I told her as much, and she conceded. “No, I know. You’re big on looks. Who cares if they’re a bit fucked up, so long as they’re not fugly!”

Exactly.

She sounded very pleased with herself for saying this, which made me laugh. I ruminated on her words. “You know what? I like it. I’m going to use that title.”

And so here we are.

I suppose some would say dating in London is a fugly state of affairs. To explore this further, I have compiled the following market report.

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INTRODUCTORY NOTE: INSIDER TRADING

There’s been an interesting development in my romantic life lately, which is that since I started writing about dating, my pursuits have become a semi-public market.

A few suitors have brought this to my attention. I was on a date earlier this month with someone who had made no mention of having read my work, or even knowing I was a writer at all — that was until after a couple of drinks, when he caught me completely off guard.

“So… did you only come on this date with me because I have a little hoop earring?”

I felt myself smiling in disbelief as he continued to probe my reasons for being sat there with him, despite saying very publicly that I would never date his type (no.6) again. It was my first time meeting this person, yet he already knew so much about me, from the things that make me feel sexy to the strange dates I’ve been on in the past. “You’re like an open book to me and you don’t even know it,” he laughed.

I wrote off this incident as simple background research, but then I found myself being asked about my column by a DJ at the club a week later. After saying hello, he asked, “So what’s all this you’ve been writing about hedonism?”

It was unnerving to realise that my inner monologue was now very much an outer one, reverberating in the DJ booth and beyond. I liked it.

SECTION ONE: MARKET OVERVIEW

In the first two weeks of this month, I went on six first dates. I was having a veritable feast, with suitors coming in from all angles: real-life encounters, social media, and of course, dating apps.

The apps are busy right now. I think people are trying to squeeze in a final bit of summer lovin before the SAD kicks in and makes us all feel unsexy. This is a good thing — the market is saturated.

The flip side of this is the proliferation of short-term visitors to the city. They will usually wait until you’ve exchanged a good amount of back and forth before dropping this into conversation and asking you to be their “tour guide”. These people can make for a fun summer fling, which I myself have been known to enjoy; however, if they are visiting for less than 48 hours, I think it is perfectly fine to send them a Google Maps link to M&M’s World and a big fat “fuck off”. Enjoy London!

One other thing depressing the market is the unfortunate undercurrent of sleaziness. While I am open about casual dating and the need for sexual chemistry, I’m not a huge fan of the number of men (mostly on dating apps) who speak to me like I am a sex object and not a real person with feelings and a burgeoning Substack empire.

SECTION TWO: NEW DEVELOPMENTS

I found myself going through a number of “firsts” this month. Some experiences that were new to me include:

• A date where two martinis went straight to my head. As somebody who prides herself on her excessive martini consumption, I was shocked to find myself quite drunk after just two. I listened to my date speak as I stared into the middle distance, only brought back to the present moment when he suggested we should perhaps “get some food.”

• A dinner date where I was the chef. I was at a party recently speaking to a guy I’ve met a few times in similar social settings. Our conversation got to cooking, which I am very very bad at. We laughed as we imagined him enjoying one of my home-cooked meals, which seemed totally absurd until a few weeks later when we found ourselves eating oversalted and undercooked pasta in my flat.

• A date with an actual chef. Before this date, the only chef I’d encountered was one I matched with on Hinge a long time ago. We never actually went out, but I did accidentally call him once when I was new to the world of touch-sensor headphones. Anyway. I DID go out with this new chef. We got off to a good start, though in the end he let me down. It’s a shame, but what am I going to do — cry about it? Course not. I’m just going to blacklist men in this profession forever.

SECTION THREE: INVESTOR BEHAVIOUR

Part of me felt like I was getting my comeuppance when I was disappointed by the chef’s actions, because I myself have been doing a pretty good job of letting men down lately. Whether it’s warranted or not, I seem to have gotten into a not-so-nice habit of withdrawal without explanation. I’m working on it — and when I have solved that one problem, I will be FLAWLESS.

While we’re on the subject of observing one’s own behaviour, I have noticed another strange pattern I seem to be following. Twice this month I found myself on dates with people who have the same name and appearance as two men I dated last year. Going into it, I thought it was funny; in hindsight, I wonder if it was a bit fucked up on my part. Was I trying to right the wrongs committed by my past self, projecting them onto these men who were none the wiser?

SECTION FOUR: OLD MONEY

The past certainly has prevailed this month, despite all the new entries. In the last few weeks I have had:

• A strange message from a man I met months ago while draining the free bar at a conference, asking if I would like to “FaceTime with him one day” (no thanks).

• A text from someone who asked for my number on holiday over a year ago. I never replied to him, and this latest message said only his name: “Joseph”.

• Two real-life sightings: a guy I was speaking to from Hinge last year, and a nepo baby whose music video I featured in many MANY moons ago (have fun guessing that one).

• Two people reemerge in the WhatsApp archive.

It is very flattering to have so many people tell me I’ve been on their mind, some of whom I’ve not even met. I prompted a few of these admirers to go further, to consider expressing their thoughts in a more romantic way i.e. MATERIAL GOODS PLEASE. It’s probably fine to give strangers on the internet your address, right?

SECTION FIVE: CLOSING BELL

The current state of the market can be summed up nicely with an anecdote about a date I recently went on.

My date and I discovered approximately two minutes before meeting that we were both very hungover. Our expectations were therefore fairly low.

I was surprised, then, when we ended up having a great time together. We laughed a lot and kissed even more, which caught the attention of two gorgeous girls nearby. When my date was at the bar, they came over to chat to me, first complimenting my top and then asking if I was “having a good time over there” with a wink.

“OH YES,” I winked back.

I certainly was having a good time… but all I have left now is a bad case of contact dermatitis.

How’s that for ROI?

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Let’s dive straight in!!!

“I’ve been thinking about the fact that I could literally fall in love with anyone. I love so easily, it doesn’t really matter who is in front of me. I’d have chemistry with anyone. Am I too easy?”

Thank you to Irusje for bringing this topic to the oracle today.

I see you and I understand.

In my two years of being single, I’ve been on so many fun dates. I’ve had drinks that stretched over whole days, spent time with people who made me cry with laughter, and devoured the sweet sweet taste of PDA on several occasions.

In the routine post-date debriefs, I’ll recount these events to my friends, who will smile and ask, “so you’ll see him again then?”

“GOD NO. But we had a lot of fun!!!”

I am quite often faced with accusations of being an Evil Avoidant in these situations (and now is not the time to confirm or deny), but my argument is that having fun with someone does not necessarily mean there’s any deep connection there.

Do YOU have something you’d like to discuss? A dilemma driving you crazy? A sin you must confess? A subject you simply cannot stop thinking about?

Write to me and I might just write about it!

Enter the oracle

Sometimes dates are fun because you’re the one bringing the fun. Other times you may click with someone simply because they’re naturally curious and strong conversationalists who ask the right questions. This all makes for good company — but good company, romantic chemistry and compatibility are all very different things.

I think your question gets especially interesting when we probe a little more at what it is we mean by chemistry here. Is it shared humour? Sexual attraction? Harmless flirting?

Whatever it is, it seems like you’re good at it. You sound confident and funny and, quite frankly, like somebody I’d love to gossip with over a martini. I’m certain you know how to ignite a spark; I am less sure, however, that you know how to look beyond that glimmer to work out whether or not you like what lies beneath it.

You may not need to worry about this if you’re dating simply to enjoy yourself, though the way you use the word “love” tells me I’d be remiss not to bring it up for your consideration. If your dating goal is to find a partner who will share this love you say you give so freely, then compatibility matters much more than chemistry.

I want you to think about your needs and desires. Now look at the person you’re interested in and ask yourself:

• Am I attracted to them?

• Can I trust them?

• Are they supportive?

• Are they really nice, like for REAL?

• Do I like how they make me feel? Do I actually like them?

If you’re answering “no” to any of these, then this person has GOTS to go.

While we’re on the subject of love, I can’t help but think you may be confusing this with lust. Both things stir up excitement — especially when you love to flirt — so this is easily done, but we must try our best to untangle the two.

I myself fall in lust several times a day: on my way to work, at the gym, at the bar, scrolling Instagram in bed. Love, though, has not tripped me up quite so many times.

You see, “I love them” is not the same as “I have fun with them”, “I want them”, or even “I trust them”. That’s not to say you’ve never been in love, by the way, but it’s worth remembering that having the capacity to feel (and express) such an emotion does not always mean this particular person deserves to receive it. It’s a beautiful thing that you’re so open-hearted, but please make sure your love is being reciprocated and that the other person is giving you something worth choosing them for.

To address your final question, I don’t think any of this makes you “easy” — but I do wonder if you may be too easily pleased.

From now on, I encourage you to think of these potential lovers as mere actors in the play that is your life. Put those little fuckers to WORK and make them audition. You are the critic, and they are the ones who must earn your approval.

Don’t start giving out five-star reviews just because of their stage presence or line delivery. Look at the whole production, and then think longer-term: did you come away feeling good? Do you like the person behind the performance?

Give these actors their flowers when they’ve earned them, but know it’s perfectly ok — encouraged, even — to throw rotten tomatoes when they haven’t.

As for you… keep flirting and bringing that fun baby!!!

Thank you for visiting the oracle today. My wisdom is free for all, but if you’d like to show your support, you can buy me a martini at any price of your choosing.

Alternatively, you can opt to become a paid subscriber, which automatically grants you the elite status of being one of my favourite people in the world.

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But what if I told you that three different people have used this term in relation to my Substack in recent weeks? Does that make it ok?

I think so!

SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL GIRL ABOUT TOWN: SUBSCRIBE TODAY!

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I’ve been girl-about-towning in a few different corners of the world over the last couple of months, living in what feels like a constant state of packing and re-packing.1

I’m now pretty good at refining the amount of stuff I bring away with me, mostly reaching only for the things I know and love. Let me show you some of them.

GIRL ABOUT… CYPRUS

In my pursuit of a Slim Aarons summer, I spent the whole month of June in the Mediterranean. In my hand was usually a negroni or freddo espresso, while on my face was:

• Beauty of Joseon’s Aqua-Fresh SPF 50

• Clarins Tinted Oleo Serum

• Bare Minerals Complexion Rescue Blonzer (a fusion of liquid blush and bronzer — who knew this would work so well?!)

• MAC Lip Pencil in Stripdown (my all-time favourite) and MAC Lustreglass Lipstick in Thanks it's MAC

I always try to find new fragrances for when I’m travelling, which I recently spoke about in ’s piece The Hot Girl’s Guide to Surviving an Even Hotter Summer:

“Scent is such a memory trigger for me; I can connect almost any perfume to a time or place in which I wore it.

When I smell Raving Rose by Dries Van Noten, I’m reminded of cool days in Provence, and Oud Montaigne by Rabanne takes me back to late nights in Paris.

My latest love affair is with Angel Dust by Fugazzi, which recently kept me company on warm evenings in Cyprus.”

Whilst I was away, I lived in white cotton minidresses that were actually made for sleeping in. Most of mine are vintage, but I’m eyeing up this one from Cou Cou Intimates and this longer one from Nuisette as my next purchases.

I’m also dreaming of this Venus Bag by Ramoni Studio, a brand I just discovered and have since been obsessing over.

This is the perfect accessory to pair with my Aphrodite and MUSE necklaces (pictured above), both of which have great anecdotal meaning behind them. I’ve had these for years and years now, but if you’re after something along the same lines, you could go for the Aphrodite necklace from Rani & Co or the corded muse necklace from Ettika.

GIRL ABOUT… LONDON TOWN (HOME)

I’ve been painting my face with Saie’s products for all my recent parties in the Big Smoke. I love love love this brand and have talked about it for a while now. Come to think of it, it’s a bit bewildering that I have not yet been appointed as a brand ambassador... — what do you reckon?

My favourites are their Dew Blush, Glossy Bounce Lip Oil and Glowy Super Gel. Below I have included a smoulderingly sexy image of me wearing these things to show you how they look (my comment section is open for compliments btw).

