An ode to heavy duty make up

"She was in her element!" was my mum's favourite phrase about me as a child. First day of school? In my element. First swimming lesson? REALLY in my element. The first time I read a book independently, I was so deep in my element I could touch the molten hot lava at the centre of it. When I was small and reasonably cute, there were loads of activities that made me quickly and carelessly happy. 

Things changed. I grew (outwards and upwards), lost any semblance of balance and grace and, most upsettingly, developed a face full of spots. Suddenly, my only element became wearing all black clothing and staying at least 20ft from the nearest camera lens (I did still like books though). "Won't it be great when I grow out of this?” I thought. “When I hit 20 and shed this mess to reveal flawless airbrushed pores? When I'm the kind of girl that turns heads?"

Aged 24, I DO turn heads. But mostly so people can get a better look at the spot between my eyes so massive it looks like a bullet wound.

Adult acne sucks, even worse than it does as a teenager - because everyone else has grown out of theirs. It can ruin everything from a job interview to a wedding invitation (along with your self confidence) because you're terrified your skin will betray you - and no Instagram filter is going to cover that shit. The only positive thing about mine is that I’ve found a new activity that made me happy again - applying veritable bucketloads of make up. 

Make up is often dismissed as self indulgent and anti-feminist, a hobby for narcissists - all of which is absolute bollocks. Women absolutely don’t HAVE to wear it, and I know countless women who feel just as stunning fresh faced as they do with a full face. But on the flip side, no one should be vilified for wearing it either - whether it's to conceal, enhance or create, if we enjoy it, we should trowel on as much as we bloody want. 

Make up makes me feel confident enough to pursue the things I loved as a child, and was too scared to do as a teen. I still read and I still swim, and (nerd alert) learning makes me happiest of all. Incidentally, each step of my routine is the product of much research, and knowledge that I'll continue to develop as my face ages.

Ultimately, the most crucial feeling humans must retain over their body is control - and acne takes that away, taunting you in each reflective surface. But with every bottle of Estée Lauder Doublewear, with every gloriously firm-bristled stippling brush, and every tube of heavy duty concealer, I'm reclaiming ownership of the skin I've spent too many years hating - and when I see a face looking back at me that I can reconcile with myself, THAT is where I am truly in my element.  

Dealing with life envy (or how to be happy for your fellow woman)

It ain't easy being green. Kermit knows it, and now I do too, because everywhere I turn someone else is getting something that I really, really want - a promotion, a puppy, a bought-not-rented house that doesn't grow furry mould up the walls every winter. Even a friend's great new haircut will bring out the most horrifically mean, jealous side of me - my well mannered finger will double click the Instagram picture, but my bitter mind will be furiously looping a refrain of "why wouldn't that look nice on ME?!" 

Humans are selfish creatures by nature - however generous, loyal and loving we pretend to be, we're still part of the brutal animal kingdom that Attenborough narrates with such acceptance. "And with that, the polar bear leaves the group behind to perish because her baby needs to eat, and the rest of them are too fucking slow," he drawls calmly (okay, not a direct quote), and if it came down to fighting for survival in the Arctic, we'd totally be that polar bear too. Naturally, instinctively, you're out for you and yours, and no one wants to be left behind - which is why, when you're not top of the heap and ahead of the pack, it really, really wrenches your gut.  

Social media is the sour cherry on top of this cake - polar bears, at least, don't have to deal with perfectly framed and filtered snaps of their friends' amazing holidays, fun nights out, ridiculous food (which they demolish without gaining a pound) and incredible outfits that you'll never be able to afford. Recent studies show that two in five young people believe they'd be happier without social media - it generates feelings of inadequacy and unattractiveness, and 62% say it makes them feel bad about their own life and achievements. 

The main takeaway from this, other than being sad that we can't all get over ourselves and be happy for each other, should be that everyone else gets a visit from the green-eyed monster when they see things they wish they had too - maybe even when they're looking at your newsfeed. It's crucial to remember that the pictures you see on Facebook, Instagram and co. are the bits of people's lives that they know are worth sharing, the highlights - not the monotony of the job they hate, the argument they had with their partner that morning, or the fuck-off enormous spot on their chin (that they've artfully cropped out in their selfie, obvs). 

Offline, you just have to round up all of your positives and realise that your life is overflowing with great things that you don't even notice anymore. Feel free to turn around and never come back at this point (or vomit directly on your screen, your choice), but at the end of a really shitty day my boyfriend and I make a list of the five best things about it. Sometimes it feels impossible - on a day when you've been shat on by a pigeon or called the C word by a random stranger, it's not easy to be grateful - but if you think hard enough, THERE IS ALWAYS SOMETHING GOOD GOING FOR YOU. You got a seat on the train - hooray! You finished a book you really loved - success! You have a home and a job and a family and a delicious carb-heavy dinner to eat tonight. You are the 1%. Don't undermine how much that means. 

