In St George, the worn remains of a medieval relic sit in the car park of the library. It’s now an accidental bollard, guarding the metal railings of the library access ramp.
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I have to admit my reaction to Chalamet’s statement, like everyone else, was “what an insufferable idiot”, but since he has opened a can of worms, why not delve into it?
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Often, when we’re chasing perfection, it can feel like everything goes wrong at once. One thing breaks, then another. A friend seems a bit distant and then an unexpected phone bill arrives. Before long, we start telling ourselves that everything has gone to shit and it’s all our fault.
Here’s a lesson that came to me while behind the wheel of a car rather than in a self-help book.
Democracy is usually described as something that happens in public. It shows up in parliaments, courtrooms, and polling stations. We measure it in elections, constitutions, and peaceful transfers of power. At its heart, it makes a simple promise: that people can govern themselves. But democracy also has a quieter life. It lives inside us, in the decisions we make, the way we interpret the world, and how we understand our own freedom. It shapes not just governments, but the shape of ourselves.
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In recent times, the ‘Skinny Trend’ — a cultural shift towards extreme thinness to give a ‘heroin chic’ look— has taken over the media. In a time where 1 in 4 girls as young as eight are on a diet or actively trying to lose weight and with NHS England stating rates of eating disorders being four times higher in young women than men (20.8% compared to 5.1%) it is time to stop and ask how ‘harmless’ this trend truly is and what the cost is of weight as an aesthetic.
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When I first started planning, I did what most people do now: I opened up my socials and started to get inspired. Within the space of a few weeks, I had a vast folder of ‘must-see’ spots, hidden gems, and maps full of pinned food spots.
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“We could also put some Botox above the brow… just to plump that area up.”
“I see you’ve got quite heavy eyelids.”
“And the dimple in your chin, it’s alright now, but as you get older…”
“Salmon sperm ssalmonnnnn spermmmmm ssssalmonnn spermmmmm.’’
I had traded in one insecurity for about five others. Not exactly a fair exchange.
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Nestled in what used to be the wildlife park in Westbury, they have created the most zen, most beautiful atmosphere you could wish to find. No matter the time of day you go, you find yourself in a haven. To reach the site, you walk past a babbling stream with trees overhead. The facilities themselves are top notch - and unique. (One of the cold water options is what used to be the seal pool, now much cleaner and san-seals obviously.) The staff are genuine and lovely. The health benefits are unreal. What’s not to like?
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I’m not a body-advice writer. I’m not an advice writer at all. I’m simply someone trying to tell the truth about what it’s like to exist with body dysmorphia in a world that profits from your discomfort — especially now, when we’re being told that body positivity is dead and shrinking is back in fashion. Something sharp moved in me when I read that headline; not because I care about celebrity weight cycles, but because I’m living inside a body shaped by trauma, grief, stress, neurodivergence, and survival — and I’m still being asked to make myself smaller.
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To be clear, this is not a defence of plastic surgery. Convincing women to undergo unnecessary, invasive, and often dangerous procedures in order to conform to a rigid and exclusionary beauty standard does not exist outside of patriarchy- it is produced by it. Plastic surgery is not feminist, and framing it as such would be disingenuous. What I am interested in interrogating instead is this: what does it mean to uphold a rigid hierarchy of beauty while simultaneously stigmatising women who attempt to access it? And what does that contradiction reveal about who beauty is for?
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The heartbreak - and strain - of becoming our parents carers. It’s something that isn’t talked about a lot, but what is the right way to look after age family members? Can there even be a right way?
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I regret getting our dog. *Immediately checks for angry mob with torches and pitchforks*
It’s a truth that feels almost illegal to say out loud, but it is true nonetheless. One that’s probably shared by lots of people, but who also haven’t voiced it because of the accompanying guilt and shame (or fear of the righteous-dog-loving-angry-mob with torches and pitchforks).
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I asked a group of individuals, all varying in age, gender and location, what is your relationship like with reading? Have you got a good relationship with books, or do you find yourself reaching for your phone more often than not?
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If you told me four years ago that me and the chap I was dating would one day go our separate ways, I would have called you all sorts of parental- guidance-required-profanities and wouldn’t have liked you very much.
Yet here I am sitting on the floor of an (albeit rather beautiful) unlived-in rental property, at 35, childless, ringless, partnerless, my whole world upside down and inside out and my very nervous nervous system buzzing a different kind of buzz to when we shared our first kiss underneath a bus shelter 365 days X 4 ago.
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It was only when I moved to a big new city at the age of thirty that I began to think consciously about friendship. I remember my first Friday night in my rental flat, sitting on my bed doing endless sudokus for want of evening plans, the city beyond my window alive with the rev of motorbikes and distant sirens. ‘Okay’ I remember thinking. ‘I suppose I ought to go out and… find some… friends?’ The notion was weird. It was as though I’d just learned my hair would no longer grow unless I grimaced and strained.
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For my sins, and my father’s, I’m a Swindon Town fan. Once a proud railway town, Swindon is now better known as the place where hope dies when you’re forced to change trains on the way from Temple Meads to London. A few years ago, I went to watch my team. I walked into the Town End with a group of Premier League‑inclined university friends. Twenty minutes into kick-off, a chant began: “Oh Tommy Tommy Robinson”. I was mortified. It wasn’t just ugly; it was a glimpse into something bigger. I left the ground with one question lodged in my head: why is football such a hotbed for fascists?
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Getting behind the wheel for me is akin to telling my body I am about to fight a bear. The physical reaction my body has is so encompassing - my head heats up, I can’t breathe as easily, I can feel my whole system going into melt-down. I like to think of myself as a (mostly) intelligent person, but in the car I just can’t get a grip of my mind. Something as simple as remembering which side of the road to drive on becomes a genuine feat for me. And what makes all of this worse is that driving isn’t just seen as a skill - it’s a badge of adulthood. It shapes how people see you, and lacking said badge has started to feel like a very heavy mistake.
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Dressed in wide-leg trousers, holding an oat flat white between painted fingernails, and reading a copy of The Bell Jar, it is: The Performative Male. You might have heard of this new label for men and seen various caricatures of it in competition with one another at a performative male contest in-person or on TikTok. The contests themselves have gained virality more than the male himself, but who exactly is the Performative Male?
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Samhain, pronounced ‘SOW-in’ (as in ‘sow’ like a female pig and ‘in’ as in “I hope you are interested in learning about Samhain”), is a festival that was predominantly celebrated by the Iron Age Celtic people living in Ireland. The festival often crops up around this time of year, featuring in articles claiming it as the Celtic progenitor of Halloween or in films wishing to cash in on an extra layer of folkloric spookiness. However, the often-popularised claim that this festival is the origin of Halloween is, at the very least, an oversimplification of history. So, if that’s the case, then what is Samhain? And where did Halloween come from?
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