GIRL ABOUT… THE ENGLISH COUNTRYSIDE

Perhaps when you think of the English countryside, you imagine tweed and wellies and afternoon tea. This is not what I’m talking about.

My stay was not in an inn or country cottage, but rather in an old manor where I spent the weekend partying with about forty friends.

One of the dress codes was black tie, for which I wore a silk dickie-bow blouse (given to me by my style icon of a mother) with a black suit jacket and silk Versace trousers. All of these pieces are vintage so I can’t link any of them, but I believe this is the hallmark of a good outfit.

A few of my favourites from this weekend’s beauty bag include:

• On the body: AKT Encore Body Oil and Nightcap Perfume by Orebella

• On the eyes: Lisa Eldridge Liquid Lurex Eyeshadow and Wonderskin Longwear Eyeliner

• On the head: Hershesons Almost Everything Cream and BREAD Everyday Gloss Hair Oil

On this evening, I was also introduced to the surprisingly delicious drink that is Disaronno and cranberry juice. If you’re doing your own GRWM and fancy a little alcoholic accompaniment, please do try this and let me know what you think.

Happy girl-about-towning!

— H x

All products mentioned in this newsletter can be found here.

If you enjoyed this and would like to show your support, you can buy me a martini (at any price you like). Alternatively, you can choose to become a paid subscriber and therefore become one of my favourite people in the WHOLE WORLD.

If you enjoyed the above pictures of me pouting, you can find more of those on Instagram.

I understand that may be shocking to you. I spend a fair amount of time inferring that men are the root of all evil, and my most popular Substack notes tend to be the ones where I’m shitting on the male species in some capacity.

Can you really blame me though? In every other article I read, or video I stumble upon, or real-life conversation I have, there lies a story of a man behaving a) disappointingly, or b) disgustingly.

I, too, have had my fair share of these, though I won’t let it put me off entirely. As somebody who writes about pleasure, I want to remind us all that dating is supposed to be enjoyable. Hot girl summer is upon us, and I don’t want anyone to miss out because of the general perception that everything has gone to shit.

Believe me, it can be really fun! You just have to know what to avoid.

To give you a sense of what I’m talking about, below are some types of men I know are no good for me. You do not have to agree — this is all based on PERSONAL experience — but if you know what’s good for you, you’ll at least listen.

In no particular order, here are some men I will no longer be entertaining…

1. Men whose Hinge profile says they are “new here”. They got dumped last week and are obviously still in love with their ex.

2. Men who say your name too much in conversation. This means they have read How to Win Friends and Influence People or The 48 Laws of Power or some bullshit, which means they want to manipulate you.

3. Men who are too active on Instagram. Nobody wants to see your fit checks or your 20-slide photo dumps to “say goodbye to June”. MY fit checks and photo dumps on the other hand… well everybody wants to see those.

4. Men aged 36-39. Guaranteed to have a Peter Pan ass mentality. Older is fine.

5. Men who arrange first dates at a place near where they live, despite knowing it is very far from you. Selfish and inconsiderate. They also always show up late even though they live 30 seconds away??

6. Italian. I’ve done my time.

7. Men who only message you on Instagram and never ask for your number. You will always be a Reply Guy to me.

8. Men who ask you about your “worst ever date”. They only do this so they can then tell you a story about a “crazy person” they once went out with. I have never once found any of these tales to be weird or entertaining (as I write this, I’m wondering if I have become this story for anybody… I sure hope so).

9. Men whose celebrity crush is Margot Robbie. I think she’s super hot, but this is a telltale sign that the man you’re dealing with is DULL. Trust me.

10. Nonchalant. Gross.

11. Men with small dogs. Attention seekers. These are for the girls ONLY!

12. Men who want to text all day. Why are you online all the time? Get a job buddy.

13. But also… men who have a strict one-text-a-day limit. How about we do this whole messaging thing on MY terms, not yours — goodbye!

14. DJ. This one is surely self-explanatory.

15. Men who vape. I’m trying to take a photo of our brunch setup and there is a pink lemonade Lost Mary on the table. Get that OUT of my face. What happened to a good old cigarette?! REJECT MODERNITY AND EMBRACE TRADITION.

16. Men who are a little too into tracking their protein intake. These people do not know how to go with the flow. Relax. Drop those shoulders a little.

17. Insecure men. The same goes for men who pretend they’re insecure by saying things like “ughh I don’t know what you see in me!” and “why do you even like me?” I actually don’t like you at all — does that answer your question?

18. Men who only know how to “flirt” by negging. Grow up.

19. Men who are too dependent on their mothers/men whose mothers are too dependent on THEM. I will never be her, nor do I want to be.

20. Men who say their favourite movie is American Psycho. Sure it’s good, but let’s show some appreciation for the 2010 smash hit Diary of a Wimpy Kid.

Follow me on Instagram if you want. My inbox is always open to new friends and hot men who do not fit into any of the twenty categories listed above.

For further reading, you may enjoy…

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It’s been a couple of weeks since the oracle was in operation, and I’m excited for you to see what we have in store today.

Do you have something you’d like to discuss? A dilemma driving you crazy? A sin you must confess? A subject you simply cannot stop thinking about?

Write to me and I might just write about it!

Enter the oracle

The following question has been brought to me via, as antiquity intended, a Google form:

“What are your hot tips for feeling sexyyy??

Sexy is definitely a state of mind but recently been in a bit of a sexy-less slump, and trying to, as Justin Timberlake once said, bring sexy back.”

Thank you to Tellmetellmetellme for seeking the oracle’s guidance on this one — and let me say, I have a lot to tellyoutellyoutellyou.

Not too long ago, I contributed to ’s wonderful piece The Secrets of Head-To-Toe Chic, where I shared my personal belief that being sexy is “choosing to believe you look good, even when you know you probably don’t. Sexy is a state of mind.”

Allow me to elaborate.

Sexiness is something cultivated from within, and it flourishes when you consciously connect that state of mind with the body you inhabit.

In thinking about that body, my first hot tip is this:

1. Stop asking yourself whether you look sexy, and start asking yourself when you feel sexy.

It may seem counterintuitive, but I truly believe that the less you obsess over looking a certain way, the sexier you will begin to feel in yourself. Start tuning into your body, your behaviours, your habits, and notice when the feeling of sexiness arises. Perhaps it’s quite literal — you may feel at your sexiest when you’re having sex — or maybe it’s less expected, like when you’re lifting weights or wearing a certain shade of lipstick.

For me, lingerie is very sexy, but so is listening to Chet Baker and drinking espresso. Actually, I feel pretty sexy right now while these words pour out of my fingertips, but that won’t be everyone’s thing.

Allow some time to find out what does it for you. When you have it, make sure to take that pleasure seriously and try to do it more often.

The opposite is also true. Think about what disconnects you from that sexy feeling. Is it living in the stinky, stained t-shirt that once belonged to your ex? Is it skipping workouts? Is it scrolling Instagram reels for three hours at a time? Don’t berate yourself for having these habits, but try to do less of them if you can.

Since we’re on the subject of de-centering looks from sexiness, I will add one more thing. While physical attractiveness is lovely (you all KNOW I have an insatiable hunger for eye candy), it is a very bad foundation for self-worth because it's fleeting.

Of course, I’m not saying you shouldn’t appreciate your thick head of hair right now. Just don’t build your whole sense of sexiness around that alone, because what if one day it disappears?

I’m sorry but that could happen! Nothing stays the same forever: skin sags, wrinkles form, hair begins to thin. Long-lasting sexiness must come from a place deeper than all of that, from a standard that you set for yourself.

That brings me to my second tip:

2. You must not define sexiness through the eyes of somebody else.

It’s nice when someone thinks you’re hot, but don’t wait to be desired before allowing yourself to feel desirable.

External validation expires quickly, compliments soon get boring, and relationships may come to an end. If your sense of sexiness has always derived from these things, what happens if the person who offered them walks away or if you choose to leave them?

You’ll be left questioning yourself and feeling very unsexy.

Remember that the only guaranteed lifelong companion you have is yourself. Be your own lover — take care of yourself, ADORE yourself, speak kindly to yourself!! Understand your bad habits and be willing to change them, but don’t overdo it on the negative self-talk. A body that is constantly under criticism is never going to feel sexy.

Finally, my third tip is this:

3. To embody your sexiest self, you should build a rich and varied life that you genuinely love living.

Learn a language, go to a dance class, pick up the hobby you abandoned when you were twelve because you thought you were bad at it. Make new friends whilst cherishing the old ones. Go on dates and laugh about them, cry about them even. Fall in love and get your heart broken and feel things and then make art about those feelings. Stay curious and stay creative!!

I’ve heard it said that creativity and sexual energy are deeply connected because both are fuelled by passion. If you water those roots of desire and self-expression, I believe sexiness will soon spill out of you.

These are the things I live by. And one day, when my ravishing good looks have disappeared and my Hinge flings have departed this earth, I will still be able to look at myself in the mirror and see how much I nourished my life, mind and body. I will see someone guided by pleasure and passion, someone who loved and laughed and made memories that later became stories on Substack.

And I will think: GOD. I AM SO FUCKING SEXY.

Do YOU have any hot tips for feeling sexy?

Leave a comment

For more wisdom, take a look through the oracle’s archive…

Oh, and I’m also on holiday with my family, but that’s by the by.

Because I’ve been away for a while now, all has been quiet on the party front, and I’ve felt at a bit of a loss for relevant writing material. That was until I had a stroke of genius: why not revisit some ghosts of parties past?

I have accumulated a respectable catalogue of strange stories over the years, and I thought it could be fun to tell you a few of them today. I’ve consulted with some of my friends to bring you a selection of the best, some of which I’d actually forgotten about.

Even still, this is not an exhaustive list — I obviously cannot put my HARD-EARNED reputation at risk, nor defame the character of myself or my friends (though if you ever see me out drinking, come ask me about the omitted stories and I’ll probably tell you what they are).

LET’S BEGIN ON A NICE NOTE — IN TENTH PLACE…

A couple of months ago, I met a man in his sixties at the pub. Let’s call him Andy.

We got talking because he very drunkenly and VERY LOUDLY fell off his chair, and I shouted over to ask if he was alright. Soon he’d abandoned his table and was sitting with my friends and me for the rest of the evening, though he was keen to stress he had no hidden agenda.

“YOU’RE ALL BEAUTIFUL, BEAUTIFUL LADIES, BUT EVEN IF YOU WERE INTERESTED IN ME, I COULD NEVER. MY WIFE IS THE HOTTEST CHICK I HAVE EVER MET.”

Every ten minutes or so, he’d pull out his phone to show us another picture of her (she was fucking hot, by the way).

“GIRLS. YOU MUST NEVER, EVER SETTLE,” were his parting words to us.

Andy, any man I meet must now live up to you.

NINE

In the “research process” for this piece, one of my friends reminded me of the time I manifested a man.

Whilst out for drinks, I was talking to the girls about how hot I found this guy who — at that point — I’d only spoken to once, months before. Later that same night, I picked up my phone to see a load of notifications: he’d been going through my Instagram and liking all of my old photos. Weird!

(We were the only ones at the bar, so NO he was not there, and YES it was most definitely my magical powers that made this happen).

EIGHT

TW: I’m sorry, this one is gross.

It starts with a bad case of mixing my drinks all day. It ends with me throwing up in the middle of the club whilst I’m in a state of heavy flirtation with a guy I’ve just met.

As I’m being escorted out, the man who witnessed this atrocity follows me to the exit.

“CAN I STILL GET YOUR NUMBER THOUGH?”

He kindly checks in on me several times the following day. Then about a week later, I receive a mysterious message in the middle of the night:

“Holly, can I ask you something?”

By the time I go to open it, the message has been unsent, and that’s the last I ever hear from him.

