30 things at 30.

I turned thirty a few weeks ago. For some it’s considered a scary age but I can honestly say I’m excited about it. When you’re young you have all these ideas in your head about what’s expected of you and who you should be. Sometimes, things don’t turn out the way you planned, but you learn some important lessons along the way. Here are 30 pearls of wisdom I have gleaned in my thirty orbits around the sun.

1. Career progression isn’t always a ladder. I’ve made lots of sideways steps in my professional life and am now in a role where I feel comfortable, content and creative. Despite not always getting more money, I grew rich in experience with each new role and was able to grow as a person both personally and professionally. 

2. Work to live, don’t live to work. As I’ve discussed before, finding the right work/life balance has been a challenge for me, but now that I’ve found an equilibrium, my life feels more my own. While I need to earn enough money to pay my mortgage and fund my skincare obsession, I also need time for myself.

3. You can change your mind about wanting babies. When I was in my early twenties I was sure I didn’t want kids, but as I’ve gotten older my mindset has changed. If it happens for me, it’s something I’ll embrace fully. 

4. But it’s also ok to not be ready. Knowing that I may want kids some day is fine but I also know I’m not ready. While many of my peers have children or are thinking about it, I know that I want another few years for myself and my relationship. I want to continue to go on outlandish holidays, to stay out all night and sleep in all day. 

5. It’s important to dress for your shape. I don’t want to boast but I’ve got killer legs, unfortunately the rest of me looks like a potato. As such, a short, shapeless t-shirt dress is my go-to silhouette. It’s a winning formula and I’m never gonna quit it. 

6. Exercise will make you feel better, physically and mentally. I am the queen of procrastination when it comes to working out but the thing is, I know it makes me feel good. The weeks where I exercise 3+ times, I feel happier, healthier and more productive.

7. It’s ok to not make plans. It’s also ok to cancel existing plans so long as you are honest and aren’t letting anybody down. Sometimes you’re tired, pre-menstrual or just fed-up and all you want to do is curl up on the couch and cry at Say Yes to the Dress. 

8. Living alone is hard, but so rewarding. I spent two and a half years living on my own before my boyfriend moved in with me. Financially, it was a strain but knowing that being on my own is something I can endure, and even enjoy is important to me as an independent woman. 

9. Make-up wipes should be for emergencies only. I’ve started cleansing properly in the last year and my skin is definitely clearer, cleaner and brighter. There’s also something soothing about the routine of lathering on cream and wiping it off with a warm facecloth. It’s become an important part of my evening ritual.

10. Drinking too much wine will give you a hangover. Not only am I an annoying drunk, I’m also a horrendous hungover person and when I’ve been downing wine I become incapacitated. While I know I should cut back on my drinking, this is still something I’ve not quite nailed down. 

11. Not everyone will like you. I’m a people pleaser and I find it very difficult when people don’t like me. This used to be something that caused me real distress but as I’ve gotten older I’ve discovered it’s ok for people not to like you. As long as you like yourself, you’ll find your people.

12. Smear tests are so important. I’m so lucky to live in Scotland where the NHS starts giving girls smear tests at 21. My first test showed some abnormal cells and for the past nine years I have received regular appointments and excellent care. Screening saves lives. 

13. Learn to cook. The more time I spend in the kitchen, the more I love it. There is no greater feeling than hosting a successful dinner party and presenting guests with a knock-out pavlova for pud.

14. Go to the dentist regularly. I recently took a two year hiatus from visiting the dentist and unfortunately my penchant for red wine and coffee meant my otherwise perfect teeth were badly stained. It took a couple of intense scale and polishes to get them gleaming again. 

15. Don’t spend a fortune on mascara. Over the years I have tried out a wide range, from high-end to high-street and the quality does not always improve with the price. I always go back to L’oreal Lash Architect, which at £10.99 feels a bit like a Pret sandwich: affordable but luxurious.

16. The Salted Caramel Khalua will up your Espresso Martini game considerably. I was gifted a bottle and I am now Queen of this classic caffeinated cocktail.

