wanted but always put off, as I was reluctant to publicise my love of seaside folklore.

‘How’s our buddy doing?’ I couldn’t help asking, but managed to refrain from touching my head, or nodding at hers. The same head, half a lifetime later.

She smiled. ‘He’s behaving, still.’

‘And—’

‘They’re fine, too.’ She said, losing the smile ever so slightly for just a split second, but it was enough to tell me we’re not out of the woods yet. I probably have more hospital trips ahead of me.

‘Be more mindful of food,’ she added then, her face brightening. ‘Pay for expert advice. Foot doctors aren’t a luxury either, you know.’

I laughed, thinking she knows me so well. Of course.

Then I asked her if it gets better. She replied by asking me where I was now, and what I was doing. She joked that she could almost tell which timeline I was from by the tattoos I did and didn’t have, and the fact that I still had long hair — but she still needed me to put a pin in the map.

‘I don’t know what I’m meant to be doing,’ I said, simply. ‘I’m lost. I’m happy in myself — I’m healthy, physically and mentally… mostly.’

She waited, taking a sip from her cup. Steady hands, a twin flame in her eye.

‘Therapy is still helping. My self worth is actually really good! Despite everything,’ I didn’t worry about babbling, because I knew she’d understand. I watched her lower her cup and cock her head, inviting me to ask the clichéd question. Daring me to.

‘What do I do next?’

The grin unlocked and unfurled across her lived-in face — like waves parting, or stage lights turning onto an audience. Then she said, ‘write the book.’

*

Original post, inspired by the same poet whose social media reach exploded (and then sadly, as with every viral sensation, her lore got a little lost) —

And here’s Jennae’s website / Instagram; enjoy!

Thank you for reading.

I’m sitting in the ‘other end’ of the bar at that hotel I’ve inexplicably been to three times in the past month, which is definitely more times than I’ve visited the place in the past… well, years, plural? I’ve never been here more than once per year. Now suddenly I’ve had three reasons to visit since the end of February; Dad’s 60th birthday party (the group chat I founded was a triumph), my first annual alignment with my fellow freeholders to discuss the service budget for the coming year — ‘we might as well make it a thousand each, just so we can have that extra cushion?’ ‘yesyesyes great plan, I definitely have that amount handy’ — and now this, a casual meeting and greeting with a local online paper.

I know we don’t talk about the Gilmore Girls revival, and I am more than happy to perpetuate the pretence that the show ended at the climax of season six, when Lorelai shouted ultimatums at Luke in the street and then went off to shag Christopher (hey, better end it with a blast of chaos and unanswered questions that inevitably lead to excitable fan theories than a soppy snog after a poorly written farewell party) — but, humour me for a moment. When Rory Gilmore returns to Stars Hollow and spends almost an entire two episodes irritably snapping at the very kind townsfolk who are genuinely happy to see her ‘I’m not back!’, after too long chasing the big dogs disguised as white whales (here meaning, Condé Nast), she reluctantly takes on a role, handed to her on a plate, running the ancient town newspaper. The hope is that she’ll breathe new life into it, and take it as a golden opportunity to rebuild something important while she’s waiting for her next chapter to start… and she couldn’t be more ungrateful.

I think the final stage of frontal lobe development comes when one realises that the Gilmore girls (to be clear, this is Lorelai and Rory — Emily is a Gilmore woman and not to be lumped in with them) are the worst characters in the show, especially the revival. They have their great moments, sure, but overall they’re spoiled, ungrateful, and always trying so hard to resist and rebel against their privilege… and a lot of the time, they’re just rude. Thank goodness for the supporting characters’ arcs and quirks; for Luke, for Jess, the town meetings team — and even Kirk.

…well, I laughed to myself as I walked to the hotel for the third time in a month, voice noting several unsuspecting victims along the way, thinking and then saying aloud ‘I’m Revival Rory’. The difference here being, I have a lovely opportunity to help refurb a local publication, and while it’s not what I expected to be doing, I won’t take the golden ticket for granted.

So, here I sit. Getting a feel for who’s who and what’s what, and what could be and what can’t. All the while drinking my whisky and ginger a little too quickly and wondering how to tell the lovely gathered voluntary writers of a certain age that their website needs a big juicy overhaul — but not in the way they think. It doesn’t need to be dressed up, it needs to be stripped down. I can see it so clearly — all the clunky blocks and buttons (God, how I detest Wordpress) can be taken away with all their contrasting colours muted, the landing page can just be a menu that takes everyone exactly where they need to be, it could all be so simple… I’m thinking and planning already before I stop myself to think, genuinely, do I have the time or the headspace for this?