SEVEN

At the entrance to a club, I thought it would be funny to open my coat in a sort of striptease reveal to the security guys on the door. While doing so, I failed to remember that underneath it I was wearing a sheer top that left very little to the imagination.

“YOOO THAT WAS WILD,” one of the doormen shouted after we walked in.

At the end of the night when we were saying goodbye, the bouncer called one of the bartenders over to come see the exhibitionist: “LOOK! THIS IS THE GIRL IN THE TRENCH COAT I WAS TELLING YOU ABOUT!!”

SIX

This probably deserves to be higher, but it happened so many years ago now that the facts barely faze me anymore.

I was at a party where this couple (who I very loosely knew) were being pretty nasty to one another all evening. None of us understood why, but all was revealed later in the kitchen when the boy shouted:

“FUCK OFF! YOU SHAGGED MY DAD!”

I don’t think I ever saw either of those people on the party circuit again.

FIVE

So, now we’re at a bar and there’s this annoying guy who keeps trying to talk to me. Another man notices and comes over, wagging his finger in this first guy’s face, telling me afterwards that he doesn’t like his vibe.

Of course, the annoying guy soon comes back to bother me, and the next thing I know, there’s a fist flying across my field of vision: the other man has swooped in and knocked him to the floor. The tormentor doesn’t approach me again, and neither does my hero.

I don’t know what was in the air in this place, but on the same night, a completely different man was also being a nuisance. He kept trying to infiltrate our dance circle, though never saying a word to any of us — that is, until it was time to head home and he pounded down the stairs after me to ask for my number. I said no, but he was undeterred, later banging on the window of my Uber with his phone held up.

Scary. Though I’d probably think it was sexy if I found him hot.

FOUR

TW: you should probably skip to the next one if you’re squeamish.

A couple of summers ago, I went to Lisbon with the girls and one day my eye started really hurting. I put it down to contact lens irritation and decided to do nothing about it.

Things got progressively worse: my eye was almost swollen shut, the white of it turned completely red, I could barely see out of it, and it REALLY fucking hurt. One night we went to the club and it felt like my eyeball was being lasered every time the disco lights swung my way. But still, I did nothing.

When I finally arrived home, I reluctantly dragged my ass to the doctor, but only because I was supposed to be going on another holiday two days later.

I was sent straight to A&E.

Several eye examinations later, I was told that a chunk of my cornea was missing, and in even WORSE news, I wasn’t allowed to fly again that week.

I still don’t know how that happened. What I did come to learn, however, was that if I’d gone much longer without medical assistance, I could’ve had permanent vision loss.

“And you were just going about your holiday as normal?” one of the consultants asked. “You must have been in a lot of pain.”

Well, yes… but I HAD PEOPLE TO SEE AND PARTIES TO ATTEND.

THREE

I’m waiting for the bathroom at a house party when someone shouts from inside that it’s occupied. I head into the bedroom next door to top up my lip gloss while I wait.

A few minutes later, the man from the bathroom appears in the doorway of the bedroom. He’s smiling at me kindly.

“SORRY ABOUT THAT, YEAH!”

How nice of him to come and apologise! Especially since I hadn’t even been waiting long! No, no, don’t worry — it’s all good!

When I push open the bathroom door, I realise he wasn’t apologising for taking his time, but rather for whatever unspeakable business had just taken place in there to cause such an offensive smell.

To this day, I can’t fathom why he voluntarily confessed to such a heinous crime. Had he just walked away, I’d never even have known he was the culprit.

I later point him out to my friend, who tells me she’d seen him a few hours before eating a large spicy pizza by himself.

As we’re talking about the crime scene, another boy wanders over to us. Without even introducing himself, he launches into an explicit story involving a dating app, viscous bodily fluids and one of his intimate orifices. Good story, to be fair.

TWO

Last year, I had a man come find me at a bar to ask if we could go “talk.”

At this point, I’d met him maybe three times and was entirely oblivious to the “feelings” he had about me. I didn’t think there was much to discuss, so I left my phone and bag on the table, expecting to be gone for two minutes. Wrong!

For TWO HOURS this man cried at me.

Among other things, he told me how hurt he’d been after joining my best friend and me at the club a few nights before. Red-faced and swollen-eyed, he looked straight at me and shouted through tears:

“SMASH, SMASH! I WAS RIGHT THERE AND ALL YOU KEPT SAYING WAS SMASH, SMASH, SMASH!”

I was totally baffled by the accusation — not least because I couldn’t recall seeing a single person attractive enough to warrant this reaction from me. But saying “smash” to one another is something my best friend and I do A LOT, so I had no choice but to believe him. My bad!

AND IN FIRST PLACE…

I’m at the club (again) with my best friend, and this lone guy — let’s call him Adam — starts dancing with us.

He’s full of sass, energy and compliments. He’s one of the girls!

Then another man — who we’ll call Mark — gets chatting to us too. He buys us all drinks (including Adam’s), and when the lights come on he suggests we all head to another venue. Sure!

We’re waiting outside the bathroom for him when Adam grabs us.

“LET’S LEAVE HIM. HE’S A CREEP!”

Because Adam has spent the entire night behaving as one of the girls, we naturally assume he’s looking out for us. So, while Mark is still in the toilet, we abandon him and the three of us skip off towards Adam’s flat, which is just around the corner.

[Editor’s note: while writing this, I’m remembering another detail I’d completely forgotten. The heel of my shoe had broken after going too hard on the dancefloor, and Adam had used the promise of superglue to lure us back to his flat].

About twenty seconds away from his front door, Adam’s mask slips.

“YEAH SO ALL THE GIRLS I WAS WITH TONIGHT DITCHED ME. THEY SAID I WAS COCKBLOCKING THEM BECAUSE I’M A STRAIGHT MALE WANTING TO TALK TO WOMEN!”

!SOS! This man is not one of the girls.

And yet… still we go in.

It’s soon apparent that he has the hots for my friend. He pours us both a gin: hers is garnished with no fewer than eight slices of blood orange, mine with one.

We tell him a funny story about a (very drunk) hot man I’d met earlier that evening. He doesn’t laugh, instead telling me I “MAYBE SHOULD’VE GONE HOME WITH HIM THEN.”

Shortly after, my friend asks to use his bathroom.

“WAIT!!!” Adam shouts, sprinting ahead of her.

For the next minute or so, he crouches on his knees and furiously attacks the toilet with a brush before finally announcing that it’s ready to use. My friend later tells me it was still absolutely filthy.

Things get stranger still when Adam tells us he sings in a choir, holding us hostage through several lengthy YouTube videos of his choir practice.

I ask if he knows that sea shanty that was doing the rounds on TikTok at the time. I’m only joking, but he rises with confidence and launches into a full-throated baritone performance: “YOOOO HOOOO…”

After a few minutes of that, my friend and I know it is officially time for us to sail away.

Then off I go to the cobbler, with my still-broken heel the next day.

Was that too much? I hope not.

I was thinking of writing a similar piece about dating, but I don’t know… it’s not lost on me that the common thread in all of these strange stories is ME, and I’m not sure I’m ready for the world to see me as entirely undateable.

But then again, perhaps it’s time I lived a more peaceful life.

Alright, FINE. Give me one hundred thousand likes and I’ll do it.

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I am smiling, giggling and kicking my feet as I write this because there are now more than 700 of you beautiful people in this community. That’s crazy! THANK YOU ALL FOR JOINING AND STICKING WITH ME <3

It makes me unbelievably happy to know I’m in the company of so many fellow fun-lovers. The world needs more of us.

Today’s newsletter is another Ask the Oracle special, which is a new format I’m trialling every other week (alongside regular posting on Fridays). The gist is that you send me whatever is on your mind — whether it be a word, a problem, an observation, whatever — and I’ll randomly select an entry and then give you my unfounded and unstructured thoughts on the matter. Kind of like a man with a podcast, except my opinions are ACTUALLY GOOD. USUALLY.

It isn’t an advice column as such, though I am willing to make important life decisions on your behalf if you want to eschew yourself of the responsibility. Just say the word.

Speak to the oracle

A few weeks ago I posted the above note, which has since travelled surprisingly far. It seems many of us are in agreement that men with little hoop earrings are capable of unspeakable evils. It’s certainly a subject worth delving into further, and thanks to the following submission, that’s what we’re about to do now.

Today, Ollie of raises the question on everybody’s lips:

“(relates to a post i just saw of yours) what is a respectable age that a man should hang up his tiny loop earring? is there any reason to ever give up the ghost and accept his youthful, slutty look is past him? or at least upgrade to a bigger loop to show progress of some variety?”

To close, Ollie added:

“cool cities like london and new york are very attractive to me but ultimately i think i’d fucking hate everyone there.”

Ollie, I am going to begin where you left off.

I haven’t been to New York so I cannot speak to the people there; however, I have lived in London for many years now, and it is here where I met many of the hoop-earring-donning men who have caused me to form such an unfavourable judgment. That’s a roundabout way of saying: yes, there are a lot of residents worth hating on. But still, it’s a great city and I will defend it ‘til the day I die.

Don’t let a few million insufferable people put you off. Hey, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em — have you ever thought about getting a hoop earring?

Ha ha. I jest. I’m guessing you already have one, which is why you’re here seeking guidance from the oracle. Well, Ollie, I do not think you need to concern yourself with such self-questioning. The very fact that you have reached out to ask this tells me you are a wise and considerate person — you have an awareness of the self that many do not. Because of this, you will know in your heart when the time has come to retire the hoop.

You see, the men we need to worry about will never ask whether they’ve outgrown the hoop because they have never considered this to be a possibility. Age does not come into it — some of these men are 27, some are 72. Their little earring remains untouched by the passage of time, because so do they.

I think that you are only as old, or as youthful, as you feel. The hoop earring is governed not by age, then, but by an essence of being. This little adornment comes to some men at the age of 43 in the midst of a divorce, and to some at 22 when they have a “spiritual awakening” while on a trip to Thailand that was funded by their parents. There are others now in their 70s who have worn the same hoop earring since they were 17 simply because they thought it would look cool.

It is only if a man ceases to connect with the story he once told about himself (troubled soul with commitment issues; a free spirit wearing the mask of a corporate slave; cool guy who likes jewellery) that the time has come to give up the ghost and retire the hoop.

Sometimes, though, the narrative remains forever, and thus so does the earring. One could, as you say, upgrade to a larger hoop as life progresses, but I would warn against using this circumference as a measurement for maturity. We must remember that the ideal hoop exists in a state of indifference to time.

And anyway, there’s a reason I specified LITTLE hoop earrings in my initial post. It’s because they’re, like, really hot.

Thank you for visiting the oracle today. My wisdom is free for all, but if you’d like to show your support, you can buy me a martini at any price of your choosing.

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Previously on Ask the Oracle…

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I’m certain it’s only my untimely birth that’s stopping me from achieving such a status, and NOT the fact I was a) raised in the cold climate of northern England, b) am not famous, and, c) have yet to successfully infiltrate the upper echelons of society.

I find myself flicking through Aarons’ archive every summer. His images evoke a very particular kind of longing in me — not necessarily to be rich (…), but to be one of his subjects who, in Aarons’ own words, were always “attractive people who were doing attractive things in attractive places.”

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve known I wanted to be an attractive person doing attractive things in attractive places. That’s a life I was born for.

I’m thinking about that kind of life as I write from the Mediterranean coast, where I touched down almost two weeks ago.

I don’t know what day or time you’ll be reading this, but for me it’s 3 o’clock on a Monday afternoon and I’ve just poured myself a glass of red vermouth. Before that, I was lying in the sun thinking about how beautiful it feels to be doing absolutely nothing.

I’d like that feeling to continue all summer long. When I’m here, I don’t want to wake up at the crack of dawn to go hiking. I don’t want to optimise my circadian rhythm. I do NOT want to do breathwork or cold plunges. Instead, I want to spend three hours at lunch and then another three hours recovering from it. I want every day to feel like a Slim Aarons photograph.

Here’s how I imagine those hours unfolding.

