Naught to sixty. Or ten.

In a plan to tackle my 2016 goals, I'm going to take you on a journey. A 10k journey.

I am writing this as a promise to myself. And that promise means several things:

1. When I am old I would like to recall tales of battling the elements to my grandchildren, tell them how I would run through anything just to get some weekly exercise.
2. As part of my new life, fitness is key. It's a key part of my job and will become a key part of my personal development. Fitter people get ahead. And probably boyfriends too.
3. It's a physical thang. My jeans don't fit, I refuse to buy clothes a size up, and last time I checked I was considerably heavier than at my peak of fitness last year.

So, ultimately, I need to put down the beer and burgers and pick up some weights. Or, better than that, strap on some Nikes and Just Do It.

Today, I join a gym.

Today, I lose junk food.

Today, I stop making excuses and start making progress. 

(Wish me luck.)

Six goals for 2016

As an interesting experiment, I’ve set six goals for 2016 and will review them again at the end of the year. Or at the end of every month. It really depends on how much content I have.

I’m not big on New Year’s resolutions. They’re proven to fail, you can set them at any other time of the year, and I often end up picking something rubbish like “go to the gym”, where the only pounds I lose are straight out of my purse.

This year, as I’m starting with a completely clean slate – no job, no boyfriend, no house – I’ve decided to do something a little different. Instead of setting resolutions, I’m setting goals.

With six goals to accomplish in 2016, I can reasonably look to achieve one per every two months. So here they are, my demons, motivators and expectations for the year ahead:

1. Get a job
   
2. Move out of your parent’s house before it’s too late. You’ve only have two more years before it gets really sad.
   
3. Lose 12 lbs (one each month, easy does it)
   
4. Explore places, including:
1. Newquay
2. Isle of Wight
3. Ireland
4. Amsterdam
5. Manchester
6. Parma
7. … Hong Kong?
   
5. Run 10k. You’ve been saying you’re going to do it for two years. Just get on with it. JUST DO IT. And eat some vegetables while you’re at it, you’re nearly 23 for God’s sake.
   
6. Date. Properly. Perhaps once a month. Maybe. Let’s not push it. A little less 2016 a little more touch me.

So that's it. Six goals, twelve months. That's nice and realistic right?

Now for the tricky part... Completing them.

It might be a new dawn, but it's what you do with it that counts

Jobless, boyfriendless and living at home with my parents. Starting from the bottom. Happy New Year to me.

No job, no partner, no bills – no problem. 2015 was both vile and wonderful in equal parts, but when asked if I would relive the year of plenty, the answer was no. No, I would not.

When 2016 loomed, I knew I had a choice. To do what I'd always done, and get what I'd always got, or mix things up a bit. Surely things couldn't get much worse.

In November 2015, after a season of dithering, I made up my mind. I began throwing out my stuff at home, handed in my four week's notice and tried to convince my mother that at nearly 23 years old, maybe it was time I gave being independent a go.

Now, fresh off a plane and blinking my squinty eyes into 2016, I've reached the point where all my plans have come to a halt. My page is blank. My slate is clean. I'm staring into the abyss and dawn is about to break.

So, before everything changes and I get a fabulous job, have a string of lovers and become beautiful overnight circa Shakira, let's review the starting point...

• Weight: more pounds than my bank account aka 138lbs.

• Hair: blonde, although rocking some seriously 80s roots, and collar length. One haircut in 2015 did wonders for length, as opposed to the "recommended for growth" 6-8 weekly cuts I had in 2014.
  
  Mental note: cutting hair makes it shorter.

• Dating life: ten months single, humbly extended my six-month dating hiatus to be indefinite. Last official date: April 2015.
  
  Things worse than going on a first date include: being eaten alive by a giant snake, the flu and war. Things better than going on a first date include, but certainly aren't limited to, getting something pierced, listening to Nickelback for 24 hours solid and a bikini wax.

• Home life: living rent-free, bill minimum and tight-lipped. What more can you expect from living with your parents? No matter how old you are, you'll have to say where you're going, when you're coming back and if you're going to be back for dinner.

• Work life: hahahahaunemployedhahaha

It'll be interesting to come back to this at the end of 2016 and see how starting from scratch turned out. It's pretty safe to say I'm starting this year with a blank sheet of paper. It's a new dawn, it's a new year, it's a new life. Hopefully...

A song of praise for Carys Bray

The third and final in a series of articles on the novels shortlisted for the 2015 Desmond Elliott Prize discusses A Song For Issy Bradley, written by my now-Twitter-pal Carys Bray. Spoilers as always.

I picked up Bray’s novel in a library. My first library book since university, I stared at the cover and decided to read a few chapters before I checked it out and made any real commitment. 