Reasons why I never want to own a designer handbag

In six months time, I turn 25 - a full quarter of a century, and, when I was 16, the age by which I thought I'd have a mortgage and a bun in the perfect middle class aga (please contain your laughter until the end). As I've aged, matured and concluded that only the very privileged or determined/slightly insane can score all of these life points this at such a young age, my proposed milestones have become comparitively smaller - doing laundry before I run out of clean tights, actually saving a little money each month instead of spending it on gin and lipstick - and until recently, owning a fancy shiny bag with a big tacky logo on the front. 

A designer handbag often seems like the finishing touch on your mental picture of your adult self: a symbol of success, status and style, and for most of my life I've thought a Mulberry was all that stood between me and becoming Alexa Chung. Then I started thinking about the realities of spending more than a few notes on something I take with me everywhere, and these are all the reasons why it's not a good idea:

I eat almost constantly
I don't know if I've mentioned this a hundred billion times before, but I freaking love food. I love buying food, cooking food, eating food, taking pictures of food, talking about the food I ate yesterday and planning what food I'm going to eat tomorrow - so much so that I've turned it into my daytime career. Aside from a depleted bank balance and love handles that will not quit, my obsession with all things edible has given me the spectacular ability to get stains and sticky finger marks all over every single possession I own. I ban myself from buying £4 white t-shirts on this basis, so I'm sure as shit not going to spend upwards of £300 on something that will invariably end up covered in tomato soup and biscuit crumbs. 

I carry pens

Recently I had to buy a card for a friend, and so I bought a seemingly innocent looking biro to fill it in on the bus. I tossed it casually in my pleather Topshop tote, naively cooing 'ooh, that'll come in handy later, what a successful adult I am!' - blind to the blotchy horror that was about to unfold. Two weeks later, I sat at my desk, pulling gloopy ink-stained items from the depths of each inner pocket - which, once a pretty pale pink, had now become a murky 90s tie dye. Not only had I ruined a three-week old white iPhone 5 and my favourite leather purse, I had ruined my bag - and I can only imagine my anguish if the costs were comparable.

I take my entire make up collection with me EVERYWHERE 

So, if I've not already destroyed my hypothetical quilted Chanel with the blood of 1,000 innocent pens and packets of week-old Belvita, I also wear an absolute trowelful of foundation every day. Subsequently everything I own eventually becomes a vaguely dirty shade of orange, and unless my expensive bag was a very specific shade of tan, this would be troublesome. Make up, rather beautifully, is not bound by colour and can stain black, white, blue, red and any other hue with equal ferocity - but if that hue has cost me half a month's rent, I'd probably find this less beautiful and more tear-inducingly infuriating. 

I take the tube

Much as I love public transport and all of its quirks, the tube is an utterly filthy place. Just blow your nose after you get off the Central line and you'll see what I mean. But it's not just the pollution that makes me question the cleanliness of the seats I sit on daily - I've seen beer, milkshake, burger sauce and even, on one truly revolting Monday morning, an absolute volcano of baby sick sprayed across those seats, and I'm not convinced that they're scrubbed with any kind of enthusiasm. Would you drag your most precious object through an array of those substances? No. Thought not. Me neither - and I wouldn't let other people sneeze and sweat on it either. 

THEFT

Each day I leave my flat secure in the certainty that no opportunist, no matter how desperate they are, is going to steal my current battered Zara zip-up. Many opportunists, on the other hand, would like to steal a shiny new Longchamp with the (supposed) array of credit cards and expensive technology contained within. Clever thieves target those who appear rich and wealthy - so yes, there's a reason I constantly look this tired and scruffy, AND ITS ALL TO AVOID THIEVERY. 

There are many other things I'd like to buy with £450 instead

Post university, I've found out just how expensive it is to exist in London at all, and the possibility of buying a house seems like a pipe dream that depends solely on the inheritance of a mystery relative or my unwavering dedication to scratchcards. However, the cost of a designer bag that I will inevitably wreck is another baby step closer to that dream. I think we have established that I am not a careful human, and therefore my money is much safer, more productive and useful in the savings account I keep it in. Until there's an ASOS sale on, obviously. 

Things that happen when the job you really want is advertised

It takes a second to register. A lightning-bright tweet in a feed full of grey. That job you really, really want - it's available. There's a contact and a deadline and a job spec and everything - and your skills fit the brief. Emailing your application is the obvious step, but before that point you will most likely experience all of these: 

The manic state of elation

“My time has come!” you roar, as you Google the location of the offices and plan your route to work. You practice your best introductory smile in the nearest reflective surface, and start picturing what you'll wear on your first day (an outfit much more stylish, flattering and expensive than anything in your current wardrobe, obviously). You browse for stationery for your shiny new desk, and plan the first cake you’ll bring to the office to impress everyone with your culinary prowess. You end up in a 31-deep recipe-and-Paperchase tab hole – despite the fact your covering letter currently consists of your full name and Twitter handle, and nothing else. 