I’m a sucker for a wholesome grassroots project. It might be a hereditary thing, as much as it is my keen and helpful heart. You see, my parents are both ‘doers’. They can’t just join something and merely attend, they have to be part of it. Mum started going to a local Buddhist centre many years ago to learn and explore the practices, and now she helps run the place. She has a set of keys, she helps host their events, she manages their social media accounts — she’s even done exams and qualified as a meditation practitioner, and for a while she had her own weekly classes. Then there’s Dad, who started playing tennis at a club a few years ago — just before lockdown, I think. He still goes there for lessons regularly, but also has opening and closing responsibilities several mornings and evenings per week; he also helps stock the clubhouse and attends monthly team meetings because he is now, of course, the club’s voluntary treasurer. I tease them both for their adorable ‘doing’ dedication, telling them they could just come and go, y’know! — but I admire it really.

I think about this now, as I listen to the volunteers referring to the next item on their handwritten agenda. I try and detach, be practical, think about how much time I really have and whether this will hinder my endless search for something steady and secure — will it be too big a task, or too much of a distraction? Thankfully there is a promise of money, but is it enough?

Then at 18:54 I check my phone again, and I see the email I’ve been waiting for all week. I tell myself not to look, while I look. I see the word ‘unfortunately’, and my breath shudders. There it is. The perfect job, the one I thought was The One, gone before I’ve even had the chance to properly go for it. I read on — apparently there were 1,250 applicants and ‘the field was incredibly strong’. They claim to have read every application ‘at least twice’. The Rory Gilmore in me mutters ‘but they can’t have done, because if they did they’d have picked me?’ I take a screenshot and send it to the few people who knew I went for this — and of them, the few who would care about the outcome. ‘This one hurts’, I type, tacking on a broken heart emoji. I feel the urge to cry, and consider stepping around the corner and into the toilet to do so, but then I’m called upon by my very kind friend who set me up with this meeting, so I smile and dial back in.

The kind creative friend and I go for another drink afterwards, at the queer-friendly bar I’ve recommended she host the newspaper’s AGM in next month. I truly enjoy myself, the company, and the drink. We part ways and I hop on the train home — but not before I’ve picked up the free local magazine I write for at the pub on the corner (not that one, the nicer one with all the neon) and dropped off a tiny DPD package at the Premier shop, the manager scanning the barcode and printing me a proof of postage while keeping both eyes fixed on the CCTV screen above my head, because a group of lads just came in and are swarming the fridges. I check my WhatsApps as I walk over the station bridge, and see Mum sent me a video of the film she’s watching with her dinner, in which Ryan Gosling cries in his car while reminiscing about his relationship with Emily Blunt (as if), ‘All Too Well (Taylor’s Version)’ playing over his montage of memories. I’ve seen it before, but I really like that she went to the trouble of filming her TV screen for a minute and a half, because she felt I’d appreciate it. And I do, partly for the humour, but also because I now know what my train journey soundtrack will be.

I finally start to cry more than a day’s worth of tears as the song starts, sitting alone on a platform bench just a stone’s throw from where I lived a past life. I keep crying until I get home, and make myself a mug of miso soup.

Thank you for reading this mess.

Back in ye olde days of blogging, when I was considerably more popular and relevant (she yells out the window of the writing workshop at a passing cloud) I’d often find that my ‘lists’ posts did the best, reach-wise. I did an irregular ‘about me’ series, each part titled with a number and never longer than two paragraphs of random facts and thoughts — sprinkles of whimsy, peeks into my past and the odd dollop of gossip, but they’d almost always end with a poignant note or ponder that went a little too deep. Most of the time that was accidental, because by that point of writing the post I’d have done so much mental digging, trying to find things I’d not mentioned before (which grew harder as the numbered titles climbed inexplicably into the 50s, but also clearly not because… they were in the 50s?) I was feeling particularly reflective and, yeah, really very vulnerable. But readers liked that.