Instantly I knew this was a very different book to the other two shortlisters I’d reviewed. The content was drastically different. It was less female-centric, for starters, and it was going to teach me about something I really had very little grounding in before. The Mormon faith.

The religion and its practices almost take on a character of itself in the novel. You see how it behaves and what its features are, how it affects people – whether it’s a hero or an anti-hero is open to interpretation. Does it save or capture? Who can tell?

The thing that shone through in this novel is the first-hand experience of it all. The fears, experiences and thought-process all seem to come from a very real place. So when the worst happens, my grief to what was a fictional event, felt very, very real. And when expressing that fact on twitter, I got a very real response from the woman responsible.

Great community spirit Carys. 

What I liked so much about this was how I really wanted these characters to be OK. I didn’t feel particularly strongly that I liked or didn’t like any of them, I just felt the human will of community driving my wish that they’d be OK, they’d make it through their grief and their heartbreak and they’d be a family again. And, more than that, how I was fascinated by how they dealt with it in terms of their faith.

I finished Bray’s the quickest out of all the Desmond Elliot shortlisters, and that stands as a testament to how much I enjoyed it. Touchingly sensitive and emotionally compelling, A Song For Issy Bradly was my favourite of all three.

Read my opinion on representations of women in the competitor for the prize, Emma Healey's Elizabeth is Missing, or check out what I thought of 2015’s prize winner Our Endless Numbered Days by Claire Fuller.

Claire Fuller's endless enrichment of female character

The second in a series of articles on the novels shortlisted for the 2015 Desmond Elliott Prize discusses another debut, Claire Fuller's award winning Our Endless Numbered Days. Spoilers as always.

The story of my connection with Our Endless Numbered Days begins in June 2014, eight months before it's UK launch. That month, I received an email inviting me to a job interview, which I aced, accepted the job, and began working. The woman who emailed me was on holiday when I started the position, but two weeks later I met the person who originally vetted my application – Claire Fuller.

Which puts me in a rather unique position, one which I haven't been in before when talking about, well, anything. But, if my literature degree taught me anything, it's that the author doesn't really have much impact on a book. Except the writing part, of course.

Our Endless Numbered Days: title inspired by an obscure band's album (how very Winchester), winner of the 2015 Desmond Elliott Prize, and dramatic, genre-bordering thriller.

Quick plot summary: when Peggy is eight, her father – essentially – abducts her, taking her to an abandoned Hütte in the middle of absolute nowhere, or somewhere in Europe, as far as we can tell.

The novel is told entirely from Peggy's point of view, firstly from her eight year old self, up until she's 17. And for me, this is what I found most gripping.

Firstly, I like to think that Fuller (can I call her Claire? I know her as Claire) Claire chose her protagonist's gender based on more than personal experience. Take a moment to imagine if the abducted child was a boy.

The differences aren't vast at first – male and female eight year olds are quite similar in their physical and behavioural development – but I wonder if the father would even have taken a boy? Boys aren't as vulnerable as girls, or as delicate. With a female protagonist, she can remain under her father's rule no matter what. He will always be physically superior. With a male protagonist, he will eventually grow stronger and become an alpha. No matter the bond, a boy is far more likely to dominate eventually. And, if it was a boy, the ending would be very different.

Secondly, the development of the character would have taken a different turn indeed. Let's not forget, Peggy is in the woods during the most intimate physical development of her life – puberty. As a female reader – who's a practical thinker even in the most fictional of times – I couldn't help but think of questions like, what happens when Peggy gets her first period? Foliage sanitary towels?!

In this sense, readers are a lot closer to her sheer vulnerability and the extent of how feral her father has forced her to be. It's a far more impactful passage to read rather than a sentence about an awkward morning boner.

And finally, let's talk hair. Well, by that I mean enforced standards of beauty in the Western world.

Claire really effectively paints a portrait of the importance of beauty standards through what Peggy has missed out on. When she returns home, choosing clothes is a subject which absolutely baffles her. Peggy doesn't have any idea about beauty or about all these standards for women, because she hasn't learnt them. She hasn't needed to know how to brush her hair to survive, or how to accessorise. They weren't skills which would keep her alive throughout cold winters. In fact, they're entirely unnecessary. But only when she's in the Western world that she's subjected to comments on her appearance. There's a lot of this kind of comment on YA fiction at the moment, just take a look at The Hunger Games. In fact, I'd like to think Peggy and Katniss could be friends.

It's really refreshing to tear into a novel which so breaks the convention of women, especially young women, in literature. And following Peggy's development is more than fascinating, it's a complete breath of fresh air to see her emotional, mental and physical progression in such a unique environment. Despite the novel's self-limited environment, number of characters and subject matter, Peggy's character is so rich and unique, it's no wonder it won the Desmond Elliott Prize.