The comedown

Pesky, disappointing reality - the kind that tells you that you can’t survive solely on Coco Pops, and Ryan Gosling will probably never actually be your boyfriend - sinks in. You realise that you haven't actually proved yourself yet - and bagging yourself an interview is like clutching at the shiniest needle in a massively oversubscribed haystack. You open the employer’s website to start your research, but immediately start thinking about how much knowledge and experience the other candidates probably have. Crippling self-doubt ensues, and you sob internally for several hours whilst binge eating Kettle Chips and chain reading articles you wish you’d written.

The wanky CV meltdown

You get your head back in the game and finally put the pen (well, virtual cursor) to paper. You got this. You've been training for it since before A-Levels were a mere whisper on your horizon. You've got the experience, you've got the knowledge, you've got the qualifications - you've even got that evening course that your mum paid for when you were unemployed to 'give your CV a boost'. You know this, but you can't figure out how to convey your brilliance without sounding like an arrogant tosser. You tell your flatmates you’re taking a ‘screen break‘, and go to the shop for more Kettle Crisps. And a Cornetto.
 

The proofreading obessesion

The writing is done, but there is definitely a spelling mistake in there somewhere – you just haven’t found it yet. You’ve read it so much you’ve gone slightly cross-eyed, so you start handing out copies during trips to the pub and supplying everyone with teacher-style red pens so that they can point out your mistakes before the people you’re trying to impress inevitably do, whilst scrawling a big red cross through your name. Your poor boyfriend has read the same three paragraphs seven times. You demand he reads it again – carefully this time. 

The waiting game

It’s as ready as it’ll ever be. You spend at least two hours agonizing over your opening email, attach your week’s worth of hard work, and hit send. You then spend 75% of your daily life from then onwards refreshing your email constantly, even though the closing date isn’t for another week – because if you stare hard enough and long enough, you might just see the glorious Inbox (1) you’ve been waiting for. Fingers crossed!  

The joy of Throwback Thursday

I'm not always one for a hashtag. I skip Man Crush Monday, and don't even substitute it for Mani Monday, mainly because my nails generally look like the bedraggled claws of a neglected tomcat. Woman Crush Wednesday passes me by too, despite my deep, unabiding love for J-Law and Zooey D. 

But then Thursday arrives. Thursday, the day when most twenty-somethings are eagerly planning their weekends, and Craig David is supposedly embarking on day two of his 96 hour love-making sesh. Somehow, this is the day that has become the most interesting and genuinely engaging day in my social media calendar - Throwback Thursday. 

The trend for sharing old photos is a reflection of digital sharing trends in general (how many Buzzfeed lists you've posted because you remember doing/eating/watching have you linked out to lately? EXACTLY) - but personal nostalgia is something even greater and more endearing than laughing at 90's toys and the amount of chemicals they used to allow in soft drinks. To delve into the past and celebrate how cute/hilarious/hideous (delete as appropriate) we looked X number of years ago is to reveal something about ourselves that contemporary social media doesn't like to reveal - and that is why I love it so. Throwback Thursday like taking a peek into the family albums that no one nowadays will let you see because they haven't been filtered and Afterlit. I've seen unadulterated pictures of my friends as chubby-cheeked toddlers, moody teenagers, loving siblings and adoring grandchildren - all images of them in a context that I wouldn't get from the office, my flat or the pub (yes, these are my three main areas of habitation).

And it's not just the honesty of the pictures that I adore - it's the history. Images of yesteryear give friends who didn't know the poster in that decade an insight into how they became who they are today, and friends who did know them a chance to reminisce and reconnect: maybe even suggest a coffee and a chat, a Friday night drink, an enthusiastic rendition of boyband hits in a Lucky Voice booth or whatever else floats their respective boats. Seeing old photos of happy times makes me feel like I know my new friends a little better, and love my old friends even more. 

I am very aware that I'm verging on twee romanticisation of yet another virtual chance to show off (I mean, who doesn't like being told they were awfully cute as a three-year-old?) but this time, reputable sources have got my back. A recent piece from the BBC discusses a study which showed that nostalgia helps us to access positive emotions that can reduce loneliness, give us a sense of meaning and belonging and ultimately improve our feeling of wellbeing. Throwback pictures tap into this by reminding us of childhood, family and home - and not just in the physical sense of a bricks-and-mortar building. As well as giving you a comforting sense of the past, it helps you cope better with your future. 

Throwback Thursday adds a dash of much-needed warmth and humanity to feeds that are full of vacuous selfies and endless foodstagrams (um, guilty). They're our vital chance to see growth, family, and some truly shocking 80's home decor. So this Thursday, dig out a snap of your worst ever fringe or best ever friend, and share it with those you love most. And in the spirit of TBT, here's one of mine:

What to do when there's a spot the size of Jupiter in the middle of your face

I am currently the victim of a terrible affliction. Right now, there is a spot the size of a planet between my eyes. Dead on, right in the middle, centre of attention in any glance at my face.

No I won't show you a picture.

No.

Absolutely not.

No amount of Instagram filters is going to hide this fucker. 

But trust me, it's there. 

