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The Rough Patch

27.07.2020 / Featured, Think Pieces

AMA: Long-Term Relationships & Initiating Sex

13.05.2020 / Advice, Featured

My Sustainable Gym Wear Collection: TALA, Girlfriend Collective & Organic Basics

24.02.2020 / Fashion, Featured, Lifestyle

The Treat Yo’ Self Gift Guide

28.11.2019 / Featured, Festive

Going through the motions, going with the flow, fe

Going through the motions, going with the flow, feeling fucking funky; whatever you want to call it, existing instead of living is a legitimate conflict. And it’s something I have to remind myself out of when I’m caught up in the process of Monday - Friday and no I don’t really want to go out at the weekend because I’m too tired but oh shit, there’s Monday again and there’s Friday again and, hang on, what have I done for the past two months which I’ll look back on with fondness?

I’m guilty of diagnosing myself with tiredness or apathy weeks in advance. In fact, I have to actively list out my month on paper and designate weekday evenings for dinners or pub trips or my 90000th walk around the park, just to make sure I’m actually doing something other than staring at a laptop until the clock dictates I stop. It’s so easy to get caught up in the routine of things, the banal but comfortable, and to forget that life exists outside of the daily grind. That those pockets are where the joy can be found (if I’m not too ‘tired’ to dig in and find it).

Sometimes it’s as simple as calling my Nan or walking to Starbucks with a neighbour, and sometimes what my soul craves is a fancy date night or messy, booze-fuelled weekend with the girls. Sometimes I ~ am ~ actually tired and sometimes I’m just being lazy. But planning in advance to have something to look forward to - some sphere of life outside of work and home - well, that reminds me to keep living. Or at the very least it reminds me that I can be more interesting than: “Hi [x], hope you’re doing well and had a great weekend!” 🌚

My style (whatever that means) is relatively muted

My style (whatever that means) is relatively muted, but when it comes to flowers, I LOVE to see a riotous rush of colour. Hot pink especially. Would I wear it on my body? Probably not. But trimmed at the stem and choreographed inside glass? Can’t get enough.

Thank you @ellenagee for the 11/10 selection. 🌚💖

Slide into your good boots and pour yourself a lar

Slide into your good boots and pour yourself a large glass of something strong - it’s the weekend (somehow the middle of August?) and on Monday, the circus continues. But until then? A lotta bit of naughty and a little bit of nice. 🥂 Cheers to you, I hope yours is a good one. {Shirt is the Claudie by @kaicollective.}

The light hand of peace touches us in small moment

The light hand of peace touches us in small moments. Like stretching out into the sun before the day begins, or stealing a slice of stillness beside a window pushed ajar, the sounds of the neighbourhood reaching in with the flavour of familiarity.

A glass of wine between undressing and redressing is seemingly not a special thing. It’s a scene many of us recognise as something regular, routine even. But it’s within these moments that time exhales and we float on her breath freely. These moments are passing, that is sure, and for each of us their character may change, but they can nearly always be found.

Even if some days you have to look really closely.

{Sorry if you’re seeing this for the second time

{Sorry if you’re seeing this for the second time, I had to tweak the editing or my mind wouldn’t rest. 🥴 Perfectionism or neurotic social media tendencies: you decide!}

The first concert I ever went to, if my mind serves me correctly (and there’s potential for fault here because I’ve tried to block the memory out) was…

Atomic Kitten. Shortly followed by a solo performance by Mel C, her first (and probably last) breakaway tour after The Spice Girls. On the other hand, the first album I bought was Hot Fuss by The Killers, a collection of songs which tips me into nostalgia from the first second of play.

The point I’m trying to make here is that my music taste has always been broad. There was Fall Out Boy and Taking Back Sunday. Destiny’s Child and Cassie. Chris Brown, Trey Songz, Arctic Monkeys, Sigur Rós, Jamie Woon, Jamie T, Glass Animals, Erykah Badu, Daniel Caesar, Aretha! That brief phase when all I would listen to was Ray Charles and Ray Charles only. Then SZA and Frank Ocean. (I have to stop listing artists now because I’m trying to offer a window into variety, but cherry-picking is hard when the options all feel important.)

It’s a cliché but music to me is poetry in motion. It’s difficult to articulate that feeling of listening to a song and knowing instinctively that it’s a bit of you, but I think the enigma of that - that mystery of two pieces of music being so different but appealing to your soul equally - is part of the magic. And when I think of all of these incredible artists and the songs and albums they’ve released (and released is a beautiful word for it, as if they’re freeing the music from themselves like letting loose a bird), I can trace my history by them. My awkward teen moments, my heartbreaks, my triumphs, the times I was apparently very horny (we all have a playlist for ~ that ~). And isn’t that such a gift? I think so. The gift of memory, connection and re-feeling. Such fantastic, transportive power.

I’m typing this caption while sitting in front o

I’m typing this caption while sitting in front of a big, propped open window, the remaining puddle of my second coffee sitting in the bottom of its mug, strangers ambling by on the street below, popping to the shop or picking up their lunch or escaping the office for a cheeky cigarette break. Absolutely unremarkable for a Thursday afternoon, but considering all of the shapes 2020 has contorted itself into, I am grateful for and appreciate the privilege of being able to enjoy life’s simple pleasures in peace. I just wanted to acknowledge that in this moment. ☕️

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