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...

Forget FOMO, this Autumn it's all about GOMO (Getting Out More Often)

As autumn makes itself truly known with a blanket of glorious russet leaves underfoot and a cool, crisp chill in the air, it's hard to resist the overwhelming urge to hibernate. Outside is cold and inside is so very warm (if you are as lavish with the central heating as I am). 

The term hygge is this year's buzzword and while the Danish wellbeing philosophy of hiding away from the elements certainly has its place we shouldn't use this as an excuse to avoid living life. The lead up to Christmas is jam-packed with fun things to do, so I’m going to embrace autumn and GOMO (Get Out More Often).

Halloween

Halloween is an underrated holiday in my opinion. Every year since I was small I’d start planning a costume weeks in advance and my Mum would ensure the house was suitably spooky for a night of dooking and guising. This year I’m hosting a small soiree complete with cake pop eyballs and bloody punch, the scariest thing will be fitting more than 2 people, in costume, inside my tiny flat!

Bonfire Night

I’m a little bit scared of DIY displays after a rogue rocket came straight for me and burnt a hole in my brand new Skechers in 2001. That being said there are some perfectly safe Firework spectaculars going on all over the country where you can watch the sky light up in glorious technicolour.

Autumn rambles

There are few things more satisfying than walking through a carpet of crunchy leaves. Autumn is breathtakingly beautiful in its gold and copper glory and the weather is perfect for long walks with loved ones. Grab your coat, wrap up warm and head out into the great outdoors.

Run for it

I’ve signed up for a hill running event in March (full disclosure, it seemed like a good idea after 2 glasses of wine) so I’m going to use the autumn months to get into running. I figure if I can find the willpower to pull myself away from Netflix to do exercise outside in the cold then I’ll feel unstoppable.

Whatever your plans for autumn, you can promote, manage and host your own successful GOMO events with event planning software from Eventbrite.

The perennial pains of shopping for wedding guest get-up

I love weddings. Dressing up, drinking all day, slow-dancing with the one you love: all excellent things. I adore watching as soulmates exchange vows, best men tear up and Fathers beam proudly. Full disclosure, I am also obsessed with canapés. What I strongly dislike however, is finding the perfect outfit to wear to watch your pals get hitched. 

Despite my penchant for the colour pink I'm not really a girly girl and when donning my gladrags I like to feel comfortable and look cool. The unofficial uniform of a female wedding guest is body-con or flashy florals painstakingly picked from your local department store. These particular styles make me feel fat and frumpy and uninspired (no offence Coast, it's not you, it's me). 

This week has been a race against time to find something, anything, to wear to my cousins impending nuptials. I am one high-necked, unflattering dress away from a full fraud investigation on my credit card. Yesterday, in a leather pencil skirt, I threw on my running shoes and hotfooted it across town on my lunch break in search of something spectacular. It was a sweaty affair.

What I found was something safe: a black, boxy blazer/blouse hybrid that when teamed with black shorts looks smart and simple. Yes, it could probably also be worn to a funeral but with a 'statement' bag (when the cashier said this I immediately liked the bag 75% less) it will do the job.

I know it shouldn't matter what I wear, it's all about the bride etc but there is NOTHING less forgiving than a candid, high definition wedding photograph. Especially, if like me you have been blessed with the world's most expressive face. 

But basically, the moral of this story is there's something out there for everyone to wear to a wedding in order to feel like the most sparkly version of themselves even if you drive yourself insane trying to find it. And anything goes (except perhaps a long, white gown).

Things they don't tell you on Instagram #2

We are living in the age of the #health hashtag. Our social streams are awash with clean eaters and bikini clad burpee babes. Our beloved carbohydrates have been replaced with vegetable imposters and I'm here to say what others won't: cauliflower rice is pretty crap. 

Let's face it, cauliflower would be lucky to make it into anybody's fruit & veg top 5 unless smothered in a rich, silken cheese sauce. So when you have to whizz it in the food processor, squeeze out the liquid (rendering your fave dish towel unusable) and flavour it with a million things to make it palatable it seems like a waste of bloody time. 

Courgetti is marginally less offensive but is best enjoyed raw so that when smothered with bolognese and half a block of Parmesan it has a texture that is vaguely akin to pasta. As soon as you try and warm it through it becomes a soggy, squidgy mess. 

Lettuce wraps are also a thing and I am ashamed to admit that I have, on occasion, used them to wrap fajita filling in place of a gluten laden, kcal-tastic tortilla. But I didn't enjoy it, I was just trying to be 'good'. 

I know we should look after our bodies and that replacing refined carbohydrates with more nutritious alternatives is a positive lifestyle choice, and one which I endeavour to follow (at some point). But let's cut the bullshit: pasta is delicious, rice is nice and bread is best. Nothing compares...

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...

It’s not easy being green

I’m a jealous person. Not in the malicious and cruel way that can cost people relationships, instead my envy builds slowly and steadily turning my whole being green like a slothful Hulk.  

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a monster and more often than not I feel positive emotions towards my peers: happiness, pride, joy, awe.  But every so often I suffer from an overwhelming and intense bout of envy that renders me miserable. 