I have had terrible skin from a very young age (the kind you get put on medication for) but it seems to be stressing out on a much more frequent basis lately, and I am 100% not okay with this.  I've actually upped my skin care game recently, switching from the beauty blogger's worst enemy, the facewipe, to gentle hot cloth cleansing and regular moisturising and masks. My skin, for whatever reason,  clearly doesn't like this extra attention, and frankly, it's behaving like a spoilt brat because of it - throwing ugly, painful tantrums all over the place.

However, this one occupying the space between my eyebrows is something else - like a cross between a bullet would and an imploded crater. I'm writing this on the tube and I can actually see it in my reflection in the window opposite me - and it's not one of those easy-to-pop spots that's going anywhere fast. 

If you're suffering too and anywhere near to my level of despair, fear not - here is my 5-point plan for coping without sobbing, becoming a hermit, or retreating into a balaclava for the foreseeable future. 

Treat it

Despite my outbreak, I've been keeping up with the ole cleanse tone moisture, and throwing in a few extra bonuses, like facial oils and targeted treatments. It's a tortoise-slow process, but those products are marketed for a reason, and the majority of them will work. It's important not to overload skin, as this can only exacerbate things, but a bit of extra TLC can definitely make a difference. If nothing else, a dollop of toothpaste or a paste of crushed-up aspirin will help to shrink the spot and make it less of a national talking point. 

Cover it

I am currently wearing three concealers and layers of two different foundations, one of which is Estée Lauder's cement-thick Double Wear. In these extreme cases, there is no such thing as too much. 

Accesorize!

The only (and I mean only) fortunate thing about this beast is that its location means sunglasses actually hide it almost completely - and as it's July-nearly-August, I don't look like a total jackass wearing them. If you're in a similar boat and your blemish can be hidden by a scarf, hat, eyepatch (too far?) etc, take advantage of this fact and wear them, with as much dignity as you can muster. 

Address it

One of the most awkward things about having one of these god-awful face consuming spots is that everyone else is staring at it, but no one wants to mention it. Do the hard work for them and call out the elephant on your face. Saying "Please excuse the small mountain erupting from the bridge of my nose" and generating a sympathic giggle is a lot less painful than people saying "Jesus Christ, have you seen the absolute monster on her?" behind your back. If you're lucky, they might even have some helpful treatment tips too. 

Pretend it's not there (because soon it won't be)

Blemishes come and blemishes (eventually) go, but your face is there forever, as are all of the features that you actually didn't mind about yourself before the spot from hell appeared. Make the most of the rest of you - do your hair how you like it, wear your favourite dress, try that new lipstick you've wanted for ages (hey, it'll draw attention to your mouth!) At the end of the day, unless they're incredibly blessed, everyone has spots and none of them care about yours as much as you do, so woman up, take it on the chin (or in my case, SQUARE IN THE MIDDLE OF YOUR FACE) and remind yourself that it'll all be over soon.

Ways to infuriate your fellow tube passengers

Robbie Khan

It's 8am. You've just rolled out of bed after a bad night's sleep on your cheapest-in-the-shop landlord's mattress, shovelled some microwave porridge into your stomach and managed to stagger your way to the station. 

You're waiting on the platform for a train that you know will probably contain more people than oxygen. And then as soon as it arrives, some hyper-aggressive dickwad at the back of the crowd literally elbows you in the ribs, gets on first, and tuts at anyone who brushes past them as they clamber on too. 

When a seat becomes available, they take it, with a total disregard for anyone who was there first or the very pregnant lady three steps away. They then proceed to read the Metro with the wingspan the size of a small pterodactyl. If you're lucky and it's an overground train in parts, they'll also take a very loud, self important phone calls, or generously play their music at top volume for the enjoyment of everyone (no one) else. People like this, my friends, are why we need TfL etiquette, and frankly, I can't understand why some people aren't already following it. 

Taking the tube at the best of times is a sweaty, torturous, human soup experience that no one enjoys - so why are we making it so hard for each other?! If you want to be a pleasant, helpful member of the commuting community, I'd highly advise you to avoid commiting any of these travesties against other humans, all of which I have genuinely seen happen during my travels: 

Stand in front of the barriers trying to find your Oyster card.

Have a balance of zero on said Oyster card, and try to swipe through anyway. 

Argue with the staff when they say you need to top your Oyster up. 

Argue with staff when they tell you anything you don't want to hear (they're only doing their job!) 

Walk down the stairs at the pace of a snail, reading unimportant texts on your phone. 

Take the lift when you haven't got a buggy, massive suitcase or actual impairment. 

Stand on the left hand side of the escalator.

Try and take selfies WHILST you're standing on the left hand side of the escalator.

Stop at the bottom of the escalator to sort your bag out.

Don't move along the platform.

Stand in everybody else's way whilst you wait. 

Run (into other people) for a train.

Hold the doors open (there is a special place in Hell for people who do this).