Anyway, back to this irregular series… Here’s the last one in the little series I started some time ago —

And here’s the latest instalment…

Taking photos of my cat. Soldering silver with a blow torch. Soaking hag stones in hot water and Fairy liquid bubbles, hoping it will take the salty fishy stink off. Shaking together cocktails through ice in stainless steel. Sitting in the parents’ front room with snacks, surrounded by sewing ladies. Trying to get more than 4 likes on a LinkedIn post. Buying too many small tomatoes named by fruit when they themselves are fruit (cherry and plum). Rearranging cookbooks and asking the internet whether they should stand or be stacked on the shelf. Defacing a political pamphlet with gel-penned capital letters and queer stickers. Buying a bespoke Mother’s Day bouquet, then walking through town and silently bonding with everyone who admires it as they pass by. Popping brain pills. Reminiscing about nights out in 2012, when nothing mattered except your level of commitment to a costume, or the likelihood of you being the unlucky drinker of the dirty pint. Taking calls from behind a coffee machine, and looking really cute while doing it. Pitching myself, boldly and bravely. Releasing work-related rage productively — cleaning and tidying my flat, consolidating tote bags of charity donations, recycling all those cardboard boxes I saved but don’t really need, and starting work on an enormous compost patch at the bottom of my garden.

My loved ones and I are doing a charity event this coming weekend, so I’ve been pouring all my energy and social media savviness/madness into that; updating our fundraising page with adorable character bios, working on collaborative content with/for the charity, and sharing the link around with attached quips acknowledging how poor everyone is right now and how the world is on fire but we also want some spare pennies, please… I’ll need a break from shouting into the voids once the walk is over. I’m also anxious that my new shoes aren’t up to the task.

I’ve also been attending evening classes in Experimental Fiction at the Writing Workshop. Does that count as work on a novel? Or is it very adjacent procrastination?

But, wait… Could there be…? A real actual update, about the novel I’m supposedly constantly procrastinating from!? That’s right. Two, in fact.

Last Monday (yes, it was a while ago already but I’m clinging onto this little victory with my clammy, un-manicured hands) I sat down at 7:30am in the Writing Workshop space and came up for air at 9am to find I’d written… exactly 1200 words. And not just that — those 1200 words were a whole new beginning to the story. What’s more, miraculously, I didn’t have to sacrifice anything that came after.

That shy little spurt has brought my messy Draft Zero to 51,900 words total. It’s also given me a much-needed kick of confidence and, as clichéd as it sounds, a breath of fresh air. Suddenly I can believe again that this story will be finished someday. And someone other than me will read it!

Actually, I now have one more person recruited to read. A proper mentor! More on that later. The point is, I’m getting there. Maybe I’ll be able to start writing ‘things I’ve done this week besides writing my novel’? We’ll see. Bear with.

And, as always, thank you for reading.

For context ⬇️ see below.

I took her term ‘consciously’ and translated it as ‘write about it in sporadic Substack posts, and switch between a succinct numbered list format and pretentious half-paragraphs, each with their own single-word bold-text title’. She probably meant for me to say things aloud as I went about my day, or maybe keep a notebook beside my bed. Nahh, that’s way to obvious for me — and in case you poor readers didn’t realise, I prefer to do my pondering and pontificating in public, for all to see read.

I really do love writing. And of course I love people reading my writing, but I’m not sure if it’s as much as I love the writing part. Something has shifted for me (yet again) recently, and I’m finally feeling my creative spark starting to return, its light peeking out from under a damp, crushing rock — I’d really worried that I’d lost it, because life.

‘Because life’, the millennial says, knowing everyone will know what she means.

Anyway, the writing part. It’s therapeutic. It always has been. I often hark back to my humble blogging beginnings, one lunchtime half my lived years ago (literally — I was sixteen), and still tell everyone earnestly that yes my angsty teen self had notebooks and Microsoft Word (I had a privileged upbringing) but it didn’t give me the same release as publishing something, however small, sending it out into the word by just dragging the wired mouse across its little pad to click a button. Cathartic, chaotic, thrilling.

