The curse of the accidentally trendy

The curse of the accidentally trendy

I spent my whole life woefully uncool, and eventually, from sheer practicality and self-preservation, decided to lean into it.

Aside from a brief but fervent, nay, ecstatic, passion for the Spice Girls (I used to photocopy magazine articles from the library for my Spice Girls book  – and if there’s a more 90s sentence than that in the world please do share in the comments) I’ve never been ‘on trend’.


What’s a Beyoncè? What’s up with all the soft slices of midriff I see everywhere, perched between high waisted pants and a short shirt? What do you mean coral is in (and not in like a diving way)?  Fleek? On fleek? FLEEK?!


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I’m a (big, fat) hypocrite

I’m a (big, fat) hypocrite

I’ve complained about banting many times. Many, many times. But here I am, 3pm on a Wednesday, drinking coffee with fat golden globules floating like drops of sunshine on its surface.

There’s no way around it. I have to admit it. Like the weak willed jellyfish I am, I’ve become a banting sheep. I’ve eaten so much coconut over the past two weeks I’m like a human pina colada.

And the worst thing of all? I’M ENJOYING IT.

I’m sure you feel caught off guard, on the back foot, BETRAYED.


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Is happiness all there is?

Is happiness all there is?

There are moments when the heaviness of time and importance of legacy swirl around me like a hurricane, and all I can think is, ‘Does anything I do actually matter?’


It’s a bit teenage girl, I know, but every now and then the weight of this short life sits on my shoulders and all I can think about is whether I’m doing anything important, significant, and memorable.

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Pants are the worst

You know what’s worse than pants?



Not a world without carbs, not sweating red in the beating sun, not even slow internet with a continuously turning circle of death and yet NOTHING LOADS.

Except maybe shopping for pants. I feel my heart shudder and my chest seize up when pant shopping becomes a necessity. As a short person, pants are even worse. They ALL come up to my belly button, and drag on the floor long over my ankles like I’m simultaneously a 12 year old and a middle-aged woman.

‘Beyonce Fucking Knowles. Beyonce doesn’t need pants to do shit. Do you think pants are going to stop Beyonce from running the fucking world?’ rants Matt Bellasai, my spirit animal, in his latest video.

‘Your face is streaked with dry tears and you don’t even remember when you started crying… all so you can squeeze into a piece of fabric that tells you how much fatter you were since the last time.’