Shout 'um, can you move down a bit?' at a train of people packed tighter than sardines, because obviously you're a special flower whose journey is more important than the other hundred people waiting on the platform too.

Equally, don't move down a bit when there actually is room, because you're a special flower whose journey requires more space than the hundred other people in the carriage.

Stand in front of the train doors when other people are trying to get off. 

Try to actually get on the train when other people are trying to get off.

Push in front of someone who got off the train to let others out. 

Refuse to get off the train to let others out.

Put your bag on an empty seat. 

Put your feet on an empty seat.

Allocate the space in front of an empty seat to your obscenely big suitcase.

Leave your shopping bags all over the floor of the carriage.

Give massive evil eye when someone asks you to move any of these items.

Read the Metro without folding it over.

Paint your nails. 

FILE your nails. 

Pluck your eyebrows.

Pop your spots (basically, any aspect of personal grooming that leaves a part of you behind is not okay).

Spray aerosols. 

Use portable, burning hot hair styling tools (yes they're real. Yes they're terrifying). 

Finish craft projects. 

Turn several seats into your personal work station. 

Don't give up your seat for a pregnant lady, the elderly or disabled. 

Take a seat when someone else was there before you without offering it to them first. 

Let your child stand on the chairs with their grubby shoes on.

Let your child swing around a pole whilst other people are trying to hold on it. 

Wrap your adult sided self around a pole so other people can't hold on to it. 

Take a loud, obnoxious phone call.

Have a screaming row during said phone call. 

Have said phone call on speakerphone.

Play your music without headphones. 

Play your music with such terrible headphones that you might as well not be wearing any. 

Sing. Ohh, the singing.

Open the windows in the dead of winter.

Insist on having the windows shut in the height of summer.

Eat anything with a stronger odour than a biscuit. 

Drink anything with a stronger odour than juice (this does not just apply to booze - I'm talking to you, 7am Red Bull). 

Leave your rubbish behind.

Sit three seats down from your friends but continue to shout down the carriage at them anyway. 

Partake in a fingers-and-all PDA with last night's partner. 

Campaign, busk or perform any other enforced activity that passengers cannot get away from when trapped in the carriages with you.

Preach.

Vomit (from intoxication rather than genuine illness). 

Sneeze into a paper (and then leave it behind).

Fall asleep (on somebody else).

Take cruel pictures of other passengers. 

Say cruel things to other passengers. 

Start a freaking blog dedicated to cruel things about other passengers.

Swear loud enough for children to hear. 

Loudly discuss spoilers for a popular TV show. 

Ditto, new films.

Ditto, best selling books. 

Take your shoes off.

Take your socks off.

Take your clothes off.

Stare. 

Scowl. 

Generally make the journey as unpleasant as possible for everyone around you. 

Happy travelling!

I lost 12lbs in 7 days on a juice cleanse & I'd totally do it again

Firstly, I know, I know.

But hear me out. I am a woman who understands a love of food. I basically came out of the womb with a compulsion to binge eat, and my childhood was a whirlwind of double breakfasts and biscuit tin raids, Happy Meals and unhappy PE classes. Forgiving friends and family maintained that I'd grow out of it, but the only thing I actually grew out of was my clothes, and when I got older and realised that bigger wasn't always better, I entered a cycle of desperate restriction and excessive consumption that I've been stuck in ever since.

I'm 24 years in, and spoonfuls of ice cream become still tubfuls, a slice of baguette turns into half. I only learned what those stickers on the share-size bars of chocolates are for about two months ago and I still don't use them. As you can imagine, this has left me just a few lbs (read, a good couple of stone) off of my ideal target weight. Every Monday I promise myself I'll eat healthy and every Friday I find myself face down in a Dominos pizza. It's just how I function, and until recently, I was alright with that.

This year, however, I've somehow become a proper grown up and been invited to several big occasions - birthdays, weddings, engagement parties - the types of occasions where the pictures are printed and put on the mantelpiece forever. As the RSVPs piled up, I realised that nothing puts the fear of god into me like looking at my current face for the rest of my life - you can't detag a photo frame - so I started looking for drastic solutions that would have me looking svelter in three weeks or less. I'd love to tell you I was doing it solely for my health and happiness, but I'd (literally) be a big fat liar. I was doing it to look good in my new dress and feel like a sparkly glamazon rather than an overzealous seal stuffed into a bejewelled condom.

Surgery and soul-selling aside, juicing was the only obvious choice. In the midst of online horror stories of fainting on the tube and being unable to leave the bathroom for days, even I doubted myself, but determined to at least give it a try, I downloaded an exceptionally enthusiastic American handbook ("buts only lead to bigger butts!") and ordered £50 worth of fresh produce, casually avoiding the bemused gaze of the delivery man when he realised I'd purchased 69 apples, 22 limes and a shelfload of their finest pineapples. I got a state of the art juicer and a stack of flasks, and, all consuming love of carbs aside, I was ready.

