superlatively rude

because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

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superlatively rude

I keep a litre bottle of fizzy water beside my bed, and a clean glass. The alarm goes off ten minutes earlier than it needs to, and I paddle to the bathroom in my negligee: a sheer black lace nightie that rides up as I toss and turn, but that makes me feel together. Accomplished. Sexy, sometimes, too. In the bathroom I use the £30 cleanser – the only thing that keeps my skin bright, that sees the red lumps under the skin of my jaw shrink, red lumps caused by sadness, and frustration, too, because what do I have to be sad about? Back in my room, I pour the fizzy water into the clean glass and take my vitamins. If I achieve nothing else in that day at least the first five minutes have had dignity. I treated myself well. I force myself to make the bed, to open the curtains, to crack the window for fresh, cold air.

I can do this.

I am doing this.

At the height of it – or, probably, it’s better to say at the lowest of it – I had a One Thing A Day rule. If I could do One Thing A Day I was okay. That one thing might’ve been dropping letters off at the post office. Replying to a few emails. Going to therapy. A cup of tea. Mostly, I slept. I’d go take the kids I nanny to school, a job I took because I needed a reason to get out of bed, truth be told, something to do as I held my breath for the book to come out, then I’d come home to sleep. I'd only wake up to go pick them up again. Without that, without them, I don’t think I’d have been able to leave the house at all.

Becoming Chelsea Fagan

Episode 5 of The Becoming Podcast is "Becoming Chelsea Fagan". Chelsea is co-founder of The Financial Diet, a site dedicated to talking about personal finance - because let's face it, nobody else wants to. Fun, engaged, and whip-smart, Chelsea has an unmistakable voice and is one of my favourite ever Twitter follows.

Here, she discusses financial security, being a former "hot mess", betraying feminism and freaking people out by talking cash.

Wise and insightful and frank things Chelsea says include:

“During one era, I was fired from every job I had”

“I think it has to be less about career and more about being able to take care of myself..."

“I felt like being financially supported for a while was a betrayal of feminist values”

“Sincerity is not the internet’s language”

“It’s really hard to be cool or disaffected about money…”

“If you think about a choice you made, or something you did, and you don’t want to talk about it… it’s so important to look at why”

"You have to be able to own poor choices without them defining you”


My Name


This is a blog post about seeing myself called a “cum dumpster” in ten different languages, on fifty different websites, right beside years-old photographs of me taken in a bikini, lifted from the archives of my Instagram. It starts with a 6 a.m. email, read in my best friend’s bed in Ditmas Park, Brooklyn.

“They want to serialise the book!” I whisper, wide-awake with a body clock set to London. She rubs her Eastern Standard Time eyes and rolls over. “That’s great,” she begins, hoarse with sleep. “What… what does that mean?”

Serialisation is when a newspaper – their features pages or, if you’re really lucky, one of their glossy weekend supplements – print a section of your manuscript. I’d had my fingers crossed that it might happen. What I wanted more than anything was one of the red tops to pick it up – one of the tabloids. I wanted a paper that middle England reads to talk about BECOMING. An “every woman” paper. I’d already written for a glossy mag and a fancy broadsheet about it. Tabloids were next on my list. My only stipulation to the book’s publicist had been: not the Daily Mail. I will do anything for love, but I won’t do that. I will do anything to tell people about my book, but I will not do a deal with that particular devil. We all know why. 

A Night To Remember

photo via @amyadventures_

 “Laura,” my brother said, reappearing after a brief absence. “Dad’s taken all your mates to the pub. You might… well. Come on.”

I understood the spaces between his words but I didn’t want to leave. Because. Because, if I left it would be over, and it was everything I wanted it to be – had dreamt it would be, for farther back than I can remember – and to stand there, just a few moments more, meant it was still happening. I was still on the third floor of Hatchard’s Piccadilly, booksellers to the Queen, surrounded by piles of a book that I wrote. If I lingered a little longer, I was still at my book launch.


I don’t know what I am proudest of, the book or that one hundred separate bodies approached me over the course of the night to say, “Wow. You know so many incredible people!” That is true – I do know so many incredible people. I know so many incredible people that the girls from the publishing house told my parents, book parties aren’t normally like this. There’s not normally this much life. I was humbled and in awe at the calibre of generous, kind, genuinely-excited-for-me people in that room. The way they all made friends with each other and laughed and clicked glasses and, if I’m honest, glanced in my direction a lot, looking at me from the other side of the room, letting me know yes, you! We’re talking about you!
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