17. Don’t just assume everyone is doing better than you are because of what you see on social media. We’re all guilty of censoring our social activity to paint the perfect picture but the reality is that life can be hard and we don’t always see the whole story. 

18. Be kind. Be kind to yourself and to others, I know it’s a cliché but everyone is fighting a battle you know nothing about. 

19. Spend time with your family. Some of the best nights of my life involve sitting at my Gran’s kitchen table with my massive, loud, overwhelming family. I’ll cherish these memories forever. 

20. Drink lots of water. Water is good for your skin, good for your teeth, good for digestion and good for when you need five minutes away from your desk.

21. Ask questions. This is important in almost every situation. In a social environment, asking questions is how you have a meaningful conversation. There is nothing more ignorant than someone who takes no interest in others. Professionally, asking questions is how you learn and shows that you are switched on and engaged. 

22. TK Maxx isn’t for everyone. Yes, I love the homewares but there are few things more exhausting than trawling through racks and racks of off-season clothes under that artificial lighting. 

23. Onesies are as comfortable as they look. I was pretty against the whole ‘adult dressed like a baby’ thing until I zipped my semi-naked body into a feather-soft leopard print fleecy all-in-one. It’s heaven.

24.  Being a wedding guest is a little like being a marathon runner (I’d imagine). I have attended many weddings and let me tell you this, it’s a long day with a lot of drinks. Pace yourself. 

25. Pushing yourself to the limit can be exhilarating. I’m a total scaredy-cat, so when I decided to sign up for a mountainous 10k in the dark last year my friends and family scoffed. All I wanted to do was quit, but I didn’t. I waded through rivers, jogged/scrambled up steep rocks and ran, on my own, for almost two hours. I was so proud.

26. Get a good black leather jacket. Or pleather, either way, it’s an investment piece. It can be worn with everything and adds a certain edge to even the girliest of gowns.

27. Compeed blister plasters are worth their weight in gold. At the time of purchase you’ll begrudge forking out £5+ on them but after a day breaking in your brand new loafers you’ll be willing to sell your soul to the devil for their cushioned comfort. 

28. The Dominos downs exist. It always feels like a good idea at the time but that cheese-loaded, carb-heavy grease fest will leave you feeling full of regret. Until next time…

29. If it’s cold, put the heating on. I got chilblains one winter at university because we were trying to save money on heating. It’s worth spending a bit more cash to not have to sleep in two hoodies and three pairs of socks. 

30. Writing lists is hard. There were moments I thought I’d be 31 before I published this post. 

I don't mind Mondays.

I'm just going to put it out there, I don't mind Mondays. 

Five months ago I changed jobs, from a high-stress client services role back to a more-creative position as a content manager and copywriter. I can't begin to tell you the positive effect this has had on my mindset. Doing something I love (writing) on a daily basis has given me a fresh lust for life. An influx of creativity in my working life has also helped me to rediscover this blog and I have devoted more time to my writing than ever before.  

My weekends are once again my own, no longer overshadowed by the monstrous grey cloud of the impending working week. A Sunday well spent brings a week of content - but mine would often be wasted cowering under the duvet, sleeping off a stinking hangover, heavy with dread at the thought of work the next day. I'm not suggesting the job was awful, it just wasn't the right job for me. I only realised that I'd been braced for impact for three years when I walked out of the door for the last time, my muscles slowly relaxing with each step I took into the future. 

Now, I sleep soundly on Sunday night, no more lying awake imagining all the important emails that may have invaded my inbox, the crisis calls left unanswered on my desk phone. Don't get me wrong, a big weekend may still leave me sluggish on a Monday morning but it's nothing that a cup of coffee and a carbohydrate-based breakfast won't fix. 

Mondays signify a fresh start, a blank page, a tale yet to be told - what's not to like about that? 

The importance of a good dose of Nostalgia

I’m one of life’s great rememberers. My brain is bursting with full-colour, surround sound memories. I can tell you exactly what I was wearing at the dawn of the Millennium (a cloud print strappy dress, mohair shrug and approximately 100 butterfly clips FYI) and I can recall insignificant conversations from months ago, much to my boyfriend’s abject horror. 