I'm not going to pretend I breezed through the week with willpower and resolve coming out of my ears. The first day was tough. Physically I wasn't hungry - with 5 juices a day there were honestly no tummy rumblings to speak of - but mentally I craved something biteable, particularly when my flatmate settled on the sofa next to me with a veritable mountain of carbonara. Day two came and went and the urge remained, but for me, it was still brain rather than belly based; although I can't say the same for my boyfriend, who attempted to join me but for the whole week but spent this particular evening consuming an entirely beige burger (seriously, not even a leaf of lettuce).

However, after the first couple of wobbles, I was finally acquainted with my stride. I found myself looking forward the juices as though they were meals, and got into the swing of making them, cleaning the machine - a process ten times more tortuous than drinking the juices themselves - and distracting myself with other projects. To my own great surprise, I was full of energy for chores that are usually bottom of my list (scrubbing the bathroom floor, anyone?!), and it was genuinely amazing how much free time you have room when you're not buying, preparing, eating, and let's be honest, constantly fantasising about food. I was losing 2-3lbs a day, my stomach had handled the extra roughage like a champ, and if I'm honest, I was feeling pretty fucking smug about the whole thing.

The ultimate challenge came at a Friday night dinner party, where I allowed myself three leaves of lettuce and some onion and tomato 'as a treat'. The meal, however, proved less of a problem than the booze.

"Wine is made from grapes and it's a liquid, so it's basically juice, right?" one of my pals reasoned, gripping the bottle triumphantly. "Plus, you haven't eaten for 5 days - imagine how pissed you'd get!"

My smile widened. My resolve weakened. She was right! I'd be slurring my words and missing the last train home before I knew it. With a Friday feeling stronger than a whole box of Crunchies in my heart, I went as far as letting her fill my glass before the inevitable wave of guilt hit. What was the point of all of the initial days of casual misery if I gave up now, when I was actually feeling pretty good? I was on the last 48 hours, the final hurdle - it would have been like climbing most of a mountain and then deciding not to go right to the top. Stoically, I stuck to water, and the next morning, when I woke up another 2lb lighter, I was reluctantly glad I did.

The rest of the weekend passed in a blur of watermelon and avocado, and then it arrived: final weigh in day. The book I was following advised that this should be your only weigh in day, but I was jumping on the scaled two or three times a day and frankly, this was one of the biggest factors that kept me going, so I don't regret it in the slightest. The numbers popped and there I was, 12lbs down - a crazy loss that would normally take me 3-4 weeks to achieve.

My glory was somewhat reduced when I learned that you cannot - I repeat CANNOT - come straight off a juice cleanse and dive headfirst into a packet of HobNobs and french fries, like a triumphant victory lap of all of the foods you've missed out on for the last week. My body needed to adjust to whole foods in general, let alone greasy takeaways or chocolate coated everything. I spent the next week eating soup, which tasted exceptionally sugary post-purity, and trays of roasted veggies, and only gained 1lb when I'd expected to regain at least half. Gradually I have introduced naughty foods (yes, including the occasional HobNob - Jesus, I'm not made of stone) and of course my weight fluctuates because of this, but I have not, and hopefully will not, gain back everything I've lost, and upon reflection, would happily juice my way back down again pre-wedding/occasion where feeling fat and uncomfortable would detract from my enjoyment.

One of the things that struck me most about the process whilst I was completing it was how utterly  fascinated people were by the whole thing. 90% of my conversations this week were about juicing,  and even more surprisingly, requests for advice on how others could do it too - and not because I bought the subject up. An idea I thought would be met with scorn and if I'm honest, a vague air of ridicule actually gained me respect in ways I never expected, and whilst initially I was embarrassed by it - after all, confessing that you're trying to lose weight means publicly acknowledging your current weight in the first place - but by the end of the 7 days I'd happily chat through all of the questions with anyone who asked, and now, I'm writing this, so the stigma must be gone.

However, the biggest thing I've learned is how little you can sustain yourself on, and how much unnecessary crap I've been consuming, purely for pleasure and not for health as I'd been telling myself as I tucked into a triple portion of wholemeal pasta for the third time in a week because "anything with the word 'whole' in front of it is healthy!". Obviously juicing is not a long term lifestyle, but it'd given me a much needed boost new appreciation for fresh produce that I probably wouldn't have found otherwise.

If you're thinking of trying juicing, yes, you will have to go without. Yes, you will miss the sensations of crunching and chewing. Yes, you will be a terrible dinner guest and yes, you will have stress dreams about eating hot, buttery toast. But, if you stick with it, you will lose weight and you will feel better. I'm not saying it's a long term solution to weight issues - goodness knows I've still got mine - but feeling healthier and eating loads of fantastically nutritional food, even in the short term, is a wonderful thing to do for your body. Me and plants went from mere acquaintances to BFFs in just 7 days, and as long as they don't pick any fights with my old buddy chocolate biscuit, I think we're all gonna get along just fine.

Why a little bit of FOMO does you good

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This weekend, I was invited to a housewarming party. At the time of receiving the invitation, I was sporting leggings on their fourth day of wear and the greasiest hair this side of KFC. Did I want to leave the house? Did I heck. I had a busy day of doing nothing planned and there was room for very little else in my schedule.