10:38AM — THE POOL

When lying poolside, one’s outfit should be something that suggests its wearer may never actually enter the water. I’m talking huge disc sunglasses (like those Celiné SS26 ones with a 13cm temple length), a structured swimsuit (like this HALF PRICE Calvin Klein one), and leather sandals that will never EVER set foot on rocky terrain.

To fully embody the essence of a Slim Aarons subject, you should be lying on an oversized striped towel with a dog-eared paperback in hand. It’s pretty crucial that the book has a plot involving adultery, divorce, or a disappearance of sorts (I’d recommend Ex-Wife by Ursula Parrott). There really shouldn’t be any phones in sight, but I will generously make an exception if you’re using yours to read my Substack.

It goes without saying that a good, glowy SPF is a necessity. I’m a fan of:

• Supergoop Glow Screen for the face

• Nuxe Gold Sun Oil for the body

• Nuxe Milky Oil for the hair

2:41PM — THE LUNCH

For lunch, we want something that’s going to throw off the entire itinerary for the rest of the day. That’s a good thing, by the way, because nobody in a Slim Aarons picture is sticking to a schedule.

A proper summer lunch begins with just one glass of wine, but then ends several hours later with a cluttered table of wine bottles (now empty) and strewn about ashtrays (now full). Everyone knows that cigarettes on holiday don’t count, so nobody has a problem with sitting in a little cloud of smoke — though I will admit this becomes more of an issue if you’re somebody who treats every day like a holiday. That is to say: me. And Dua Lipa.

Pictured: vintage seashell glasses; pearl and silver lighter by Saint Laurent; vintage conch shell ashtray

At this point in the day, we’re wearing:

• Something fun like this Damson Madder raffia fish bag

• A flowing kaftan of sorts — something like this silk one from Fara Boutique, or this lace one from Beyond Normality

• Several spritzes of Diptyque’s Ilio hair mist

As the hours pass, things start to get looser and layers are gradually stripped away. Shirts are unbuttoned, sins are confessed. Somebody orders another bottle of wine and soon you’re in a delicious state of sun-induced sleepiness, which is divinely interrupted by a heavenly waiter heading your way with a tray full of espresso cups.

You glance down at your watch. What time is it now?

5:24PM — LOUNGING ABOUT

Your stomach should now be sufficiently lined with local delicacies, and dinner is still far, far away.

Because lunch ran over, you discover that you’ve missed the chance to join the excursion you’d halfheartedly suggested at the start of the day. Oh well — I suppose all there is to do in this moment, then, is absolutely nothing.

For these few hours, you want to become entirely unreachable, even to the people you’re technically spending the day with. Whether you’re reading, napping, swimming, or just staring out at sea while dissociating, you should channel the energy of those elderly people you only ever see on the Mediterranean coast. You know the ones: they’ve been sitting outside the same café since 11AM and will still be there at 11PM, having done nothing but eat and watch the world go by.

You don’t need much to achieve that. In fact, all you probably want is some light cotton and a fan to keep yourself cool. And maybe a cold Campari or two.

8:37PM — MESSY DRESSING

Dressing up on a hot summer’s night should be a bit of a messy affair. An invitation for mischief, if you will.

The getting-ready process involves drifting in and out of each other’s rooms and all sharing “jobs” that don’t really require much work. One person is on speaker duty; another is mixing aperitivos; one has become photographer, while another has appointed themselves creative director, shouting things like “LOOK OVER YOUR SHOULDER!” and “DO THAT AGAIN, BUT THIS TIME MORE NATURAL!”

The finished look should be just as messy as the process that got you there. I’m talking tangled jewellery, oily bronzed shoulders, slightly smudged eyeliner and an impractical dress.

Pictured: Tom Ford Soleil Blanc shimmering body oil; Tom Ford Soleil lip tint; Saie Sunglow Glowy Supergel

You still look elegant of course, but you also look slightly unlike yourself. This is the magic of holiday dressing: things are a little undone, a little freer than usual. Even if it’s just for tonight, you’ve slipped out of the routine and responsibilities that usually pin you down, and your summer style should reflect that.

You want to carry yourself with an optimism that something memorable might happen, and the confidence that you’ll be suitably dressed for when it does.

12:14AM — THE PARTY

You’re now hopefully the right amount of tired and exactly the wrong amount of drunk. You’re dancing, kissing, CANOODLING even, if we want to use a word that hasn’t had a good outing since 1972.

At this kind of party, we’re looking to:

• See every hand cradling a crystal coupe at any given moment

• Smell sexy, woody neroli on the skin

• Wear something different from our everyday attire — something like a pearl headpiece or a bag that’s fit for a disco

There’s talk of heading to the beach after the party, then maybe somebody’s villa after that, but you’re not thinking that far ahead. Right now, you’re just going with the flow.

When you leave the club — or beach, or afterparty — the sun has risen again. That’s when you know it’s time to retreat to a cool room and collapse onto crisp white linen sheets.

Then the same again tomorrow.

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If you enjoyed this and would like to show your support, you can buy me a martini (at any price you like). Alternatively, you can choose to become a paid subscriber and enter my coveted VIP circle. Or, you can leave me some nice words below.

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HAPPY SUMMERING!

— H x

I recently asked you to tell me what’s on your mind, with the promise that I’ll pick a submission at random and then write about what you wrote to me.

The oracle is very open-minded and willing to talk about anything: simple words, concepts, dilemmas, sins you have committed, whatever you like.

Whether or not you choose to trust the judgment of the oracle, however, is your decision to make. Know that there will be no research and probably no authority behind my answers; instead, I will bestow my wisdom upon you by responding with my full, unstructured stream of consciousness.

If you like the sound of that, you can reach the oracle here. I’m thinking of making this either a weekly or fortnightly column, so hopefully you won’t have to wait too long for a response.

Let’s begin.

Dreamer (27, Sydney) asked the oracle:

“If a woman has sex early on with a guy, does it push him away? Should I suppress the desire and wait, when he is “nested”? Or does sex immediately destroy the potential?”

They also added:

“I’ve been meeting wonderful men who appear to have good intentions and say the right thing, show their interest in me. But after sex, poof they are gone, flaky. And it is disappointing.”

Thank you for sending in this question, Dreamer.

I’ll start by saying that, though I have professed myself to be an oracle, I have very little understanding of the psychology of men. I do, however, have the privilege of being among many great single women who, perhaps to our own misfortune, find ourselves attracted to the male sex — so let me reassure you that this is not my first time addressing such a topic.

I think you’re right in saying that some men lose interest after sex. But there are also men who lose interest after you pay for their drink, after three dates, after three months. Waiting to have sex isn’t a foolproof strategy to escape this disappointment, and I think it’s important to know that if someone is only hanging around until you have sex with them, then delaying the sex itself won’t change who they are as a person. If somebody is prone to pulling away, they’ll usually find a way to do so sooner or later.

It’s easy to overanalyse the actions of other people when it comes to dating. We come up with explanations like “they pulled back because I was too keen”, or the opposite, “I didn’t show enough interest”, or in this case, “I slept with them too early in the relationship”, but the reality is that these things we tell ourselves are usually completely unfounded.

We can never really know why people act the way they do. Even when I look at some of my own behaviours in dating — sometimes messy, inconsistent and even cruel — I cannot explain it all myself (and I’m like WAY smarter and more self-aware than a man). I do find it useful, though, to try to understand the patterns behind my own actions, because these are things within my control. The actions of someone else are not.

While it can be fun to discuss the bizarre behaviours of men with friends over brunch, we must not spend our lives obsessively trying to decode and deconstruct them. It’s a waste of time. We don’t always need the answers, which is wonderful, because very rarely do we actually get them.

We can also very rarely know the outcome of situations before they occur. We may try to predict what will happen and then plan accordingly, but there is never any guarantee that things will go the way we thought. What I’m saying here is that, if waiting to sleep with someone feels authentic and aligned with your values, then wait — but don’t wait because you think it guarantees security or permanence. If there’s desire and passion and you want to have sex, go for it. I’d personally argue that testing compatibility is a pretty significant part of the dating journey. Try before you buy, ya know?

This answer is becoming quite long now, but I also want to briefly draw attention to the word “potential”, which you said you were concerned about “destroying”. We need to be careful when using this word — we must try our best to see people and things for what they really are, and not just what we want them to be. It’s important to make sure we aren’t projecting heightened or non-existent qualities onto the person standing in front of us, and even more important not to become attached to an imagined future with someone we’ve potentially put on a pedestal.

Realistically, all you can do is make choices that feel right for you. Whatever that is, do it because it’s something YOU genuinely want, and not because you hope it will lead to a particular outcome.

In dating, men are always going to do what they want to do — make sure you’re doing the same.

I hope you enjoyed this first edition of Ask the Oracle.

The oracle’s wisdom is free for all, but if you’d like to show your support, you can buy me a martini. Alternatively, you can choose to become a paid subscriber.

If you don’t want to contribute, that’s all good. I also accept love letters and positive words of affirmation.

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As well as it being hot, it’s also the last Friday of the month, which means it’s time for Pleasure Pursuit — a personal column about where I found fun over the last few weeks.

I usually select one or two stories to write about, but sometimes it’s hard to choose. To avoid having to make that difficult decision, I thought I’d try something different this time.

So, for the month of May, I wrote a few sentences (almost) every day.

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Friday 1st May: I went to two different events last night, both on boats. One stationary, one moving. The aftermath was that I woke up to two messages in my WhatsApp archive and two messages on Instagram from men I’d met whilst drunk (one of them tells me he was once named one of Tatler’s most eligible bachelors, though the evidence seems to have been mysteriously wiped from the face of the earth). I also had a Facebook friend request from a 50-year-old Parisian man with whom I once had a bizarre sort of pen-pal relationship. That one is unrelated.

Saturday 2nd May: I’ve worked out, washed my hair and washed my sheets. I’m feeling ready to take on the world, but let’s start with the festival I’m going to later today.

Sunday 3rd May: I went to sleep at 4AM and was awakened at 8:30AM by my landlady knocking on the door. I suppose I needed to be up anyway, because I was meeting some friends for the Schiaparelli exhibition at the V&A. After that, we headed to one of the girls’ houses — on the journey there, I left them all to chat as I sat alone in a hungover haze of disassociation. Sorry ladies. Back soon.

Monday 4th May: What’s the deal with men begging to see you and then falling off when you start to think about actually accepting the offer? Being avoidant is only ok when I do it!

Tuesday 5th May: This evening I went to a screening of The Devil Wears Prada 2 with my colleagues. We all work in print media. I will not be commenting on this further.

Wednesday 6th May: Work conference [editor’s note — this is all I had written this day, and now it’s too long gone to recall any specifics. I suppose not EVERY day is a party.]

Thursday 7th May: Day two of the conference. I was very excited to see the same lovely lady who served me at the coffee stand yesterday. She remembered my order and we chatted for a while before both begrudgingly getting back to work.

When I got home, I posted this cute picture of me and my cat on my Instagram story. She puked on my floor a few minutes later. I think she’s shy.

Friday 8th May: I’m on my way to meet my best friend for dinner at The Ned. Outside the station, I was beckoned over by a group of men in their forties. The interaction was surprisingly wholesome:

“CAN I JUST SAY, THAT OUTFIT IS AMAZING! THAT JACKET… THE COLOUR IS INCREDIBLE! WHEREVER YOU’RE GOING, I HOPE YOU WIN TONIGHT!!” the initiator told me.

His friends nodded and smiled awkwardly, one mumbling his agreement.

Saturday 9th May: After dinner, I ended up having a drink with a man I’d recently met whilst out. It seems the guy who stopped me on the street had a premonition. He was right. I WOULD win that night.

Sunday 10th May: I met up with my best friend again, this time over brunch. The cafe was playing some sort of Disney soundtrack, so I had to shout over Demi Lovato as I gave a detailed rundown of Friday’s after-dinner antics.