I want everything I do not have and feel achingly dissatisfied with my wardrobe, my body, my job, my life. These periods can be disastrous for my self-confidence and my credit card. The thing is this negative emotion can often be the catalyst for something good.

Today I was reading this week’s The Dolly Mail by Dolly Alderton, an email newsletter which resonates so strongly with me I sometimes feel as though Dolly and I are intrinsically linked in someway, and I was overcome with jealousy. Jealous of Dolly’s perfect prose and jealous of the fact that her writing is also her career. 

However, rather than letting myself be consumed by it, I was inspired. Inspired to spend my lunch break typing furiously rather than reading the dirty Daily Mail’s sidebar of shame.  Sometimes it takes somebody else’s success to give you the chutzpah to just fucking do you. 

The thing is the grass isn’t always greener on the other side, life is what you make it. Envy is a deadly sin, but sometimes it’s just what you need. 

Things they don't tell you on Instagram #1

I spend approximately 86% of my day on Instagram, looking at other people’s pictures and wondering where I went wrong in life to be so flawed.  This series exposes the truth behind some of social media’s most ubiquitous myths.

White painted floorboards are a bitch to maintain

Whitewashed floorboards are the epitome of country chic: bright, clean and perfectly rustic. When I discovered there were beasties living in my bedroom carpet last year I recoiled and then rejoiced, FINALLY a reason to rip up my gross beige carpet. The carpet removal revealed relatively even albeit rainbow painted floorboards beneath and after a quick sand and a quicker clean I was ready to make my Pinterest-perfect fantasy floors a reality.

What I soon realised is that painting the floor in a flat the size of a cupboard is a logistical nightmare, but, after 3 weeks of leaping and jumping over islands of wet paint and 3 haphazard coats, we were finished! The room suddenly seemed bathed in light and with the addition of a faux-Persian rug and a flattering Instagram filter, the boudoir was complete.

A couple of days in it became apparent that my stark white floor was incredibly unforgiving. Fluff, dust and alarming amounts of my hair littered the bedroom. My dreams of a Skandi-style, fuss-free way of life were shattered and with my dustbuster in hand I embarked upon a clean-up mission. I’ve* been cleaning up ever since…

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...

absolutely full of Christmas fear.

From my September birthday onwards I wait for Christmas with bated breath and then it comes around, too quickly, in a prosecco-induced haze of sequins and chocolate wrappers. It's the most wonderful time of the year, they say. IS IT?

Cash

December is an expensive month. For some reason everybody gets a hundred times more social and you could easily go out for drinks every night of the week, so you do. Not to mention three course Christmas meals, novelty jumpers and party clothes (heavily embellished, bejewelled disco frocks are NOT cheap). I'm hoping for a lottery win so my family and friends get more than a lump of coal this year.

Waistline

Tins of biscuits, jars of sweeties, vats of mulled wine: Christmas is an eating challenge unlike any other. This 2 week long party is sponsored by saturated fat. The workplace is particularly treacherous, with suppliers and clients and kindly colleagues bringing in tubs of tempting treats on a daily basis. Add in all that seasonal booze and you're all set for a Christmas bod akin to Santa Claus.

Party woes

Once you've picked out the perfect ensemble and hit the town the reality of Christmas cavorting sets in. Your favourite bars and clubs are full of obnoxious office parties in cracker hats and comedy shirts and the bar queues are so long you'll sober up between rounds of Jägerbombs. Then comes the epic journey home in the freezing cold where an available taxi is an impossibility and you finally realise that bare legs were a bad idea.

Health

By mid-December your relaxing summer escape seems like an eternity ago and you are completely burnt-out. This combined with a subtle yet consistent holiday hangover does not result in a cold and flu fighting machine. Germs are everywhere and they will inevitably find their way into your chest just in time for your time off.

Regardless of all these things I still LOVE Christmas. It's a magical time that we get to spend with the people we love and it also comes with presents, and pigs in blankets, and port. Maybe it actually is the most wonderful time of the year.

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.

Completely Self(ie)-Obsessed

I started a new job this week and on day three my photo was taken for the website and FYI it is THE WORST PHOTO EVER. Granted I am prone to hyperbole but seriously, it's revolting. The thing is for the past year or so I have been churning out grade A pictures of myself: flawless skin, supermodel pout, the lot! I am completely selfie-obsessed but what damage is it doing to me in the long term?

Not only do people think I am vain and vapid, I have also started to compare myself to an artificial version of me, and I certainly do not measure up. I feel pressure to look like beautiful celebrities but worse than that I also feel a pressure to look like my most shiny, Instagram-d self, the Charlotte you see (and Like) in my Facebook profile pictures.

The beauty of the selfie is you can take as many pictures as you want and pick the one where you look thinnest, coolest, most interesting (or in my case the one where my nose looks least like Michael Jackson's). Then you can add a filter that makes your eyes pop, your skin glow and your hair shine. It's like magic. But it's not real life. In real life I'm probably rocking eye bags for days and a spot akin to vesuvius on my chin.

I should probably stop taking selfies, I should get outside and do some exercise and work on feeling good inside instead of focusing on the outside. They say the first step is admitting you have a problem... my name is Charlotte and I'm a selfieholic.

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.