Pulling my duvet up to my chin, I closed my eyes and basked in the glory of freedom. No plans! No social pressure! The opportunity to eat two consecutive bowls of pasta bake and watch endless Netflix without judgement! This, I thought, is living. 

And then it hit. A niggling worm of doubt gnawed its way to my brain and knocked loudly on the door. 

"You should go to that party!" it boomed obnoxiously. "Be sociable, talk to other people, act like a functioning member of society for once! Who knows, you might like it!"

"Bugger off, FOMO!" my lazy subconscious yelled, but by then it was too late. The idea that my flatmates might have too much fun without me was planted, and it grew like a weed. 20 minutes before they planned to leave I was rubbing half a pan of concealer into my neck and asking whether I should bring one bottle of wine or two. 

FOMO (or fear of missing out, for the abbreviation avoidant) is often declared to be an all consuming and ultimately damaging compulsion - Wikipedia defines it as 'a form of social anxiety' and the Telegraph tells tales of exhausted, emotionally fraught twenty-somethings who spend their whole weekends travelling to events that they ultimately miss the best bits of, because of their frantic urge to seek out the new must-do. But in my case, FOMO got my indulgent, wallowing self out of bed and out to an enjoyable party where I met new people, drank too much punch and ultimately had a more enjoyable time than I would have by myself sat at home in an oversized jumper and spandex - and for that reason, I think he might have got a bit of a bad rap. 

Scrolling through Instagram and watching your friends/stalkees eat incredible food, travel to gorgeous places and spend time with clever, interesting people can be depressing when your only company for the day is a family-size bag of Kettle Chips - but for the most part, there's nothing to stop you going out there and seeing what they're seeing too. As with everything in life, there is a limit, and people will inevitably cross it - some to the point where they're desperately sobbing into their Facebook events calendar with the ferocity of a small tsunami. Some opportunities are admittedly constrained by time, location and budget. But there is a difference between being afraid of missing out on fun and feeling inferior because other people are having a different type of fun to you - and the former is something you can take control of. 

Sometimes FOMO forces you to say yes to events you're glad you went to, meet strangers that might become pals, and consume questionable gin based cocktails that miraculously leave you hangover free. I'm not suggesting you say yes to everything, but saying yes a little more never hurt. So let's all start embracing FOMO - give him a little cuddle and see where things go. You never know, it might just be the start of a beautiful friendship. 

Surviving summer when you don't like your limbs

Hooray! It’s finally here! Summer, the season of festivals, holidays and license to eat endless Cornettos is upon us, and aren’t we all just overjoyed? In some respects, yes – but I’d be slightly more thrilled if my upper arms didn’t look like they were made of cottage cheese.

My wings and I have had a hate hate relationship since my early teens, when I realized that they had expanded into dimpled messes about three times the size of that of my peers and I could no longer get away with the Tammy Girl racerbacks of my youth. I made a vow to stay cardigan-clad at all times, and since then, the words strappy and (god forbid) bandeau have struck pure unadulterated fear into my heart. 

I get arm envy like other people get hair or outfit envy – a glimpse of a toned, healthy looking bicep is enough to make me stop mid-sentence and ponder how the Adonis-like creature before me cultivated such a work of beauty. This is NOT a weight or a fat shaming thing - I’ve seen women with arms twice the size of mine that look like they’re made of beautiful glowing marble, but alas, we cannot all be so blessed. I’ve also tried several regimes/beauty products that promise to give me the sculpted branches of my dreams, but due to a combination of ineffectiveness and my own substantial laziness, it’s pretty unlikely that I’ll publicly wear anything without sleeves for the foreseeable future. 

However, having a strong (I repeat, STRONG) preference for being fully clothed at all times doesn’t mean I don’t get hot. I live in London, I take the tube - the world’s sweatiest, most revolting public transport system – on a daily basis, and more to the point, I like being outdoors. So how do I beat the heat without surrendering to the vest?

Crop tops

I know, I know. Hold the fucking phone. Until recently, I too was of the mindset that crop tops were a cruel joke invented by Topshop to remind us all that we're not catwalk ready or pre-pubescent. However, thanks to the glorious popularisation of the high waisted midi skirt, I am a complete crop convert, and can now experience an extra breeze around my midriff without exposing my non-abs to the world. I'm currently lusting after this embellished number, if anyone's got a spare £45.

Bardot tops

Basically a fancy extension of the crop, but sexier, allowing me to show a little more skin, but crucially, no more arm. Topshop have got a number of winners in this style too. I might end up weird tan lines, but at least I'll look 1960s fabulous whilst getting them.

Kimonos
Unlike cardigans, which tend to be knitted, kimonos (like this one from H&M) have a wonderfully lightweight, floaty vibe to them that makes me feel like elegant and regal, rather than a bit like a nana. Also flattering in button up shirts and full tops too.