Monday 11th May: I was on the way to Bar Italia and a young man stopped me on the street to ask if I’m French or Italian (I am neither). He was asking too many questions and I politely declined to give my number, but I was flattered nonetheless. Though I must say, these increasing encounters are starting to make me suspicious. Am I…“auramaxxing”? Don’t answer that.

Tuesday 12th May: [editor’s note — all I had written here were the names of two sweet older men who attend my Greek language class. I assume I was enjoying watching their budding friendship over Google Meet.]

Wednesday 13th May: [editor’s note — I had “LUNCH” written down, but cannot find evidence of what this entailed. I hope it was nice.]

Thursday 14th May: Even divas have bad days and today was one of those for me. I made up for it by walking for thirty minutes through a part of London I have only ever seen in the dark, finishing with three cocktails at a “listening bar” with a friend who I haven’t seen in a long long time. Life is good again.

Friday 15th May: A lady in Tesco squeezed past me with a gentle “sorry, love”. I saw her again a few seconds later, now with a basket full of baked beans:

“THESE ARE FOR MY SON. HE CALLS IT FART-AID. HE’LL BE STINKING OUT THE HOUSE! HA!!”

I love love LOVE talking to strangers.

Saturday 16th May: I’m heading out to the countryside later for my friend’s birthday party. Hoping for anecdotes, of course.

Sunday 17th May: I went to a “coffee festival” in East London today. I’d anticipated beanies and owl necklaces and a Mumford & Sons soundtrack, but turns out there was none of that. So boring! But hey. Can’t win ‘em all.

Monday 18th May: [editor’s note — I forgot to write AGAIN. I’m sorry. I do recall it was around this time that I gave up on a book after around 100 pages because I started to find it boring. Life is too short to finish boring books!]

Tuesday 19th May: I started listening to Lena Dunham’s Famesick and I’m loving it. I’m not usually an audiobook gal, but I’m beginning to suspect that listening to Radiohead on my commute every morning is not a psychologically wise choice.

Wednesday 20th May: I walked an hour to work today with Lena Dunham in my ears, and then the same again on the way home. I LOVE WALKING!

Thursday 21st May: A couple of days without listening to Radiohead meant I had to make up for it by singing Fake Plastic Trees at a karaoke bar. It was so nice to see so many people having fun on a weeknight… I’m sorry I then did that to you all.

Friday 22nd May: I’m writing from a cafe with an iced coffee in hand. It’s sunny and I am having a delicious solo lunch.

Saturday 23rd May: The heat has made me lethargic and in a shocking turn of events, I was the first one to leave the function this evening. On the train home, I watched a drunk young man befriending strangers and taking pictures with them. I thought HEY I LIKE DOING THAT TOO!

Sunday 24th May: I have another festival today and I cannot WAIT! Will this be the scene of my next party report? Stay tuned!!

Monday 25th May: It’s a bank holiday and I met my friend for lunch in the sun. We saw one another on the street and as she approached, she gestured to a young man nearby and said “THERE ARE SO MANY PERFORMATIVE MALES IN THIS AREA.” As that particular male got closer, I couldn’t believe what I was realising: that’s one of my Instagram reply guys! London is such a small world!

Tuesday 26th May, Wednesday 27th May, Thursday 28th May: For some reason, my diary dissolves here.

I hope you enjoyed my month of madness.

— H x

End note: I’m still taking submissions for my upcoming Ask the Oracle column. Tell me what’s on your mind, and I may just write about it!

Ask the Oracle

In the spirit of summer, I’m feeling experimental. I’ve thought of a fun new format we can try together: it’s called Ask the Oracle.

I want you to send me (the oracle) something you’ve been thinking about — a word, a concept, a social phenomenon, an object, a fixation, a dilemma, a strange observation, etc, etc.

I’ll then choose some at random and respond with my completely unstructured stream of consciousness. No research, no authority; just instinct, insights, and perhaps questionable morals.

Examples include: flirting on the internet; hotel bars; people who ask if you ski; disposable vapes; team-building exercises; the psychological effects of seeing a very bad picture of yourself; how to find the right eyebrow shape for you. The list goes on.

Please keep submissions short — the more specific, the better.

I CAN’T WAIT TO HEAR FROM YOU!

SUBMISSIONS ARE OPEN

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You may already know me as a loud and proud pleasure-seeker. I wear the title “hedonism defender” like a badge of honour — by which I mean it’s in my bio on both Instagram and Substack. You may not, however, be aware of the other hats that I like to put on every now and then. Well, let me tell you, the letter H does a pretty good job of covering them: Holly Harland, hot, HUMBLE, hedonist, and… historian.

Yes, that’s right — I’m not just a pretty face, because for six years I have been the owner of a FIRST CLASS HISTORY DEGREE.

It feels like a lifetime has passed since then, so I am very excited to revisit my roots in today’s newsletter, which is a brief history lesson on hedonism.

Finally, all those years of studying are about to pay off!!!

OK SO WHAT THE HELL IS A SYBARITE?

Let’s first talk recent history.

Not too long ago, a new great text came into being. It’s one that scholars are bound to pore over for centuries to come: sybaritic.substack.com

I created this page with the tagline musings on pleasure and hunts for treasure, based on the idea that everything I write here would somehow relate to the art of making your life feel more luxurious. Of course, luxury looks different to everyone — to some, it’s about throwing grand parties, and to others, it’s in the little things like connecting with strangers in smoking areas. Whatever your vice, my encouragement is for you to seek out what brings you the most fun personally.

I thought the name Sybaritic was fitting for such an ethos, which — by definition — means “to be fond of sensuous luxury or pleasure; self-indulgent.”

Though I myself may be a Little Bit Self-Indulgent, I don’t necessarily see this as being synonymous with hedonism. I think modern life has made people defensive about wanting to enjoy themselves, and that pleasure quite often has to justify its own existence. You know how it goes: we’re told hobbies should be monetised, indulgences must loop back into self-improvement, and rest is only accepted when attached to a wellness routine. ENOUGH!

I’ve written before about my love for the people of Greece (even if learning their language has become one of the greatest personal punishments I’ve ever bestowed upon myself). Now, we tend to remember the ancient Greeks for their philosophy, mythology and overt sexuality — but much lesser known is the city that became infamous for devoting itself almost entirely to pleasure and comfort.

That city was called Sybaris.

GRWM TO GO TO SYBARIS!!

Sybaris was founded around 720 BCE in southern Italy by Greek settlers, becoming part of Magna Graecia (the network of wealthy Greek cities spread across the Italian coastline). The city flourished quickly because of its very sexy location: a fertile region with access to wine, olives, grain and good harbours — all the conditions needed for becoming rich and well-fed and, naturally, home to the niche internet micro-celebrity equivalents of that time.

By the 6th century BCE, Sybaris had become famous across the ancient Greek world for its wealth and the lifestyle of its citizens. Ancient writers described the Sybarites as people deeply committed to beauty, ease, pleasure and comfort — so much so that the city itself soon became shorthand for luxurious living.

The word Sybarite eventually entered later Greek and English vocabulary to describe someone devoted to sensual pleasure and refined living (see also: me).

THE SYBARITIC LIFESTYLE

According to those later Greek writers, the Sybarites:

• Banned noisy trades like blacksmithing from the city centre because the sounds disturbed people’s rest

• Hosted lavish banquets

• Designed parts of the city around comfort and visual aesthetics

• Wore luxurious clothing

• Created rituals around fragrance, beauty and softness

It’s worth saying that we should take this all with a pinch of salt. Because the Sybarites were notorious for their decadence and DGAF-ery, they’ve become heavily mythologised, meaning that much of the surviving material exists in a hazy space between fact and fiction.

With that in mind, we can probably assume that not every anecdote is necessarily true, but that’s fine — I’d argue that this matters much less than what it is they came to represent.

The Sybarites became symbolic of a civilisation organised around enjoyment rather than austerity. They embodied something that was both admired and criticised in equal measure, which was the idea that life could be shaped around pleasure.

Some saw this as selfish; others saw it as a cause for celebration. It’s a lot like the discourse that still surrounds enjoyment today.

THE DOWNFALL OF FUN

We all know by now that not all good times last forever, and like many wealthy and powerful cities, Sybaris eventually collapsed.

Around 510 BCE, it came into conflict with its neighbour, Croton — their rival city, known for its discipline and military strength — and Sybaris was ultimately defeated.

It’s believed that the conquerors diverted a river through the city to flood its remains. What emerged amongst the ruins was a cautionary tale: a moral lesson of a civilisation that was supposedly undone by its own excess.

The people of the city had built their lives not just around survival, but around beauty, leisure and delight. And for that, they obviously had to be PUNISHED.

IN DEFENCE OF HEDONISM

The question underneath all of the above is this: why does the pursuit of pleasure make people so uncomfortable?

I don’t like the belief that enjoyment is somehow shallow unless it’s attached to an achievement of sorts; nor do I like that exhaustion is viewed as admirable, while fun is dismissed as frivolous.

Now, I’m not saying that we should abandon all meaning or that life should become a fountain of mindless consumption; but what I am saying is that we could all do with drinking from the well of pleasure a little more.

And that well does not have to be a shallow one. I find that when you do what you like, and then you like what you do, you become a much better person to be around.

Happier people tend to be kinder and more present. Hedonism, at least in the way I think about it, requires attentiveness, with which you pay attention to life’s small pleasures — you notice smiles on the faces of strangers, the outfit that changes your mood, the drunk cigarette that tastes a bit too delicious.

So actually, I don’t think pleasure is mindless at all.

Life can be shaped just as much by what delights us as by what sustains us. And that can be really, truly FUN!!

Thank you for reading! Sybaritic is free for all to enjoy, but if you’d like to support me, you can do so via my Buy Me a Martini page.

BUY ME A MARTINI

If you enjoyed this, YOU’RE IN LUCK! You can feast your eyes on some more musings on pleasure below…

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“Nobody’s going out,” says Puggy Roberts, aged 57.

“The ticket prices end up being higher if fewer people go out,” adds Jen Ashford-Mowbray, aged 58. “We need more people going out to keep the prices down.”

The duo talks of an absence of youth in the rooms they party in, observing that “people from the age of 30 down don’t go out. Everybody’s gotten sensible.”

One could argue that this is all opinions-based, but one cannot argue with the unfortunate facts, which are:

• Over a quarter of late-night venues in the UK shut down between 2020 and 20251

• More than 1 in 4 Londoners have abandoned their alcohol consumption entirely, so venues can no longer count on making money from selling booze2

Before you read on, I would like to add a couple more facts for your consideration:

1. I am under the age of 30

2. I make up part of the three-quarters of Londoners who do still drink alcohol

3. I LOVE GOING OUT

So, all of this is to say that what I do is for the greater good. My partying is a SELFLESS ACT! I’m writing about my antics to RAISE AWARENESS that we must SAVE OUR SCENE!

My Substack is free to read, but if you’d like to support me, you can contribute to my Buy Me a Martini page — and by doing so, you will also be supporting THE SCENE! A doubly good act!!

CLICK IF YOU ARE KIND!

My first field report covered a gorgeously grubby night out in East London a couple of months ago. This part of the city is an area that almost always delivers on anecdotes, which is why we find ourselves here again for this event, though this one takes place during the day. And also night, actually. And then the early hours of the next morning too.

Saturday 2nd May, Queen’s Yard Summer Party

I didn’t know too much about this festival before going, but my friends promised me there’d be drinks and dancing and disco, and to that I said I WILL DEFINITELY BE THERE. On reflection, I am realising that I didn’t bother to consult the lineup at any point, and even now I still couldn’t tell you who was playing. I really need to get better at taking live notes if I’m going to continue this whole “party reporting” thing.

Then again, is that what people even want from a party report? Accuracy? Sure — but what about in a report that literally has the word “lying” in the title? WHAT THEN?

