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).

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?

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.

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.

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?

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.

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? 

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?

Before I describe my own experience, I want to pause on a word that often enters conversations about abuse: narcissist. It’s a term that has become almost casual in popular culture, tossed around to describe anyone who seems vain or self-absorbed. In the context of an abusive relationship, the word is much heavier. It names a pattern of manipulation, control, and emotional erosion that can leave deep, lingering scars. When I say my ex is a narcissist, it’s not a throwaway insult—it’s an attempt to give language to the experience of being diminished and controlled over time.

You will die. A lot. My first time fighting Hornet was a real struggle. She’s fast, agile, and shows no mercy. I remember spending weeks fighting her over and over again only to fail. When I finally beat her, I felt this incredible sense of achievement. The failure I experienced just propelled me to keep going, so much so it became addictive.

Aside from accounts directly promoting disordered eating, TikTok has seen a surge of ED ‘recovery’ accounts, with creators sharing their lives and, therefore, illness, online. The vast majority of these accounts claim to be there to display their journey to recovery, hold themselves accountable and to ‘inspire’ and ‘help’ others.

The challenging-for-most Channel 4 documentary; ‘1000 Men and Me: The Bonnie Blue Story’, has brought up many thoughts around hustle culture within the sex industry, and the potential harm she may be causing to young people. If there was ever a warning for your browser history, I think watching this documentary might just be it. 

So, why do I do this? Why do I take the trouble of travelling globally with two young children when I could have easily gone to the local park or tried my luck at a staycation?

By now, you probably know what ‘The Ick’ is, and you have probably had plenty of experience with it in your own dating life. It has likely derailed a first date or ruined several months of getting to know someone new. But does The Ick ever occur in a healthy and committed relationship, or one that has been maintained through love over many years? And is it really the deathknell that social media claims it to be?

There’s not a lot to say in terms of reporting the events. This isn’t a voyeuristic true‑crime retelling. We all saw the video. If we didn’t see the video, we saw the photograph: hands reaching to close an already gaping wound. Within hours, the footage was everywhere, framed as another sign of “unprecedented times”. But America has been here before. Many times. 

Four months after working in recruitment, I had to admit three things: I did not like my job, I was burnt out, and I really, really, really wanted to quit. My colleagues were supportive; I did not want to leave. I wanted to brave it and make the most  of the opportunity in front of me. However, midway through the fifth month I had a complete mid-20s crash out and thought “no more!”.  

The beauty industry is ever evolving into something more dystopian than before, and nothing supports this more than Skims' new shapewear…for your face. It does beg the question, what on earth is going on here?

Not so long ago, the idea of having a “personal brand” felt… well, a bit embarrassing. It sounded like something for influencers or reality stars. Something reserved for people who wanted to be famous. Not something for regular people. Not something for me, or my friends, or the woman running a graphic design business from her kitchen table. But lately, I’ve noticed a shift. All my friends have personal brands now. Whether they’re calling it that or not.

I live in House Number 38 with my husband and two little boys. We moved to Number 38 when my health began deteriorating rapidly and I was at the time unsure about what was wrong with my body. Personally for me, moving into this house brings back very difficult memories of struggle, chaos and constant change.

One friend, Jackie, who has raved ‘through pregnancies, bringing up children [and] going through trauma’, describes nights out as ‘losing touch with the stresses of life even just for a short time’. To rave then, is to heal.

If you get married, you and your partner are then viewed almost as one person, including that of your income. That will oftentimes then lead to your income and your benefits becoming  intertwined with your partners’. If you’re a disabled person and you marry an able-bodied person, one who works a qualifying significant income, the disabled person in the relationship will likely lose their benefits altogether. If you live outside of the UK, not only are you left with the strict laws on benefits causing issues, but also your access to healthcare, such as insurance. 

Anxious thoughts ran through my head as my laptop mouse hovered over the “proceed to check-out” button. There I was, panicking about buying a walking stick with my disability money… which is exactly what it’s for. But after reading the news, it’s no wonder I was so worried. All I could see and hear was the threats of benefit cuts from a government using disabled people, who are just trying to survive, as a scapegoat.

In the eighteen years since this incident occurred, the case has rarely been out of the press. Despite the absolute tragedy that has occurred, it is hard to argue that the continued fascination on this case is uncommon. Similar cases of children going missing are not unheard of, but none have had a similar impact on the public and the media, especially in the UK. So, why is this the case?

And here-in, I feel, may be the issue and the answer.

In March 2025, The Independent reported that schools across the UK will begin offering anti-misogyny classes in schools. Far from being an overreaction, the government proposed initiative is a necessary response to increasingly troubling cultural shifts taking place in schools and wider society.

And here-in, I feel, may be the issue and the answer.

From periods, to pregnancy, to menopause, we have to get SO used to our bodies and our hormones knocking us sidewise. But there’s the crux: we do get used to it. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel here. This just feels like the cards you’re dealt if you’re born into a female body at birth. What’s the point in complaining about it? What are you gonna do? Not work every time your uterus decides to shed? If you’ve got generational wealth - maybe. Otherwise, not  an option. You crack on, and you shut up.

And here-in, I feel, may be the issue and the answer.

Whilst a wedding is potentially a joyful occasion, for some it can become a real challenge - and I am not talking about the headache-inducing conversation with the printers; the months spent trying to source the perfect pair of bridal shoes or getting the recalcitrant photographer to respond to emails. I am talking about the painful business of those who are estranged from family members and whether to invite or not invite them.  

People view those that depend on benefit schemes as lazy, as leeches on society, as a drainage on taxpayer money, but what you don’t know is this - many of these people who are on benefits, who are unable to work, would give absolutely anything to be able to do so.

In my role as a homelessness housing officer and hostel worker, I regularly interact with people who are going through the worst moments of their life. When I meet clients for the first time, although in a professional capacity, I feel it is my duty to be a kind, welcoming stranger that they are faced with. I am meeting them at their most vulnerable, and it is required that they share details with me so that I can help them. It is through the moments I share with these clients that I truly recognise the impact of small things. I’ve realised most of the impact I make is through being kind, smiling and not judging them. I wanted to translate the benefits of interacting with strangers into my hobbies, and began pursuing street photography.