Accessories
If a gun was held to my head and I had to wear something strappy, I'd ask if I could throw a scarf in as part of the deal. They hide a multitude of sins, because they fall right in front of the bits of my body I've spent half a lifetime bemoaning. I also live by the mantra of one thing bigger making everything else look smaller, so if you see me wearing a necklace bigger than my actual neck or toting a handbag that weighs more than I do around town, THIS IS WHY.

Learning not to give a fuck

Ultimately we all know that this is the answer. But I'm still working on it, and if you are too, that's okay.

What I learned from my first grey hair

It was in the office bathroom that I first caught sight of my impending mortality. Under the bright, overhead lights, there it was, an obnoxious shimmering strand of silver in my mane of mousy brown. Panicked, I ran my fingers through it over and over, praying it was a trick of the light. It wasn't. There, in all of its glory, was my very first grey hair - a startling visual reminder that the age I am now isn't the age I'm always going to be.

Being the mature, level headed adult that I am, I wrapped my fingers around the base of the hair and ripped it out.

The next day, staring at my reflection in my own bedroom mirror, I found another. With its drained pigments and coarse texture, it seemed to be screaming for attention. 'Look at me!' it roared. 'Look at me and remember that you're ageing! You're getting wrinkles, your waist is spreading, and you can no longer sing along to Taylor Swift's '22' with any sense of conviction!"

I quickly pulled this gobby little offender out too, but realising that if I continued to use this strategy I'd get dangerously close to resembling a boiled egg, I desperately Googled 'I've found my first grey', hoping to stumble upon some empathetic messages to soothe my self-pitying soul. Billions of results exploded onto my screen; all 30+ year old women lamenting the loss of their looks. My eyes filled with tears at the injustice of it all.

"But I'm only 23!" I wailed.

Finding a grey hair is never fun, but at my age I'd assumed my biggest problems would be budgeting for bills and figuring out how many G&Ts I could safely consume without humiliating myself in front of my colleagues. I took care of my skin, religiously hot cloth cleansing and moisturising - laying the groundwork to stop it from crumpling like crepe paper as the years went on. But it never occurred to me that the shade of my natural locks would start to desert me already. In my mind, we had a solid 10 years or so of happiness left in our relationship, and when it cruelly tried to break up with me after all that time, I'd patch us up with a box of Garnier Nutrisse like Davina did and we'd pretend the whole sordid grey affair never happened.

Distraught, I confided in my boyfriend, sticking my head directly under his unsuspecting nose and demanding 'Can you see them?! They're definitely there!' His reaction, whilst kind, was less than helpful.

"I've found loads of grey hairs," he shrugged nonchalantly. "It's no big deal. It doesn't matter."

Maybe it really didn't matter to him - or at least it mattered less. Men with salt and pepper hair are seen as handsome, even desirable. He was just starting to enter his 'Clooney' years, a time of much joy, merriment, and of course, copious amounts of sex from young, bendy ladies - they didn't invent the phrase 'silver fox' for nothing. There isn't an equivalent term for women - the nearest thing we have is 'cougar', which at best sounds mildly aggressive and at worst is positively predatory.

Delving further into the depths of the internet, I found that statistically, the forums were right - I wasn't expected to start finding greys until my mid-30s. Normally being above average is something that my competitive little heart cherishes, but in this case it just felt unfair. I spent a few weeks feeling utterly sorry for myself - pulling my hair into tight, unforgiving buns and cringing when the sun shone in case it lit me up like Blackpool Tower.

However, because of my new found obsession with grey, I soon found myself spotting it on other people. Work colleagues, friends, people on the tube - and every time I did, I realised that it didn't make them any less attractive to me, or to anyone else. There was a weirdly comforting sense of humanity to it - yes, greys are a sign of ageing, but that's something that we're all doing every single minute of every single day, and even though I tell everybody that I've decided that I'm never going to be a day over 30, in my heart I know that getting older will happen and I know that it will be okay. 

Like crinkly eyes from constant smiling and bruised knees from having too much fun, greys are evidence that your body is growing and changing, and ultimately living like it's supposed to - and over time, I've managed to convince myself that having a couple of 'natural highlights' isn't the emotional tragedy I'd initially thought it to be.

At the moment, I'm at the stage where I've only got the odd strand of grey. Aesthetically, it's the equivalent of having a couple of spots - not necessarily enjoyable or desirable, but totally concealable and not anywhere near as big of a deal to anyone else as they are to you. When it gets worse, maybe I'll dye it and maybe I won't, but either way I'll still enjoy my hair in the same way I enjoyed growing, washing, brushing and styling it for the first two decades of my life.

Grey hair can be beautiful at any age - celebs like Kelly Osbourne and Pixie Geldof even made an active choice to fly the flag for the colour without it being thrust upon them by the hands of time. And if you're in the same boat and none of this has offered you any semblance of comfort, I'd like to inform you that J-Lo went grey at 23, and anything you have in common with a woman who looks as frankly spectacular as she does can only be a good thing.