So, it’s 2pm and the sun is beating down on the concrete and canals of Hackney Wick, where the party is taking place. There’s a good crowd: groups of young people, a few families with children earlier in the day, and the occasional extremely cool older person who looks better than the rest of us combined. Amongst all this, I’m hearing a lot of Australian accents and seeing about fifty men I swear I’ve matched with on Hinge.

We make friends with some lovely people almost immediately, only one tequila deep. The first group is a guy and two girls, whose bench we temporarily perch on to cool down in the shade. After later relocating, my friends and I then become the ones who welcome a new group to perch alongside us: it’s a girl, her boyfriend, and two of his friends. We get chatting and all quickly establish that none of us are necessarily here for the music, but rather for the VIBE.

After exchanging a few stories, the girl of the group — let’s call her Laura — asks us the age-old question: “SO HOW DO YOU ALL KNOW EACH OTHER?”

The three of us side-eye one another in the face of the eternal dilemma: to lie, or not to lie? There’s a brief pause, then we silently decide that Laura and co are too nice to deceive, and so we opt for the truth (which isn’t that interesting of a story).

This is not always how it goes. You should know that whenever we’re all out together, our mission statement is BAM — Be A Menace — which usually involves a bit of improv where we fabricate the foundations of our friendship. Our favourite one is heavily inspired by the plot of John Tucker Must Die, which involves convincing unsuspecting men that we all became friends after discovering we were all dating the same guy at the same time.

“WHAT A PIECE OF SHIT!” is the usual response.

“I KNOW!” we say. “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEAS ON HOW WE CAN GET OUR REVENGE?”

It’s all a bit of harmless fun.

Anyway, I digress. We dip in and out of the different venues throughout the day, and much later on, we’re in the smoking area when I see a man approaching me with his arms wide, his grin wider.

“HEY AGAIN!!!” he shouts. I have never seen this man in my life.

He clocks my confusion and says a name I don’t catch, followed by a few conversational references that mean nothing to me. He soon accepts defeat and disappears, but about ten minutes later, he returns with two of his friends.

“HEY! SORRY ABOUT EARLIER. YOU JUST REALLY LOOK LIKE A GIRL I WAS TALKING TO BEFORE,” he insists.

He joins our conversation and tells me and one of the other girls that we both have “REALLY LOVELY THICK HAIR”.

My moment has arrived: “THANKS! IT’S ACTUALLY GENETIC. WE’RE SISTERS!”

The girls play along, and we take turns feeding false information to these three men who listen in stunned silence. Our story tonight is that we all just met after recently discovering that the three of us have the same dad. He was a bit of a man about town back in the day — a roadie for a “HUGE BAND” in the 90s — which means there are probably several more siblings we’ve yet to meet.

“THAT IS UNBELIEVABLE!!” says one of the men.

Two of them are sceptical, but the first one points to me and my friend and says he can see the resemblance, actually, because we have the same eyebrows. My friend has dark, thick eyebrows — the very opposite of mine, which have been plucked to near non-existence. Men are so full of shit, and I say that as someone lying straight to their faces.

We spend a while longer with them before heading back inside to the dancefloor. At one point, my friend pulls out her tiny handheld fan, which leads people to gravitate towards us for a hit of sweet sweet relief. One very grateful stranger offers us poppers in return for the five seconds of slightly-less-hot air that came his way. We don’t want them, but how nice is that! I hate when people say Londoners are unkind!!!

We decide it’s time to call it a day at around 3am, but just before leaving, I catch the eye of a man who looks familiar. He has floppy brown hair — my favourite — which makes me question if he’s one of my boys or if I’m just recognising a genre.

He’s looking my way too, so I head over and ask, “DO WE KNOW EACH OTHER?”

He doesn’t think so, though says I also look familiar. We start assessing possible overlaps: hometowns, uni, work, Hinge. Nothing! Still, we exchange numbers, and I head back over to the girls who are waiting patiently for my return.

On the way out, we spot the guy who approached us earlier in the smoking area, now slumped alone in a slumber outside a kebab shop. It’s like a modern Renaissance scene. Just looking at him makes me tired, and I suddenly cannot wait to be home.

When I eventually get there just before 4am, I discover I forgot to put my clean sheets on the bed before leaving the house earlier. Trying to squeeze a duvet into its cover after that many tequilas is the closest I have ever come to understanding the appeal of a live-in partner. Thank GOD the feeling was gone as soon as I woke up the next morning.

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Much like my own wardrobe, this newsletter is bursting at the seams with goodies. This makes me very happy, though it means the article exceeds the email limit. To ensure you don’t miss anything, please click through to read the piece in-app or on your browser.

Because of the great amount of gold we found for this one newsletter, I sadly wasn’t able to gather contributions from everyone who wanted to get involved. Regardless, I’d still really love to hear from you all. Let me know if you’re interested in seeing more of this kind of content, and we can look at cooking up something spicy.

Finally, my Substack is a labour of love and is currently free to read, but if you’d like to show your support, you can contribute to my shiny new Buy Me a Coffee page. Except I have aptly named mine Buy Me a Martini, because that’s probably what I’d do. Then I’d write about drinking that martini, so it all comes full circle.

BUY ME A MARTINI. IF YOU WANT.

Thanks! That’s all! I love you!

In a recent column, I wrote about how much I love my vintage Yves Saint Laurent Downtown bag. It’s an item that’s visibly well-worn, which makes it feel entirely mine, to the point that wearing it sometimes feels like a personal ritual.

I like to think of this as pleasure dressing.

God knows I love shopping and (unfortunately) spending money, but I also truly believe there is such joy to be found in wearing your own things. It’s so fun to rediscover memories through your wardrobe, to refashion old items of clothing, to realise that your possessions carry stories, and that they’ve lived their own lives alongside yours.

As an advocate of lived-in things, I was of course thrilled to see that Mary-Kate Olsen’s love letter to her red Chanel bag has been circulating on Substack, almost twenty years after its initial publication in The New York Times (thank you for your service).

Though I’m SURE we are soul sisters, Mary-Kate Olsen and I aren’t the only FASHION GREATS to love wearing our things to death.

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been speaking to some of my favourite Substackers about the most treasured pieces in their wardrobe — not necessarily the newest or most expensive, but the ones that have earned their place. I found that the pleasure doesn’t necessarily come from the objects themselves, but rather the stories stitched into them.

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(Alice’s Substack)

It would have to be my Phoebe Philo for Celine SS17 pink dress.

I truly longed for this piece from the moment I saw it on the runway! And it still feels unreal to actually have it in my very own wardrobe. I feel sensational but also completely and utterly myself when I wear it.

(Take Care of Yourself)

My most treasured thing is this charm bracelet. It was from grandmother, to my mother, to me. An heirloom, but to me it also represents second chances.

Years ago, my mom gave me a different charm bracelet. It was even more personal - filled with pieces from her childhood through becoming a mother. I lost it during a move. Completely. I looked EVERYWHERE. I never really forgave myself for that :(

Before my wedding, she gave me this one. Now, I wear it as a reminder that not everything lost is gone forever. Some things come back differently. A second chance in bracelet form.

(Might Mean Something)

I work for a clothing brand called TOAST, so mainly wear those pieces which are more workwear focussed with some 90s inspired bits from my mum’s wardrobe.

My mum is a fashion lover and was definitely a baddie in her day (and still is). She’s had this skirt from COAST which has shoes illustrated on it. It’s a mix of chiffon and satin and sits nicely on the waist and falls to the calf, so I normally wear it with a sassy shoe like a platform flip flop or heeled boot.

For me, it’s reminiscent of Charlotte York’s skirt when she nearly gets run over and meets Trey…so whenever I wear it I hope I’ll be granted with a stroke of luck.

(Elle Dresses Well)

The item sparking the most joy in my closet right now are my new pink sneakers! They’re girly and sporty and are the missing piece to a lot of my outfits. I snagged them on a restock notification, so the chase was a thrill, and in general I just love seeing the through-lines in all of Jacquemus’s designs.

(Digital Fruits)

This is my vintage leather Emma purse!! I found it thrifting at Hollywood Vintage in Portland, OR a decade ago. From the same vendor I found my favorite red cowboy boots from. Somehow, they always have something magical waiting in their booth for me that feels kismet. I walked in and this was the first thing I saw. Obviously had no hesitations about bringing her home with me.

(Stylé - The Paris Edit)

My mom’s waterfall earrings from the ’90s are an instant mood booster every time I throw them on. I can totally picture my mom dancing in one of her mini slip dresses and these gorgeous earrings swinging back and forth.

My favorite way to wear them now is with a super simple outfit, just to create that fun contrast. The more basic, the better: with a plain white t-shirt and denim, or an oversized men’s hoodie and baggy trousers.

What’s counterintuitive is that even though they’re such a glam piece, I reach for them in the most unexpected moments, especially when I’m feeling low. They’re the perfect little hack for looking put-together when all you really wanted was to stay in bed. Kind of my own Carrie Bradshaw-in-pyjamas-and-pearls-on-New-Year’s-Eve moment.

(Kind of Cool)

I think the final answer has to be my New York Yankees X MoMA baseball cap that I got at the museum’s gift shop. It’s a washed dark navy colour and the best souvenir from a, dare I say, life-changing trip to NYC with my sister.

It’s like the cherry on top of every look, even if that’s just sweatpants and a hoodie for running to the corner shop. I think it’s become so synonymous with my “style” that my friends no longer tag me in Instagram stories when we hang out because the hat on a table next to a flat white signifies my presence enough. The hat and me are locked in for life!

It brings me pleasure because every time I put it on it’s like transporting back to the electric energy of that New York trip with my sister. A world is our oyster type of feeling.

(HODGEPODGE)

I got this brooch from Justine Menard about a year and a half ago. I first discovered her on Instagram and was immediately enamored. She’s a glassware artist who primarily focuses on homeware, so I initially assumed she had made the piece for herself and that it wasn’t in production. Lo and behold, she announced the launch of these brooches just a few months later.

Brooches are my favorite accessory, so I was beyond excited to add this one to my collection. It truly felt like purchasing a piece of art, and when it arrived, my jaw dropped. It’s hand-blown and even more beautiful than I could have imagined. It’s such a conversation starter, and I feel like it transforms any outfit into a work of art all on its own.

(In Good Taste)

I’m a big jeans girl, especially a vintage Levi. Wearing them is when I feel best! I dug these out of a pile at a flee market on the outskirts of Paris three years ago and didn’t try them on but they fit like a glove! My favorite pair and I’m always reminded of that trip when i wear them!

(The Dressing Room)

This robe is completely impractical and also my favorite item in my entire wardrobe at present. Originally, I had this saved on my eBay watchlist for months. But, it was winter and I couldn’t justify spending $200 on Victoria’s Secret. But then, the big event happened. You know the one. The Conner Ives Fall 26 RTW show set off rumblings from London where he sent the most beautiful, succulent, extravagant fur-trimmed silk robe down the runway. Talk of the robe spread like wildfire. Mary Kate Olsen photos were dredged from the archives. And I realized: why was I depriving myself of such joy?

Unfortunately by that point the robe had sold. But that’s never stopped me. I spent weeks tracking it down, and found an inactive listing on Poshmark. I commented and sent and offer, to no avail. But then, when my hope had dwindled to nothing more than a spark, the seller responded. She accepted my $135 offer. I had done it. Yes, the robe may be about 6” too long. Yes, it’s really only practical for about three weeks out of the year - as long as the rain doesn’t interfere. But the feeling of flowing silk (Harry Potter anyone?) and the comforting swaddle of a fur collar make up for these shortcomings.

So I plan to wear this impractical piece to impractical places - my local dive bar, the grocery store, maybe on Amtrak to keep me warm. So yes, while the basics are important, don’t forget about the luxuries and extravagances. They are what you will remember.

(Instead of Doomscrolling)

I found these sunglasses while I was snooping through my mom’s car a few years ago, right before moving abroad for university—she had completely forgotten about them, who knows how long they had been there. They are the most stunning vintage Calvin Klein sunglasses from the early 2000s. I tried wearing them a few times before I left home, but it looked like I was quite literally wearing my mom’s sunglasses—they felt foreign on my face, making me look like I was playing adult pretend.