Whenever my school friends and I find ourselves together the conversation inevitably turns to our formative years. We talk about the boys we fancied, the guys we fell out over, the heinous clothes we wore. We listen to songs that remind of us being young and carefree and for a minute, we escape our real lives. And we laugh, so hard. 

Last week, inspired by a soundtrack of 90s Smash Hits, myself and a colleague found ourselves in a Google Image black hole of vintage Barbies and Tamigotchis. After about 30 minutes’ squealing ‘Do you remember…’ at each other we returned from our trip down memory lane, happy and grateful for all the things we were lucky to have. 

A nostalgic tinge can make even bittersweet memories more fond. Songs about love lost, that once caused me physical anguish now play out like a great film soundtrack. Early naughties pop punk takes me back to being an awkward 16 year old, smart and studious and stupidly wishing a boy would kiss me. But I still know all the words to all the songs and I belt them out with glee. 

The thing is, I love it. I’m so happy to be able to relive the rich instalments of my life thus far and I know that one day I may not be lucky enough to remember. I think that as humans, we need nostalgia, now more than ever. The familiar warmth of the past can lift the mood in this uncertain present.

My Top 5 Hangovers (in no particular order)

As I get older my hangovers get worse. I’ve gone from ‘slightly tired but nothing a can of juice won’t sort’ to ‘physically unable to stand up for at least 12 hours’. In a bid to document the evolution of my hangovers, here’s a taste of some of the most heinous:

1. Christmas 2016. As usual I’ve started my boozing early on with midday prosecco cocktails and canapés. I arrive at my Aunty’s house suitably ‘merry’ and the evening goes downhill from there. I remember copious amounts of red wine, a magnum of champagne and a failed attempt at ‘All That Jazz’ - my signature sing song. I wake up at 4am and projectile vomit. The family WhatsApp is awash with general ridicule. I am unable to move. I haven’t wrapped any of my boyfriend’s presents and he’s due home any minute for our Boxing Day celebration. 

2. It’s 2007, I’ve just returned home from university for the summer. I’m nineteen years old and I believe myself to be heartbroken. I’ve been out the night before (I forget where) and I’m sitting on the couch at my Mum and Dad’s with an endless summer of nothingness in front of me. I’m watching MTV and the video for Avril Lavigne’s heart-wrenching hit ‘When you’re gone’ comes on. I sob uncontrollably. 

3. The late spring of 2012. I’m in Glasgow for a gig with a group of friends. We sing, we dance, we drink double G&Ts like our lives depend on it. At around 2am I decide I’ve had enough and toddle back to our hotel via a takeaway. Big mistake. I wake up to a noodle massacre. There is fluorescent orange Sweet and sour sauce on EVERYTHING. I can’t move without being sick. We check out, I’m sick in the reception toilets. We go to Nando’s, I am saved. 

4. I’m camping with pals at a festival in Spain in 2011. We wake up, still drunk, and decide to brave the tedious trek to the beach. We get there, it’s hot and the hangover is kicking in. After a couple of hours of agitated sunbathing we decide to start the journey back. We’ve been living off crisps and cartons of red wine, and our digestive systems begin to rebel. The long walk home becomes a race to the portaloos.

5. It’s a Wednesday in 2016, I’ve got a busy day at work but my boss and I went out for a glass of wine last night and ended up 4 bottles deep at karaoke. ON A TUESDAY NIGHT. What the fuck was I thinking?

Bring on the Spring.

Like many people I vowed to start the new year on the right note. I'd eat better, drink less and exercise more. I promised myself I'd try to leave work on time in order cultivate the perfect work/life balance and to save my sanity. However, since the Christmas break I have felt permanently on the back foot, struggling to juggle an increasingly stressful job with a social life and failing to find any time for personal admin.

We are fat and skint and jaded in January, suffering from a physical and emotional festive hangover. The Sunday night dread feels more dreadful than ever and we scour job adverts for something new, something better. Then, before you know it the light mornings are tentatively tip-toeing in and it's halfway through February already. The list of friends I've not caught up with is as long as the cruel Scottish winter, and an unforgivable amount of unanswered texts lay heavy on my heart.