My copy looks like this. Yes it's signed. Yes, I went to the book launch. #humblebrag

Read my opinion of other representations of women in competitor for the prize, Emma Healey's Elizabeth is Missing.

The second time around

As the old adage goes, if you can't write your own title, borrow a lyric from Regina Spektor.

Falling in love for the second time took me completely by surprise. It was like the carpet had been pulled from under me while I watched a magician pull a rabbit from a hat. I didn't know it was coming, I didn't know it could happen, and even if someone had told me, I'd never have believed them.

I'd fallen so deeply for my first love that I'd become a believer of the old mantra: "I will never feel that way again". A total cynic, I destined myself to a life of wonderful friends, a job that paid the bills, and, if I ever found another person I wanted to spend my life with, what I would forever consider a marriage that was second best.

It's not a recommended way to think about things.

So when I felt it happening for the second time, I suffered symptoms not unfamiliar to shock.

When you experience something once, sometimes you begin to believe the only way to feel that way is to do the exact same thing. So to be in love, to feel that ecstasy, I'd have to be with that one person – right?

But then, OK, hold the phone, someone else is making me laugh like that? I miss someone else when they're not around? Someone else is hanging out with me – in tracksuit bottoms?!

The first time is always the worst, no matter what you're dealing with. Losing your virginity, getting a bikini wax, falling in and out of love. It's awkward, it's embarrassing and you're left with a soreness you just have to deal with. Luckily for us, we don't have to lose our virginity twice, we can decide to shave, and, when it comes to love, it might actually get easier.

The second time is strange because you're awash with the knowledge that there is more than one person who can satisfy, relate to, and change you on a level you never expected. And, if there's more than one, maybe there are hundreds. Perhaps it's not a puddle, but a sea after all.

So coming to terms with falling in love again is easy. It's a delightful relief. While coming to terms with the knowledge that someone else could break your heart all over again – that's the challenge.

Nipplegate

It is my personal belief that there might be more nipples on this earth than arms.

Everyone's supposed to have two. Some people have less than two arms, but rarely have more. Whereas it's pretty common for people to have a slightly higher than average nipple count. Friends logic would suggest that it's even as common as one in six of us.

So riddle me this then. Why am I not bothered if my run-of-the-mill arms are naked and out there for the world to see, but when it gets cold in a supermarket I immediately wish I was born a boy?

Did you know:

• I won't go in a supermarket without a jacket.
• I don't not wear bras in public. Ever.
• Actually, when I'm in the gym, I wear two bras.

Two. Two fucking bras. Have you ever worn a bra? Try suffocating your two favourite things in a fiddly, underwired hammock for 14 hours a day and then tell me if you'd like another one over the top, just to make sure they don't make a quick escape during some burpees.

The issue is that anyone with a breast larger than a cookie can feel instantly sexualised at the hint of a jiggle or a cool summer breeze. And believe it or not, when I'm searching for chicken fillets, I don't need anybody looking at mine.

This is the problem though isn't it. We have this male-gaze complex. By hiding any part of our body, we make it an enticing mystery, so it encourages attention, which makes us embarrassed, so we hide it further. It's an awkward sexualisation/ashamed areola shaped circle.

So campaigns like Free the Nipple aren't a joke. Women can't breastfeed their children without hiding under a blanket and profusely apologising. I can't go out in one of those lovely delicate lace bras. Women's bodies aren't normalised. Let's not forget, in certain parts of the world women still can't show their ankles.

It's not necessarily a gendered issue, men need to stop sexualising women's bodies and so do women. Women need to stop believing they are sexualised. Perhaps I need to get over myself and wear one bra to the gym. Or better yet, let's take a leaf from the beautiful breasts of Barcelona beach, where nips are embraced, and bare tits are great tits (#birdpuns).

Normalise nipples. Free the nipple. Nips for one and nips for all.

Soul m8s

Love at first sight? No way. Laughs at first conversation? Just maybe.

Getting older I've learned not to force things. I was a heavy handed child, pulled down a lot of curtain rails, wardrobe rails – I wasn't allowed too near glass. I like to push things to see if they fit. Which, once you're dating, can not only be physically painful, but an emotional waste of time

But it's not only dating, it's friendships too. Sometimes it can be a near enough instant click, a few conversations, a few laughs, a risky joke or two to test their limits – and if they pass? They're in. Solid friendship. Easy peasy.

Other times it takes a little longer, and although you're not a perfect fit, your experiences and mutual respect evolves into an almost family-like love. You could have dropped them if you were really strict about the instant click, but that click is so rare, you might be left with very few friends to choose from.