Right before I moved halfway across the world to study Fashion Business in Italy, I made it my mission to finally start being true to myself in my self-expression, starting with chopping off my long hair into the pixie I keep to this day a few days before getting on the plane. Once I got here, I started wearing the sunglasses all the time, but now they looked like they really belonged to me.

I now wear them when I want to feel confident and remind myself of who I am: a powerful, cool, smart, kind woman—just like my mom.

(Tasty Magazine)

I’ve been obsessed with this C&M blazer, cool grey with flecks of yellow. It makes me feel powerful, but not serious. Tailored yet unstructured, it grounds the bolder prints I tend to wear with a softer, more textured contrast. I’ve been loving it lately, and for someone who used to only wear dresses, I’m leaning into separates as puzzle pieces of joy.

Thank you to everybody who contributed to this letter — you are all so FUN and FABULOUS and I am totally in awe.

— H x

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That means it’s time for April’s entry in my Pleasure Pursuit diaries — this one is a reflection brought on by my house move and the new beginnings that come with spring.

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“It is easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends.

I can remember now, with a clarity that makes the nerves in the back of my neck constrict, when New York began for me, but I cannot lay my finger upon the moment it ended, can never cut through the ambiguities and second starts and broken resolves to the exact place on the page where the heroine is no longer as optimistic as she once was.”

— Joan Didion, Goodbye to All That

There have been many pleasures brought to me recently by the act of ending things. This is funny, because for a long time I found change to be reprehensibly inconvenient — mostly because it requires stepping out of one’s comfort zone, a region to which I was once extremely committed.

If you know me or have read enough of my writing, you’ve probably realised that I’ve since acquired a solid set of commitment issues, and so I no longer find myself confined within the borders of comfort. You can take this letter as proof.

The discomfort I’m feeling here isn’t in drawing a parallel between myself and Joan Didion (this sits well within my comfort zone because I am also obviously one of the GREATEST WRITERS of this generation). Rather, it’s because I’m about to be a Little Bit Earnest on the internet.

Please know that it takes a lot of bravery and vulnerability to reveal oneself as a person who SOMETIMES has emotions just like everybody else — but as I said, there’s joy to be found in extending one’s reach.

When I look back on the past few years, I see how much of my life moved in long, unbroken stretches. I stayed in my last home for four years while more than ten housemates rotated in and out. That was the house I moved into after I got my first “proper” job — the one I’m still in five years down the line. When I first walked through that door, I was also in a long-distance relationship that was even longer in years.

Like Didion, I remember the beginnings of these things with such clarity. The excitement, the anticipation, all of it is crystal clear. The endings, however, are hazier and much harder to recall.

Of course, I can point to the moment I ended my relationship, and I can tell you the date I moved out of the house where that breakup took place. But what I cannot trace back is when I first knew I had overstayed both.

“You will have perceived by now that I was not one to profit by the experience of others, that it was a very long time indeed before I stopped believing in new faces and began to understand the lesson in that story, which was that it is distinctly possible to stay too long at the Fair."

— Joan Didion, Goodbye to All That

Perhaps the endings began when sameness started to seep in, when things no longer felt shiny and new. The shape of my days became fixed: same routine, same route home, same old conversations happening in my relationship. There was no room for surprise. Everything was so familiar, which for a while I took to be evidence of having my shit together — something no one in their twenties really does (nor should).

Still, I was happy, and I’ve always felt incredibly lucky to have the life I do. I know it’s a privilege to feel content and comfortable; it’s an even greater one to be able to step out of those things.

“To get unstuck, leave your comfort zone” — that’s what was written on a small sign that popped up a couple of years ago near my old house. It was one of those notes to strangers, those little posters designed to be photographed and uploaded to Instagram by the tourists and millennials that run this city. I passed the sign daily and, soon enough, this live-laugh-love-coded piece of “street art” had plastered itself on my brain.

Every time I walked past the poster, I felt the growing gap between knowing and doing — though I continued to do nothing about it for a while. I found it hard to take action because nothing was wrong, exactly. Things in life were going well, but I was bored.

A quiet kind of self-sabotage had crept in, disguising itself as stability. Habit and convenience were keeping me rooted to the spot.

When I did finally decide to “get unstuck” and embrace those endings — breaking up with my (now ex-) boyfriend in 2024, deciding not to renew my tenancy after 2025 — I found that things began to move. I started dating again, writing new things, having more fun. There had been a shift, as though I was now more involved in my own life.

After waiting out the final stretch of my lease, I moved house this month, which is why I’m reflecting on all of this now. I loved that place so much, and in those final few moments on the doorstep, I replayed kisses, commutes, cigarettes, everything that took place in that same spot. I felt such a fondness for what had been, whilst feeling so fulfilled in knowing I was about to close that door for the last time.

Since opening the door to my new home, fresh chapters have already begun. I’ve met people who have quickly become friends, I got promoted at work, and now I’m writing something — god forbid — HEARTFELT. Big things are happening.

I am forever grateful for the fortune and experiences I’ve had, and that includes the periods of calm amongst the chaos. I think that pleasure can live in ease, but there’s a better and brighter kind that seems to appear only once you’ve left that behind.

Love things, then leave them.

Though I will never leave any of you, who I love so much!!!

— H x

SOME OTHER THINGS THAT BROUGHT ME PLEASURE THIS MONTH:

1. I befriended a 60-year-old man at the pub who told me I “scare the shit out of him”. Then he bought an expensive bottle of wine for me and my friends. I liked both of these things a lot.

2. I went to Bar Italia twice in April and sat outside in the sun with a double espresso, Campari Spritz and a few Sobranies. Oh my god should we throw a party?? Should we invite Anthony Bourdain??

3. CAT!!

Did you read last month’s entry to Pleasure Pursuit? You should take a look because it’s REALLY GOOD!!

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Thank you to those who are still here in spite of my scattered schedule this month — after this piece, I promise I’ll be back to sliding into your inbox every Friday. And to the few who unsubscribed, don’t worry! I understand! I like to practise forgiveness and so rest assured I am certainly NOT plotting my revenge or cursing the day you were born.

Not long after publishing my last post on the art of a good party, I came across the below Substack note by :

This is something I wholeheartedly agree with. It’s why, in my probing of fellow fun-lovers, I’ve been asking questions about what makes a good event attendee.

My guest this week tells me it’s about smiling, socialising and not smelling.

Here’s what Happy Hour author and hot girl thinks about partying well.

“A good party always has...”

An excellent soundtrack, possible matches between people (so never all couples, there has to be an element of FRISSON involved), a thoughtful guestlist from all walks of life (this is why Studio 54 was good...all walks of life! But, you know, looked a certain kind of sexy under the lights, Diana Ross dancing next to the hot deli counter boy!).

*Editor’s note: in last week’s letter, told me about the best party he’s ever been to, which also drew a comparison to Studio 54. One of his highlights was seeing people of all ages interacting on the dancefloor. I wonder if this is the ingredient that really makes for a good time: a guestlist which brings together people from “all walks of life”, as Marlowe puts it. Food for thought!

What’s something you never want to see at a party?

I think it’s what I don’t want to smell... any sort of bodily odour from head to toe.

Do you have any rules as an attendee?

If it’s past 2am and my mood has shifted into a more negative atmosphere it’s almost never going to change for the better, so call that car mama! Smile when meeting someone, smile big! I have such a stern resting face, and I think smiling can put a new person at ease. It’s such an easy gesture.

We all need to party more — agree or disagree?

I’m going to take myself out of the equation, I think I socialize a perfect amount. Most people need to not “party” in the traditional idea of it, but let loose! People think partying is simply nightclubs and very late nights. Often, it’s hopping around from one location to another with people that make you laugh and who are socially adaptable and fun.

Who are the best and worst people to converse with at parties?

Best people are the ones who are perfectly themselves, worst people are strivers and careerists.

Think of the worst party you’ve been to... what was it that made it so terrible?

I really don’t think those stay in my mind, I never think there’s a worse night ever. I don’t like when everyone wants to talk about work, especially writing. I have been saying lately, the only good reason for me to go out is a kiss... I don’t want to be cornered somewhere talking about writing books, my god.

Must a party always be good?

No, then we wouldn’t have those breaks in between. It’s more about how one approaches the night, as opposed to putting all the pressure on the party. It doesn’t always have to be good, but I would hope it isn’t...boring.

And with that, I remind you: anything can be a party with the right attitude. You must be the fun you want to see in the world.

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I feel the time has come to put these rules into writing, starting with the first: a good party needs a good host — and a good host always has something thoughtful to offer their guests. My gift to you today is an extra special one, because multiple minds have contributed to it.

I’ve collected advice, insights and anecdotes from some of my favourite party people on Substack. Here’s what you should know.

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YOU MUST BE THE FUN YOU WANT TO SEE IN THE WORLD

To open up opportunities for fun, you must first open your mind. Consider ‘s impartial approach to attending parties:

• Do: “walk into everything without expectations”

• Don’t: “badmouth the party at the party. If you start talking to everyone about how little fun you’re having, suddenly everyone feels the same way, and you bring the vibe down. The best thing to do if you’re not having a good time is to throw yourself into it!”

It may be true that misery loves company, but nobody wants to find this companion at the function. Bring some positivity as your plus one instead. In the wise words of :

“Anything can be a party if you have the right attitude”.

For Ali, having the right attitude as a party attendee is about making sure you “cheers with friends and have as much fun as possible”. Something she absolutely doesn’t want to see is “people on their phone in the corner being miserable”.

What she does want to see, however, is “enough bartenders and cigarettes on a silver platter. Smoking inside preferred, smoking section accepted”.

Let’s head over to that smoking section now.

THE BEST ANECDOTES MAY COME WITH A PACK OF SMOKES

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: smoking areas really do supply some of the best stories. Just take this one that told me about an unforgettable Halloween party that he and his boyfriend hosted, where…

“Around 11 p.m., our 40-year-old neighbor, whom we’d never met, came into our home and told us to quiet down, so we brought the people and the music inside from the back patio, only letting people out there to smoke. Eventually, everyone migrated back outside (because who can resist a cheeky cig and fresh air?) when suddenly a jetstream of water from the balcony up the hill soaked everyone and their cigs.

For the next 40 minutes, anytime someone underwent a covert mission to retrieve the items they had abandoned on the patio, our neighbor was lying in wait to hit them with her semi-automatic garden hose.

That was the last and only time we hosted a party of that size, but it's one everyone in attendance will never forget. Which, in the end, is the goal of any legendary party”.

supports my theory, too. According to Amanda, all good parties have an ashtray or a terrace — “I don’t even smoke anymore but smokers make the party, don’t banish them somewhere far away! They normally take half the party with them”.

Amanda’s guidance for party guests is to always say hello to the host, or ask to be introduced — even if you’re a crasher. She tells me “I hate when people crash a party where I am hosting and walk by me like I’m the random”.

While she knows how to host a good gathering, Amanda is also a follower of the golden rule that ANYTHING CAN BE A PARTY IF YOU MAKE IT SO!! She tells me:

“These days I love to just dance on a couch at a friend’s house. There are so many amazing parties in New York all week, the real treat has become wine with my long time friends.”

A party doesn’t have to be great in size to make for a great time. Remember that as we move on to the next rule.

BIGGER AIN’T ALWAYS BETTER

I spoke to , the patron saint of throwing parties, about some key things people should consider when hosting:

“If you’re renting a place for a party, it’s better for it to be too small than too big. People like to be close to each other. It’s like a fire. Logs need to be overlapping to catch. You think you want a warehouse but you need a townhouse. It’s so awkward when there is too much space.

Also no shoes. People shouldn’t feel like they could leave at any second.”

Regardless of how intimate the gathering is, Dylan believes all good parties should escalate — “you have some beautiful table-scape or decoration, great. That’s nice for when people arrive. But that can’t be the pinnacle. You have to have things coming later.” He gives the example of a holiday party he hosted, where he promised guests there’d be a surprise later in the evening. A mentalist then showed up at 11pm.