The beginning of the year is a bit like a Monday: it can feel long and relentless yet fraught and frantic all at once. It is often tinged with guilt about resolutions broken and chances not taken. But, it is the start of something. A year full of fun and friends and possibility. As the sun shines through my window today I am temporarily able to abolish my anxieties and look forward to the future. Bring on the Spring.

Girl Talk - things that can be infuriating about being female.

I endeavour to write more in 2017 but in the meantime here's a list of some trivial things that sometimes annoy me about being a woman (although normally it's pretty damn great). 

1. Emotion fuelled indecisiveness. 

Have you laid on your bed wearing your jacket and shoes and cried at your boyfriend this week about not knowing what you want for dinner? I know have. 

2. False eyelashes. 

They are impossible to put on but if your friends/colleagues/lovers are successfully wearing them next to you in a Facebook photo you will look at least 50% uglier than them. 

3. The constant period fear. 

Was that a particular sweaty spin class or have I just started the world's heaviest period? Should I just stay on this stationary bike forever?

4. Bras. 

Yes, they are necessary (especially if you have big boobs like me) but man can they be uncomfortable. There is no greater feeling than whipping that instrument of torture off after a long, hard day. Am I right ladies?

5. Kirby grips. 

You'll buy them in their millions throughout your life and have probably littered strangers homes with them at times but when you decide to do a fancy up-do for your cousin's wedding they will be nowhere to be found. 

6. Wine hangovers. 

I love knocking back the vino with reckless abandon with my gal pals on any given night. Sadly the result is often projectile vomiting and a headache that leaves me feeling like I've got a brain injury.

Treat Yo'Self

Sometimes, despite your best efforts, the simple stresses of life permeate your soul. I'm talking about the everyday Everest's: a particularly painful week at work, an empty bank account a fortnight before payday, the anxiety of an overdue smear. Like Jenga, these individual non-issues stack up unsteadily before one rogue piece (a misplaced set of keys, a finger burnt while cooking dinner) renders the whole thing a messy heap.

So how can we help ourselves when we feel overwhelmed? 'Don't worry' is a comforting phrase but I'm the kind of person who assumes my boyfriend's been in a terrible car accident if he's over 15 minutes late getting home from work. When I was young I would lock myself in my bedroom and cry if a member of my household was poorly, worried about what fate awaited them.

So, to stop myself from crying in the work toilets or reaching for a weeknight bottle of wine, I've found a few things that help me look after myself:

Sheet Masks
I am obsessed with Japanese style sheet masks. Soaked in cooling serum, these super thin cloth/paper masks require the wearer lie down for a minimum of 15 minutes. May I recommend pairing with a comedy podcast for ultimate escapism.

Walking
Going for a walk in the crisp winter weather is perfect for clearing your head. I find I get some of my most rational thinking done when powering home from work after a hectic day. 

Netflix
Get into a TV show with loads of episodes and get caught up in somebody else's world for a little while. Warning, binge-watching American Horror Story may result in some weird dreams.

Writing
While my inability to write as regularly as I'd like makes me agitated, I find quiet comfort in composing these mundane monologues. Carefully selecting words and phrases challenges my brain and calms me down.

Eating pizza in my pants
Because sometimes carbs and the Kardashians is just what you need...

the consequences of living for the weekend.

I, like many of my peers, am the epitome of a weekend warrior. A classic 9-5er, by COP (or whatever other moronic corporate acronym you despise but definitely use in work emails) Friday I can hear a Prosecco cork pop from 50m.

The thing is I'm just not built for binge drinking anymore. As I write this, on a Wednesday evening, I am still faintly aware of Sunday's abhorrent hangover lurking around in my temperamental gut. It has taken 2 pizzas, a Nandos, a mountain of mac and cheese, endless cups of tea, countless cans of Diet Coke and hundreds of comforting cuddles to help get me back to normal. And that's just the physical symptoms.

For me, the emotional aftermath of a heavy weekend is often as debilitating as the actual hangover. I feel anxious and sad (especially when my rum-fuelled drunk persona has been 'annoying crying girl') for days and the slightest thing can bring me to tears. Scuffing the shit out of brand new silver boots for instance.