And then there's the life's-too-short (and so are you) category. When it comes to dating, some of us do require the promise of a little length, whether it's in the duration of the relationship, or the prospective partner's height. You need to be attracted to some aspects of a person to make a relationship work, and sometimes they just don't tick enough boxes.

But it's those instant clicks I'm interested in. I've always been someone to take a long time to bond to people. It's not that I don't trust people, I just don't like opening up to every Tom, Dick and Harry. Hard to get has always been my favourite game. After Words With Friends.

It's happened a few times where I've met people who I've thought "I think this is what they mean by soulmates". Charlotte asks in SATC that they can all be each other's soul mates, and guys are just people to have fun with. But some people are like songs that you hear once and think "oh my god" and you listen to over and over again for years – sugar we're going to be BFFS.

I can think of two people who have become soul mates. One lives further away than my mind finds tangible, and one I've spent less than 12 hours with in my whole life. And yet, I want to talk to them every day, would live with them given half the chance, and miss them with a passion I can't explain.

For me, soul mates are a different kind of friendship. It's someone whom you feel bound to, no matter their location, age, race, gender, fashion sense. They can see you at your emotional and physical worst, and it doesn't matter. Jogging bottoms and toilet roll or tears and travelling; with the right amount of nurturing or WhatsApping an instant click is a click for life.

A day in the life

Since I started that full-time work thang, my weekdays are comfortingly and irritably predictable.

6:45am: What is that?!

6:45:07am: Alarm. Right. Off.

6:50am: What is that!?!

6:50:04am: Alarm, right. Off.

6:55am: God, what was Miley wearing last night? Could I pull off nipple tassels? Probably, but you really need suitable cigarette trousers too.

7:03am: Still no abs.

7:10am: Mentally trying to piece together an outfit in the shower. Trying to remember what I wore yesterday. Trying to remember if it's going to be dry enough for those cute open-toed tan sandals or not.

8:10am: Not. Wet toes on the clutch.

8:22am: "I'LL PRETEND MY SHIP'S NOT, SINKINNNN'"

8:57am: Tea or coffee. Tea or coffee? Green tea... and black coffee.

10:46am:

1:45pm: Lunchtime.

The time of day I give myself to do productive tasks for myself. Like:

• book a wax
• make a few personal phonecalls, "Mum, what's for dinner?"
• browse the same section of makeup counter but never actually purchase anything
• buy snacks I'll regret as soon as I've eaten them
• wander round River Island gazing at the beautiful materials I can't afford
• nip down to Primark and buy a slightly worse-quality, worse-aesthetically version to make myself feel better
• return to work feeling worse about my calorie count, worse about my bank account, better about my daily step count.

3:06pm: 

5:50pm: Why does the gym always smell weird when you go in, but not when you come out? 

The gym must be the only place I really zone out. Headphones on, sporty men on the televisions, less sporty men in the gym. Are they rugby players today? Or perhaps it's cricket? I don't know. All I know is that I'm convinced I've contracted asthma since starting this run. Will I ever get to 5k? Actually, it'll be a miracle if I get to 3. Perhaps you're just thirsty, have a drink.

Stitch. Stitch. Ow, oh bugger, forget it, go do weights. How far did you get anyway? 2.4k?! Just call it a warm up.

Bloody hell these things are heavy. Progressive overload my arse. I'm about to progressive overload my willpower.

Why am I sweating so much? Do other girls sweat like this? If I bring a towel I'll be that weird girl who sweats so much she has to bring a towel. If I don't bring a towel I'm that really sweaty girl. Gross if I do, gross if I don't.

7pm: Thank god, it's over.

7:36pm: I feel great, I feel so great, exercise is great, I bet I could do a triathlon you know. I am a new woman. I might even have abs tomorrow.

8:01pm: I'll just have enough pasta for a small village tonight I think. A hamlet really.

8:24pm: Spontaneous trip to the supermarket for coconut oil, prosecco and the latest analysis of "what does this text mean though?"

10:18pm: Biscuits, group chats, Friends, typing about boys and #freethenipple. 

11:23pm: Tried to go to bed early. Tried to read. But Netflix.

A Roundabout Chapter Between London and Hampshire

Locations are pretty sticky topics for most people. They're often so definite. Shoutout to all of the Victorian literature nerds who get the title reference.

My mum has this video tape of me, when I was perhaps three or four years old, leaping and singing in our back garden. I was in the throngs of a Disney princess stage and Beauty and the Beast was the film that I knew I would resonate with for my entire childhood, and beyond. I'm singing the lyrics to the opening musical number:

"I want adventure in the great, wide, somewhere. I want it more than I can tell."

When you have a security in a place, like family and job, it's hard not to feel bound to your ties. Even if you begin to outgrow them.

