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

meowmeowmaru.tumblr.com

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.