This week, drowning in the depths of this harrowing hang, I cry; "never again". Until next Saturday that is...

My Lenten Promise.

It’s currently just over two weeks into Lent, which for me means 40 days and 40 nights of trying (and sometimes failing) not to eat crisps and chocolate. The thing is I’m not really all that religious but for whatever reason, maybe it IS a higher power, I am finally able to exercise some semblance of self-control.

For those who didn’t spend 13 years in the Catholic school system, Pancake day is simply a wonderful excuse to eat batter based treats but for me, Shrove Tuesday has always marked the start of a personal challenge. A campaign against my gluttonous, greedy ways.

I have half-heartedly been on a diet since my early teens, trying to find the secret to skinny. Along the way I’ve mostly just discovered how much I bloody love carbs, and cheese and things that are deep-fried. 

My relationship with exercise is also predictably rocky. I love the way it makes me feel when I get there but the biggest hurdle is getting out of the door. This exercise dread often wins and with that comes an oppressive wave of guilt (the Catholicism coming out to play again).

I may seem like somewhat of a hypocrite, embracing one religious practice while ignoring many of the others but for this small period of time I can try a little harder, push a little further and eat a little less rubbish. And once it’s all over, who knows, maybe I’ll be a changed woman

…or maybe not.

#RelationshipGoals

A few months ago I started writing this piece for the annual Elle Writing Competition but predictably I got distracted by real life (most likely a Keeping Up With The Kardashians marathon or some sort of baked good) and didn’t submit it in time. The subject was ‘Relationship Goals’ and this is the egotistical outcome…

I have a wonderfully supportive family, effervescent and inspiring friends and a loyal and loving boyfriend. I am lucky in that I am surrounded by positive people who enrich my life in so many ways. For me, the relationship that takes the most work is the one I have with myself.

At 28 I feel less like myself than ever. I can be plagued with insecurities and irrational anxieties. At school I was smart, at university I was partying and now, in my late twenties, I sometimes feel lost.

The older I get, the more self-critical I become. It’s easy to doubt my talents, question my purpose and criticise my body. Once a bold and confident clotheshorse I now find myself in loose fitting black clothing or baggy boyfriend jeans. I don’t feel sexy or pretty, so I cover up, which in turn makes me feel less sexy and less pretty.

And it’s not just the superficial things that lead me to a semi-schizophrenic war on myself: I no longer believe my own hype. Back in the day I’d fake it till I made it, but now I regularly work myself into a tizzy desperately trying to impress.

I don’t think that the humble hashtag is helping. Social Media makes it easy for us to worship false goals: the ultimate bikini body, the Pinterest-perfect abode, the sexy, shiny social set. We now constantly compare our apparently mediocre lives with the carefully curated snapshots of others. At what cost?

I’ve decided that in 2016 I will work to maintain my marvellous relationships, take each day as the glorious gift that it is and above all, be kind to myself. This is not a goal, it’s a mantra.

N.B. #RelationshipGoals has a whopping 2,031,388 posts on Instagram. Let's stop posting our ambitions on the Internet and instead work on making them a reality. 

In defence of being a Taylor Swift fan girl.

I consider myself to be somebody with decent taste in music. I’m not saying I’m a music maven by any stretch of the imagination but on the whole I enjoy some damn good tunes.  I like approximately 80% of what they play on BBC6 Music so if that doesn’t make me ‘cool’ and ‘hip’ I don’t know what does.

Generally I like my melodies with a heavy side of melancholy: Bon Iver, Frightened Rabbit, The Smiths, The National, to name but a few. But I also have a massive place in my heart (and my headphones) for the tremendous tones of Taylor Swift. From her cutesy country beginnings to her pure pop perfection, her music simply makes me happy.

So-called cool kids claim to like Tay-Tay ironically but I am an unashamed Swiftie, with 2 t-shirts and a pair of Taylor Swift maracas to prove it. Is there such a thing as a guilty pleasure? Shouldn’t we just feel good about listening to music that we love?  Some of my favourite memories this year have involved dancing with reckless abandon to ‘Shake it off’.