I love Hampshire like I love my parents. I owe it everything, it is my history, my beginning, and it'll run through my veins wherever I go. But like all loves, sometimes the timing isn't right, you can outgrow them, and you can yearn for change. 

You know a relationship isn't working when you lust over something else with such a passion, you feel guilty. I'm still very much in a physical relationship with my hometown, but mentally, I'm unfaithful.

Although my body is currently lying in Hampshire, much like Jane Austen's, my heart and soul escape with every spare moment they get. Through British Vogue, Richard Curtis romcoms and friends Instagram photos, my soul gravitates towards somewhere much bigger, much louder, and far more exciting.

A city I once thought held little for me now holds everything. More friends in one place than I've ever had, the promise of opportunity and enjoyment; ultimately, a lifestyle I desire so strongly I've shed tears over it.

Meanwhile, in my more wild, fur coat buying fantasies, my imagination takes me to streets I've walked only once. The streets of Rachel Green, Carrie Bradshaw, Taza. A few years ago I was convinced I'd go. I'd make it happen somehow. I grew out of it. But it's back. Unrealistic and all encompassing. I feel about New York how I feel about my future husband. It's not a reality right now, but it will be. And I love that thought already.

Elizabeth is Missing; or just prone to the female condition

The first in a series of articles on the novels shortlisted for the 2015 Desmond Elliott Prize begins with Emma Healey's debut bestseller, the wonderfully acclaimed Elizabeth is Missing. Spoilers as always.

Praise for Emma Healey is exactly right. Like everyone says, for her to so intricately imagine, and write, from the perspective of an elderly woman with advancing dementia is incredible. And frightening.

To reach out to an audience of younger people who are increasingly frustrated and fearful of the elderly and becoming old, and make them see the other side in such a plain way is really something special. And is doubtlessly the most fascinating and important thing to take away from Elizabeth is Missing.

When it comes to plot, it isn't necessarily the most complicated but how can it be when the protagonist can't remember her own name? I regret to say that the endings are a little more predictable than I would've liked, however maybe this is intentional, there's a good chance Maud has known all along about the fate of the missing women.

Which brings me onto my next point. Missing women. Healey seems to really shine a light on female vulnerability in this novel, in so many ways. Portrayals of vulnerable youth, elderly, mental, physical, social situation.

Healey demonstrates how women are prone to physical decay, mental trauma, and even death. In fact, three women die in the novel, one presumably at the hand of her husband, one of physical health and another knocked down in the street – each death centre to the plot. Considering that women are supposed to live longer than men, this seems like a lot.

But then again, Healey presents a very female-centric world, with the main character's immediate family consisting mostly of women. Women are represented as the centre of the family, dutifully bound to look after their mothers, sisters, daughters, whether they like it or not. While the men seem to leave and live as they please, disobeying the law, migrating to other countries, dying of old age, etc. It's a world that doesn't seem fair, and yet it seems accurate – so it's hardly going to be the feel-good novel of the year.

It's not that the men are ever portrayed as evil, or the women even particularly downtrodden, it's just a saddening portrayal of the human condition. It's sad to see Maud as a young girl while the reader knows she can barely remember her identity in the present. It's sad to see Helen struggling with caring for her while still trying  – singlehandedly  – to raise a family of her own. And it's sad that this exact scenario is happening to so many families as I type.

It's easy to see why Healey's debut became a bestseller. It's relation to crime fiction, readability and portrayal of dementia is at times comic and always heartwarmingly charming. It challenges first-person narration in a topical light and for that I would recommend it to anyone having to deal with dementia – in any shape or form. So let me try and forget that this novel reinforces the vulnerability of women, because that's not the point. Right?

A woman wild

Growing up on novels with names like Housewife Down, The Playground Mafia, novels which may as well be entitled 'Domesticated', imagine my delight when I was so aptly gifted a female writer, female protagonist, true-story named Wild.

Disclaimer: this is not going to be an onslaught of feminist praise for Strayed, although I could very easily write this like that, but this will include spoilers – so if you haven't read the novel, or watched the film, proceed with caution.

The novel came into my hands by way of a friend who picked it up from a 'leave one take one' shelf in a Croatian hostel. The copy, distinctly American, sports an Oprah Book Club sticker, so by the time it reached my hands, back in a small town in England, even I felt like the book had taken its own title too seriously.

Firstly, I am cautious about addressing it as a "novel". It's been called a 'memoir' to agree with the ever-stricter genre conventions, but I'd rather call it an experience.

For the first time in a long time, I found I couldn't put a book down.

Cheryl's adventure is something anyone who's gone through a great loss, hard time, or a seriously long-ass walk, can appreciate. It's not a journey of one woman, it's the journey of anyone who's ever felt alone.