So, what am I grateful for now? I ask myself as I sit here in my beloved Writing Workshop space at 8:23am (all my lucky numbers), sipping from my largest (yellow) vacuum-sealed cup, a day of reading and writing work awaiting me and a few things in between, here and there. Let’s see what comes up…

Odd jobs. Big and small. Big, meaning today I have to go to the bank to pay in some cash, and then the Post Office to pick up a parcel. In this day and age? How quaint, how old school — how wholesome! Then, in small, yesterday I took my cookbooks from their unfortunate ‘spot’, piled in a corner above the fridge where they’d only existed as a helpful launchpad for the cat as she’d hop from kitchen- to cupboard-top. I dusted them off and put them (consciously!!) in plain view on my shelf above the coffee machine, organised by excitement levels and not in colour order. I felt hopeful seeing the faded blue stickers peeking out between pages, thinking of all the creative cooking opportunities awaiting me in my periphery.

Side note — I read somewhere recently in my carefully curated/cursed algorithm that nothing should live on top of one’s fridge. Apparently it’s ‘precious breathing space’. Weirdly, I get that?

Big, meaning cleaning and tidying the flat before guests arrive, whether I’m hosting them for the night or just for dinner on laps in the living room (I still don’t have a coffee table). Wiping cat hairs off the lid of the toilet, washing up mugs and air fryer parts clogging up valuable space by the sink, sweeping up cat hair clumps in unlikely corners, ‘rolling’ my desk up to standing level so I can tuck my office chair (covered in cat hair) underneath it, pulling my duvet tightly over the bed so nobody sees the cat hairs that have crept onto the fitted sheet.

Small, meaning creating and posting content for the charity I love so dearly; sitting on my sofa yapping to the camera for 3 minutes before trimming it down, trying to cut out all the ‘ums’, hoping the social media team accept the collaborative post request and don’t take issue with my cat photo cushions OR the ‘3 Graces’ print behind my head, which I didn’t realise may be an issue until after my mint tea was drained and the sun/my candid energy waned.

Familiarity. The cafe owner knowing my order, saying it casually and comfortably as I approach the counter — or in another recent instance, starting to make it when they spot me stepping through the door and taking my littlest (pink) keep cup from my bag.

People who believe in me. Yes, my Grandad questioning how my work is going/how I’m doing financially at least three times over the course of an evening or a hot lunch each time I see him is grating (although it’s improved since I started answering with alarming honesty, saying things like ‘as you’re asking, I could do with a hundred thousand pounds, please?’ or, ‘I’m sure any day now I’ll be rich’, and then we chuckle together) but I love that he’ll also ask me about my garden, my cat… and how my book is coming along. He’ll tell me to hurry up, because he knows in his gut that will be it for me — and he hasn’t even read a word.

A bar manager taking me on with no question of whether I am aptly qualified (only slightly worrying), happily yapping with me as we work, imparting wisdom (with accompanying cocktail samples) whenever possible, and trusting me to learn as I go.

My friends checking in regularly and the local women’s/neurodiverse group chats always give me a good bit of pep in my step, too. Which is good, because I’m currently without a car and doing a lot of stepping… Averaging 15k+ per day.

—and, coming directly from the above point, my parents. Because firstly, they never ask directly how work is going, they wait for me to update them. They don’t get too particular about finances either, they just say ‘we’re always here if you need’, knowing I’ll never ask as I’m too proud. I have been asking for and appreciating their taxi services recently though, when my step count isn’t enough of a motivator. Much more importantly though, as well as being incredibly generous, they’re a genuine joy to spend time with. I can relax and mostly unmask (but remain polite!) around them. We talk, we listen, we advise and we joke, and — she refrains from typing ‘idk’ because she does know — our friendship is just something I can truly understand is a privilege and a rarity to have as an adult, as was my mostly* safe, wholesome and healthy upbringing.

*of course there were spats, dramas and wobbles along the way — c’mon now! No family is normal, nor perfect.

Psychiatry UK. Oh yes, it took a long time (diagnosed in 2022 after waiting a few months from referral, re-referring/surrendering to them for medication needs in 2025 and then finally being prescribed through a titration period in 2026) but my goodness they’re good when you get hold of them — like most health services I’ve dealt with, fortunately. We’re so lucky, my fellow Brits. In this sense, anyway.

Opportunities to read aloud. I am flattered every time I’m asked to read something I’ve written at my local writing workshop’s events, and get so excited/obsessed in the run up to it, I write and edit and rewrite and edit some more until I have a perfect script I then learn to the point where I could probably recite in a noisy at midnight, half cut, teetering on top of a bar — see below.

Hmm. This post went on a bit. I should stop it now.

As always, thank you for reading! (more gratitude)