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!