From the very beginning, and throughout the text, Strayed repeatedly returns to the concept of 'a woman alone'. She is abandoned by her father, left by her siblings, divorced by her husband and, the catalyst of it all, orphaned by her mother. She is a very literal stray. And, after being beaten down by her situation, she does everything in her power to take that appellation back.

I could write an essay on why it is important that Cheryl picks her last name. But who has time for that? The important point is that, by calling herself 'Strayed' she owns the term. It cannot be used against her, instead it defines the positive qualities of 'a woman alone'. It might not have been wholly her choice to become an orphan or a divorcee, but it was her choice to become 'Strayed'. It signifies her independence, individuality, and is more than fitting for her adventure across the country.

Which means it also counteracts any vulnerability associated with the idea of 'a woman alone', something Strayed herself struggles with at the beginning. Women are brought up believing that they're damsels in distress in even the most common of situations. We're told not to go out at night. We can't trust members of our own species. So the idea of a female – and what's more of a young female – on her own, in the wilderness, for over a hundred days, is incomprehensible.

I wouldn't say that she's not vulnerable; in fact, Strayed frequently demonstrates fear and there are a few close calls, but most of the time the dangers she's exposed to are equal for men or women. The Pacific Crest Trail doesn't care about your gender if it's going to kill you from pneumonia, or exhaustion, or by bear. She continually exceeds her fellow hikers', companions and her own expectations to gain the trail name 'Queen of the PCT'.

What's more wonderful, is Strayed's underlying commitment to writing. No matter what else changes about Strayed is the fact that she is a writer. Its evidence lies in her carefully chosen quotes from cultural figures such as Churchill, Shakespeare, Joni Mitchell, and Emily Dickinson, her reluctance to part from The Dream of a Common Language and the 'Books burned on the PCT' epilogue – a 'further reading' bibliography for the literary hiker wanting to follow Strayed's novel footsteps. Meanwhile we are reminded that when she finishes the trail, no matter what happens, she will wait tables in the evening, and write in the day.

And I wonder if, for Strayed, the journey would've never been fully complete until it was written down. As with some writers, the physical journey is just the beginning. The literary version –  amended by memory or by fictional licence – is the real journey. Some things cannot be processed as they happen, and instead, processing by way of writing is the real cathartic experience. It certainly seems that way for Strayed.

So I implore anyone who hasn't read Wild yet, don't watch the film first. It's clear from the text that this was never intended to be adapted for Hollywood, although I'm sure Strayed was chuffed to find out Reese Witherspoon was going to play her. This text really is something to be experienced one of two ways. And, I'm sure Cheryl would suggest that 300 pages are much easier to conquer than the PCT.

I'm in love with the coco(nuts)

Did you know that on average, coconuts kill around 150 people a year. Did you also know that on average, coconut oil is not known to have caused any deaths? Except the unrecorded deaths of my split ends, combination skin and yellowing teeth? I bet you didn't, huh.

My first encounter with the acclaimed coconuts was through a quest for a miracle hair growth product. Several YouTubers absolutely swore by it. So I invested in the product that's gone from strength to strength in health food shops, crazy cat lady handbags, and now, our supermarkets. Since then, it's safe to say I use it for pretty much everything.

Hair

Apparently used by the likes of Blake Lively and other beautifully-locked celebrities, using coconut oil as a hair mask is a common practice. I'll direct you to YouTube for tutorials, unfortunately you'll have to wait another day for photos of me with a cling-filmed head.

To apply the oil as a hair mask, I very haphazardly just cover my whole head in it - root to tip - clingfilm my hair to my head, and sleep in it. Yes, this is messy, uncomfortable and sometimes cold so a top tip is to pull an old t-shirt over your head and then pull it back up, so the neck of the t-shirt sits round your hairline and forms a faux-turban. Less messy, definitely warmer, still uncomfortable.

I used to do this twice a week, but after noticing no immediate growth, switched to once a fortnight or so. In fact, I haven't actually noticed it contribute to my growth at all. Which is a downer. It's why I bought it after all. But it has made it stronger, glossier and after that first wash, so soft to the touch.

It's really not a total waste of time, because the other factors do make it worth the trouble. But I do wish it would make my hair grow.
✌✌✌

Skin

If it's good enough for my hair follicles, it's good enough for my pores. Right?

After my hair-xperimentation, I decided to go the whole hog and just slap the oil right onto my face. I am blessed with combination skin, meaning that I can be spotty, oily and dry all at the same time. Skin schizophrenia means you don't have much to lose.

For ten minutes a day, I coat my face in a thin layer of coconut oil. I watch some Netflix, pack my bag for work, file my nails – do whatever menial suff I've got to do – and then wash it off with warm water and a little bit of face-wash (if I have any) or Dove soap*.