Then there’s the debate about Swift as a woman; she’s too nice, she can’t hold on to a man, how dare she remove her music from Spotify. She’s a young woman whose whole life is playing out in the public eye, I think she does a pretty good job of holding her shit together. And with a celeb squad made up of some of the coolest ladies around, she’s obviously got something going for her.

For impressionable young girls, she’s a role model: a kind, goofy girl who talks about the importance of self-worth and sings songs about being hurt. She is the youngest woman ever to be included in the Forbes 100 Most Powerful Woman list. Yes, I am a Taylor Swift fan girl, and proud of it.

DOES everyone have a book in them?

Most weeknights when I'm home alone I lounge about on the couch watching Netflix and avoiding doing my washing up. Tonight I had settled down, jogging bottoms on in preparation to cry myself tired at the latest episode of Grey's Anatomy when it occurred to me to sit down and type this piece. Because I love to write, I love writing frivolous and self-indulgent posts with the intention of making people laugh. I love honest, descriptive story-telling that comes from the heart. But I am also lazy. I would love to write a book but I can barely gather the energy to write a text message to my Mum confirming I'll see her for lunch on Saturday, I'd love to be a supermodel but I can't put down the carbs.

I recently read Not That Kind of Girl by Lena Dunham and it has given me impetus to start writing again. I know Lena Dunham is a bit of a Marmite character but I love pretty much everything that she does, and the fact that's she's BFFs with Taylor Swift is just the icing on the cake. The book is funny and frank, sassy and smart and completely relatable. I know I will be able to pick it up and read it over and over again. That's the kind of book I want to read and the kind of book I dream of writing.

But how do you even go about writing a book? My ancient laptop is currently running a demo version of Microsoft Word and I only have 11 more chances to use it before it will force me to enter a Product Key, a Product Key which I definitely disposed off with the box it came in 5 years ago. I'm fairly confident a book cannot be achieved in 11 sittings. And where will I find the time? In between work and the aforementioned lounging, I need to see my boyfriend, use my spiralizer and pretend to go to the gym. And what should I write about? As you may have gathered my real life isn't quite as glamorous as my Instagram profile might suggest, I'm not sure I could get much more than a chapter out of last weekend's dark and painful hangover.

Maybe I'll just stick to blogging...

serious summer anxiety

When it comes to small talk there's nothing that fills an awkward silence at the office fridge like a banal comment about the weather, especially when that weather is extreme. Us Scots are used to summers with the heating on so the past few weeks of wonderfully warm weather has been a real talking point, with the masses in agreement that everything is better when the sun is shining.

The thing is, I'm not sure I agree. Don't get me wrong, the idea of hot weather is lovely but the reality makes me anxious, and here's why:

Dressing Appropriately

There's a big difference between summer clothes and summer holiday clothes. Sadly those bum-cheek flashing shorts, while perfect for the beach, are not deemed suitable office attire. Also, have you tried wearing black skinny jeans in this heat? It's akin to torture.

Bikini Fear

When it's hot, that extra half stone you put on after too many Christmas Quality Streets might as well be half a ton.You will be warm, you will be sweaty and all your clothes will feel like they belong to a toddler. Oh, and then you have to wear a bikini, great. In fact, I am drinking a green juice as I type this, hoping for a miracle.

Getting Places

Walking anywhere at speed is a no-go unless you want to arrive at your destination blotchy, damp and frizzy (I'm a head sweater). Buses are either steamy and sweaty, or boiling and stinking of BO and I'm not a cyclist myself but I can imagine that's a moist affair.

Being at work and not outside

Let's face it, sods law dictates that the best weather will be when you're stuck in a sweltering office with nothing but a shared fan to keep you cool. Come the weekend the clouds will gather and the rain will literally piss on your picnic. Spending your lunch break sunning yourself outside will only make returning to work more painful, trust me, it's not worth it.

So yes, sometimes I wish for winter. For chic woollen coats, opaque tights and numb fingers and toes. But I'll be the first to complain when this scorcher of a summer ceases, I'm fickle like that.