This kind of anticipation is great for generating conversation among people, especially those who don’t know each other. Having a theme can also be a good gateway for connection because, according to Dylan:

“It does the obvious thing of shedding inhibitions and making the party silly and loose from the get go. Gives everyone a conversation starter if they need one.

But also it commits everyone to the night. A guest who has plans after the party is not a fun guest. But if they are dressed as a centipede at your party, they are committed to it.”

Showing up to a party in a centipede costume starts the evening off strong as it helps to differentiate the occasion from any old regular day (though maybe this is your usual thing — I don’t know what you’re all into).

That’s another factor of fun to consider.

DIFFERENTIATE FROM THE EVERYDAY

is also a lover of themes and activities at parties. Whether it’s full-blown costumery or a simple dancefloor, it doesn’t matter; a good party just has to have "something to orient the evening around”. Think about how you can “inject some energy, so that it doesn’t devolve into an every day hang out”.

Documenting the evening in a different style is another way to make the night feel distinctive. Ethan says:

“Ideally, I don’t want to see cellphones at a party. I’m not saying you need to stock up on Yondr pouches, but there are ways to encourage people to take a minute from their screen. For example, hiring a photographer to document the night. You’re creating a job and stimulating the local economy, while assuring attendees the night will be documented in dramatic fashion.”

Anything done in a dramatic fashion is sure to make for a memorable party.

Take this delicious example from , who told me about one of the best parties he’s attended: a New Year’s celebration at the Great Eastern Hotel, which was “like Studio 54 wild” (my dream). The hotel was “one massive pleasure palace”, where “everyone was good-looking” (my dream DOUBLED), and…

• All rooms were open

• There was an open bar with bottles popping everywhere

• The guests were of all ages — “it’s so nice in Ibiza seeing really cool 60+ people partying with 18 year olds”

According to Alfred, all good parties have a sense of occasion, but also an element of ease and informality — “those two seemingly opposing impulses are the key to a really great night. So when you walk in it’s like wow, but then you feel so comfortable and welcome that you can chat easily and make new friends, seduce a lover…”

Once you’ve charmed the room, made new friends and seduced many a lover, there’s only one last art to master: the exit.

END ON A HIGH: KNOW WHEN TO GO

All good things must come to an end. With that, I leave you with the following notes on knowing when it’s time to go:

1. “I used to feel so much pressure to push myself to stay out later so I could ‘prove’ that I was fun, even though I rarely enjoyed myself after I’d started to feel like I wanted to head home. Now, as soon as I want to go, I go. I would always find it so difficult to decide whether or not to leave because I put pressure on myself to stay, but now I can tell really easily when I’m done. This means that sometimes I’m in bed by midnight and sometimes I’m out until the sun’s up, but either way, I know it was what I actually wanted to do.” —

2. “I know it’s time to leave when the killer comes out (I start running and/or kicking trees) or the sun is coming up. (I have vowed to never see the sun rise under party circumstances again).” —

3. “I know it’s time to leave when the clock strikes 1 a.m., or if there’s talk of moving to a second location. I don’t do second locations.” —

4. “Much like how birds know when it’s time to migrate south for the winter, you always know in your heart when it’s time to go.” —

I want to give A HUGE THANK YOU to all of my wonderful contributors and also to YOU beautiful readers. I love you. Let’s all party together.

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I felt the promise of a joyous few weeks ahead.

Perhaps it was this promise that ignited the desire to dip my toe back into the online dating pool. I’d had a few months off and still wasn’t sure that I wanted to swim, but I couldn’t see any harm in sitting on the edge and admiring the eye candy around me. I leaned in to the feeling and allowed my lust to take over, making the very brave and commendable decision to unpause my Hinge profile.

With the click of a button, halfhearted swiping and small talk slipped back into the cracks of my days. It seemed that not much had changed in this world while I’d been away: the men of London still love F1, Fred Again and being “lightly roasted”. It was a disappointing state of affairs that left me feeling unstimulated, uninvested, and ultimately robbed of the passion and pleasure that had been guaranteed to me by the trusted astrological authorities of Vice.com.

I was just getting ready to curse the gods, and then one of them fell into my matches. After an especially long day, I opened my phone to discover that a new suitor had made his way into my inbox. He looked like he’d fallen there from the high heavens. It was a face so beautiful that I wanted to print out his picture and wear it in a locket, like we’re wartime lovers and not strangers battling through the trenches of online dating.

We started talking and hit it off straight away, but I was sceptical about his intentions. I could sense an instant intensity, which is a specific energy that I’ve become attuned to in the men I find attractive. It’s one that quite often turns out to be thinly veiled evil.

Of course, that didn’t make my answer an immediate no when he asked to see me that weekend. I was understandably torn. I had a lot to consider, like:

1. On the one hand: VERY SEXY! And (maybe) nice?

2. On the other: I’ve seen this film a hundred times before. The ending never changes.

I presented this problem to my best friend, who excitedly told me she had an idea. I waited by the phone as she called another friend who was going to “pull some tarot cards” to give us an answer: would seeing this man serve my higher self?

Yes. A new adventure may bring about a renewal of energy that you’ve been needing.

That was all I needed to move ahead and ignore those flags-a-red. I accepted his offer, and we’ve since met — but in the interest of holding onto any remnant of mystery that I have left, I won’t write about the outcome. Until next month’s column, probably.

A few days after my tarot reading, I returned to my old haunts of Hanover Square for Vogue’s Vintage Sale (if you’re in the US, this is happening tomorrow in New York and you should definitely go).1 In that room, I discovered that the stars were also correct in their assumption that I’d be feeling “spendier” this month. I was on a high while trying on Dior chiffon and Saint Laurent denim, and — some hours later — came away with another beautifully battered bag to add to my collection (this time a vintage brown leather Mulberry Roxanne)2. As well as that new little number, I’m now the proud owner of some navy satin square-toe ballet flats from The Row. They make my feet look like flippers. I love them.

The peril of such pleasure chasing is that it can be thirsty work, so my friend and I took our purchases for a couple of martinis at The Dover to finish our shopping day. If my taste is to be trusted, you should consider this the best bar in London, by the way (no, I’m NOT just saying that because the waiters have started to recognise me, which makes me feel like a #celebrity!!).

As we sat at the bar and talked of our indulgence, I thought back to my horoscope. The stars had told me that by the end of this month, I’d “likely feel a renewed sense of direction”.3 Hmm… I’m less sure about the accuracy of that one. Navigation has never been my strong point.

— H x

As the evening grew closer, my excitement grew bigger. I was about to see a familiar setting through a new pair of eyes. I was going to be like Louis Theroux at the disco, an involved observer scribbling down dispatches of the night in my notes app.

My intentions were good, but in the end, my inhibitions were lost. The night in question is now doubly hazy: one, because I had four martinis before even entering the club, and two, because I am now recounting the events almost two weeks later. Does that make me an unreliable narrator? Quite possibly.

Saturday 7th March

I must start my retelling by thanking all of you beautiful people for your service. I hit 400 subscribers just as I was heading out the door, and being a woman of my word, my evening was to begin with a delicious martini at Rasputins in Hackney. This was guzzled down as I gushed over white boy of the month Paul Anthony Kelly, whom I was gooey-eyed over after catching up on Love Story earlier in the day. I was getting all hot and bothered thinking about him. I had to order another martini to cool off — this time, a dirty one — and then two more.

In three hours, my friend and I had consumed twenty olives and four martinis each. We felt that was a sufficient amount of fuel to take us to our next destination.

So, now we’re at an 80s night at MOTH Club, an ex-servicemen’s society space just down the road from our earlier venue. I have been here many times, so despite my now-murky memory, I am confident that the following description is fairly accurate: the floor is always sticky, and the room is glittery and grimy and GREAT.

The confidence in my memory starts to waver when I try to recount the exact songs that are playing, but if I reach back into the annals of ages gone by, I can guess that we’re definitely/probably/maybe hearing the following:

• Everybody Wants to Rule the World — Tears For Fears

• Friday I’m in Love — The Cure

• Girls Just Want to Have Fun — Cyndi Lauper

• Dancing in the Dark — Bruce Springsteen

• Once in a Lifetime — Talking Heads

Specifics aside, it’s guaranteed that the music is good, and we came here to dance, so that’s what we do for a long time — but if you’ve read any of my other party pieces, you will know that dancing alone does not a good night make. Yes, the time has come to talk to strangers in the smoking area.

Unfortunately, that time has now gone as quickly as it came. Other than falsely confessing to a man that I’m a nepo baby, I don’t remember much about this point in the evening. I choose to believe this is because nobody is offering up any interesting anecdotes, and definitely NOT down to the amount of vodka pumping through my bloodstream.

I do, however, remember that there are two different occasions in which one man gets excited about my friend’s hair: “IT’S SO BEAUTIFUL!!!”, he exclaims whilst trying to run his fingers through it. We later laugh about this, which attracts the attention of another man who is now in our ear asking “WHAT’S THE GOSS?”. He seems friendly and fun, and he’s now our favourite person of the night because he says he wants to buy us drinks, but then he returns from the bar with just one — “IT’S FOR ALL OF US!”.

His friends join us, and we are now all dancing and shouting in each other’s ears whilst passing around a small plastic cup of vodka like teenagers.

This takes us to 2:45AM, I think, and the lights come on. We reconvene on the pavement after being ushered outside, and this man tells us that he knows somewhere else we could go. He orders us all an Uber, and whilst we’re waiting, he wants to know what I do for work. I ask about his knowledge of Vogue, and he thinks I mean the “CIGARETTE COMPANY”.

I’m telling him about my job in Big Corporate (not Big Tobacco) when the Uber arrives. It is now that I find out we are headed to Metropolis, which is a strip club but “ONLY ON WEEKDAYS!”. I already know that, of course. This is unfortunately not the first time I’ve been beyond that neon sign above the door.

We all get out of the car, and I think the rest of the night goes as follows:

1. The bouncer tells us it’s usually a £10 entry fee, but he will let us all in for £5. This is obviously because he thinks we seem cool and fun, right? It’s not because it’s about to close soon and there are only eight people inside, right? Right??!!

2. We have tequila shots, and for some reason I do not take off my fur coat.

3. The man who brought us here is excited because “THEY HAVE A PHOTOBOOTH!”. He is now the proud owner of four little black and white pictures of us kissing (he will later send these to me, but as a “view-only-once” photo — I’m sure this is for the best because I probably would have included them here).

4. There is artificial sand on the floor of one room, and now it’s in my boots. I am still wearing my fur coat.

5. Once again, we have stayed until closing and, once again, we are all gathered on the pavement outside.

Now I’m tired. I light a cigarette and then decide I don’t want it. We are invited to an afters, and I decide I don’t want that either. I want to be on the other side of London, where my bed is, where I’m writing from now, where my fur coat is still slung over a chair in the corner, ready and waiting for her next outing.

MOTH Club is at risk from developers — sign the petition to save it!

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I’m getting ahead of myself, but I really do feel like the upcoming change in season has pumped a new energy into my veins. I must not let it go to waste. I must use it wisely and channel it into something worthwhile.

Something like… shopping?

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MORNING

Lazy mornings in linen pyjamas, sheer skin, and floral scents for spring (groundbreaking!). More feeling rejuvenated and unrushed.

More Françoise Hardy. And more Steely Dan.

AFTERNOON

Splashes of pink on the skin, and soft hair spritzed with rose mist. More shopping in the sun; more HAVING FUN!

More Velvet Underground. And more Steely Dan.

EVENING

Skin is cleansed, a silk robe is on, and a sexy little cocktail is poured. The big light is strictly off (always).

Sade is playing, soon to be followed by STEELY DAN!

All products mentioned can be found here. See you in spring!

— H x

If you liked this, you can join me on some of my other hunts for treasure:

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