Since this process began, I have had actual compliments about how good my skin looks. Acne scars are reduced, bags under my eyes are less prominent and overall blemishes are but a fragment of what they used to be. All boxes ticked.
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Teeth

Oil pulling? I must admit I hadn't heard of this one until I was a well-faired coconut oil user. The idea is you're supposed to use the oil as a mouthwash, spooning a teaspoon in your mouth and swilling for as long as you can stand. I did read that 20 minutes is optimum, but I've never been a fan of holding anything in my mouth that long.

The swilling (or 'pulling' as it's called) is supposed to leave you with whiter, bacteria-free teeth. So far, I've not seen any noticeable improvement. But it's not a bad practice, tastes OK and I'll give anything for nicer teeth.

You can also oil pull on your nails, which I've noticed has been working – wiping over a small amount and washing off after a little while, gives you a brighter shine, and fixes a multitude of nail polish related sins.

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Food

A friend of mine cooks with nothing else, and I'm convinced I have her to thank for my shrinking waistline. As Joey says "it tastes the same and my pants fit better". What more do I need to say?

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The coconut brand I like, is friendly to my bank account, and I will continue to use is Tesco's Organic Virgin Coconut Oil. Oddly branded as a food, and found just a bit too close to the chickens. 


*People tell me I'm crazy for using soap on my face. Perhaps they're right and it's why I have combination skin. But I like it. Dove has enough moisturising qualities that both dry out the oily bits and moisturise the dry bits. And I can safely say it's one of the only beauty products I've used since birth. So I trust that bad boy. Live long and stay soapy, Dove. 

The engaged-guy always sticks twice

Did I skip the Aidan phase and go straight to the Berger phase? What is this? When did I trade emotionally unavailable for legally unavailable?!

After a big love, a first love, there is a chance that you'll have the "I will never care about another human being" thought. This will go on for an undefined period of time. It will suck.

But, when you least expect it, you'll meet someone at an event you were practically dragged to, he will add you on a social media channel of his choosing, and begin to message you.

You will fall instantly in lust with someone who truly excites you, and who you only met for five minutes. How refreshing it feels to be excited about someone new. Someone who is nice. Non-threatening. No hard sell, no 'hey baby', no tinderella.

I told my friend she'd introduced me to someone and, believe it or not, he'd passed the popcorn test – sweet or salted? – and we might be married by the time she got home. She laughed and replied, "Darling, are you joking? You know he's engaged right?"

When Carrie says it's like a bomb going off, she wasn't kidding. Trying to guard from the shrapnel is pointless because, by the time you've realised it's a bomb, you know you're going to get hurt.

Engaged. Yes. I am old enough to be interested in people who have bought very expensive pieces of jewellery with the subtext that they are off the market forever. He quickly cleared up that it was a very recent break-up – so recent not even all of his friends knew yet.

Next loop in this roller-coaster: the recent divorcee. This should have been the point where I raised my similar situation. But a quick bit of internet stalking research reveals your four months does not quite match his two weeks.

I was a rebound chat?! Ugh. I mourned the crush which would never be truly realised, and I felt awful for the girl I would never know. The woman who went from fiancé to singleton. Women in heartbreak are emotionally and cosmically attached. They belong in a field, wearing hemp, holding hands, chanting methodically to Florence and the Machine.

But this is all beside the point. Because once the marriage-air had cleared, we were back to being funny, flirty, and strictly friends.

Circa Carrie, I went to sleep safe in the knowledge that my crush could marinate until my dating hiatus was up – and maybe the ring was returned.

And circa Carrie, I woke up to a shock message. Although Carrie's post-it had more words. Nothing says "I'm sorry, I can't" more clearly than all removal and blocking from social media.

My roller-coaster came to a very unexpected halt. But, like the post-it note, it was definitive. The crush crashed. And it was probably the best outcome. Who needs to get messed up in a marriage anyway?

The good news is, I seem to have my dating appetite back. The bad news is, you've got to get through a few Bergers before you get Big.

Music Monday [28/09/15]

More female vocals, debatably 'sicker' beats. If these won't get you through a tough week, I suggest narcotics.

Mabel Know Me Better

Sometimes I listen to Huw Stephens on BBC Radio One, partly because I like his accent, partly because I'm weirdly attracted to it, and mostly because I really, really like his taste in music. I absolutely have no idea where he found this track, but since last week, I must have easily boosted its overall internet plays by a good 10% on my own.



It's got those echoey piano chords that ripple through my soul. And the lyrics are beautiful, hopeful and fearlessly vulnerable. When she sings that "there is so much more to love" I desperately hope she's referring to her yet-to-be-released music.

Currently, she only has 36 more followers than me on Twitter, but 1,051 more on SoundCloud – which I will dutifully rinse when the time comes.