The reality of being a single homeowner in your mid-twenties

I was lucky enough to be able to buy a flat last year, aged 25, with a little help from my extremely generous parents. I was lucky, I AM lucky however being a homeowner in your mid-twenties isn’t all quirky crockery and Pinterest inspired DIY projects.

Before buying my own place I was back at home with my mum and dad, I paid them a little in digs but what was left of my fairly humble wage went on nights out, holidays and Topshop sprees. I would eat out a lot and think nothing about dropping money on teeth whitening strips or long weekends away.

Then, they decided to sell our family home and buy a derelict farmhouse in rural France and in doing so were able to give me money to put a deposit down on a little one bed flat. Suddenly I was paying a mortgage, buildings insurance, life insurance, council tax, utility bills, internet and TV bills all by myself as well as trying to keep my social life alive and kicking.

A year on and I have racked up a fair bit of debt, all manageable, but it stills plagues every decision I make. Spending money on new clothes fills me with an overwhelming sense of guilt yet I do it, my boyfriend suggests a fun activity and I book it. I am eternally envious of colleagues who have enough disposable income to pay for a constant stream of ASOS parcels, and friends who still live at home with a fully stocked fridge!

I have already had to shell out over a grand to get my roof fixed, my obscure brand washing machine is temperamental and my third-hand television is a total dud. I have Grand Designs style delusions about decorating my flat but I can't even afford a hoover. The hardest part for me is that I still owe my parents money, the bank is a faceless, nameless organisation but not being able start paying off my parental debt is hard, considering how much they have done for me.

I feel so fortunate to own my own home but the responsibility sometimes feels bigger than me (and I'm a towering 6ft in heels). I AM lucky but if I find a mouse living behind my fridge, if I wake up to no running water, if I discover a leak, I can't phone a surly landlord or inept letting agent to fix my problem. I feel proud and poor and perennially panicked but I wouldn't change it for the world. 

My Rebellion

I’ve always been a bit of a square when it comes to rules. I’m blaming it on the omnipresent Catholic guilt but in reality I think it’s just one of my inherently annoying, ingrained personality traits. I will shush people on the quiet coach, follow a cake recipe to the letter, and police a game of Monopoly until the other players actually stop having fun. My mother has told me, on several occasions, to ‘chill out,’ a bitter pill to swallow coming from an uptight, fifty-something school teacher.   

Breaking rules doesn’t come easily to me and my rebellions have been small and sometimes insignificant. Yet without them I wouldn’t be where I am today. At 16, when my peers were acting out, drinking stolen spirits in local parks and getting off with each other, I was doing maths past papers and re-reading The Great Gatsby. A quiet rebellion against rebellion itself could have lost me my friends and, more importantly, the very little street cred I had somehow accrued but thankfully it didn’t. Instead, I got great grades and an unconditional to study law at university (I genuinely thought I was going to be Ally McBeal, in quirky coloured skirt suits).

After 4 years of law, I rebelled again, telling my wonderfully supportive parents that I didn’t want to be a lawyer, but thanks for funding the last four years of cider-fuelled debauchery. As it turns out, budget tailoring doesn’t suit me. Another year, and one journalism diploma later, I found myself living back at home with Mum and Dad, working part time in a shoe shop and unleashing my creativity in regular, self-obsessed blog posts. In these dark days leaving my bed unmade or sleeping past 11am were my mini mutinies. Despicable behaviour, I know.

While some may call me a bore, a stick-in-the mud, a fun sponge: I think it takes a certain sort of bravery to stand against the stereotypical rebellion. Sometimes, doing the right thing is harder than doing the wrong thing and at times I have found the constant battle between head and heart to be emotionally exhausting.

Everything happens for a reason however, and my life is now exactly where I want it to be: I have a job that I love, a flat that is mine, and my hair is finally at its optimal length after an ill-fated Alexa Chung-inspired bob last October. I eat too much, I binge drink, but I am content.  The only negative energy in my life is the knowledge that aged 10 I stole a packet of cheese and onion Frisps while manning the school tuck shop. For this was my ultimate act of rebellion, and my biggest regret.