Diplo & Sleepy Tom Be Right There

By now you must recognise my affinity for female vocals, feel-good lyrics, and a decent clap. Priscilla Renea's vocals have an early naughties feel about them which might make you wish you were old enough to club when the likes of BootyLuv were about.

Ultimately, I love how flexible this song is, and it's not too hardcore for first thing on a Monday morning – unlike his other recent release which is far better suited to Friday night. Set Me Free was released at the same time as Be Right There, was given a far bigger video budget* and features Liz. Who I seriously hope isn't Her Majesty HRH.

*It was sponsored by Bud Light. No I am not kidding.

Music Monday

Getting some thoughts off my chest about a couple of badass power-women's songs. What are you doing?

Rita Ora (feat. Chris Brown) 'Body on me'

Has everyone forgotten what Chris Brown did? I can't help but wince at lyrics like "Put you up against the wall". Rita, darling, you can do better.

Demi Lovato 'Cool for the Summer'

Can we please talk about the lesbian undertones in this song. Trialling sexuality because the weather's better? Why not. You go for it girl. Men sweat a lot in the summer anyway.

Ellie Goulding 'On My Mind'

EG ticks a lot of my girl crush boxes so to say I was buzzed about her new music is an understatement of ridonkulous proportions.

Let me break it down for you. When it first launched on BBC Radio 1 last week, I kept rewinding Grimmy to repeat the track. I listened to the pre-track interview enough times to mouth their inflections. Not once did I read anything into the Ed Sheeran comparison. Okay, there are some similarities about a hotel, but to condense two artist's songs down to a spat or "shade" (ugh) is detrimental to their art.

And anyway, if it is true all publicity is great publicity. Rumour fuels attention, airplay, views, ticket sales, and sales. For business reasons, they're completely inclined to keep quiet, and even play along.

Goulding's video masterpiece launched today. After her humble recording-in-a-backyard roots, she's come a long way. Horses, Las Vegas and an old Western serif typeface? Budget am I right.
 

FYI, screw copying her beauty look, this is how I'll be rocking up to work from now on:

Mobile daters

Banksy shows that going on a Tinder date isn't ever as fun as just swiping.

Digital dating: more trips and traps to fall into than ever before. And meaning that there's more to analyse. Which is difficult for a literature graduate. I analysed a glove for 10,000 words.

So when Carrie gets a message from Big on her answering machine, Miranda comes over and they analyse it together. Oh what a simple time it was. Nowadays you can forget the confusing voicemails, and trade them for contextless emojis, passive-aggressive or cryptic tweets, "last seen at" bizarre hours, and Snapchat politics - to name a few.

When it comes to dating and technology, there are all these new things we can do and worry about. It also means it can speed up the process to finding out whether they're worth precious data, or are just a wi-fi hookup.

The pre-date stalk

It does give us the option to find out a bit more about each other before the date though. Nothing comforts me more than taking the shock factor out of a blind date. However, this can backfire. My last date told me that he knew which university halls I lived I because he'd seen my old cover photos. Online stalking is accepted. Talking about online stalking is not.

Ignored: on several different platforms

Then there's the problem of actually talking online. Great for an initial ego-boost. Bad when you know they've been online and ignored you. Whether it's iMessage, WhatsApp, Facebook or something more 'specalised', the go-to way to break something off is a kind of brutality you shouldn't waste any time analysing.

Tinder terror

The ultimate taster buffet of local men. Swipe at your peril. And don't forget the danger of running into your ex on there. Big moral dilemma: swipe right and stroll back into the lions den, swipe left and pretend it never happened or (secret option number three) cry a river to throw your phone into. Thumbs up emoji.

Then come the actual horror stories. Get this, when you're ready to get engaged, and receive a phone call to tell you that your boyfriend has been "spotted" on Tinder. Active one girlfriend ago.

What's next? LinkedIn for dating? Connect with a guy your friend has friendzoned, endorse previous dates for the ability to text back within an hour, or even write a recommendation for your ex "great in bed, but far too liberal with that skill".

Maybe it would be easier to just replay a voicemail until the machine's lost its voice. But the truth is, I like being the ignorer, I'm all about swiping, and emojis are my favourite mode of communication. And it's not that social media makes your date more of a douchbag, it just means you can find out a lot sooner.

Image credit: http://bit.ly/1CFALF2

Orange is the same old same old

A potential look into the future for the out-of-work Litchfield actresses...

Spoiler alert. I will be discussing all kinds of things that happen in season three of Orange Is The New Black. If you've not finished it yet stop here or forever hold your peace/don't bitch that I ruined it for you.

'It's good to have on in the background.' Said nobody about Orange Is The New Black ever... Until season three.

I devoured the season in all of three sittings - one of which was an eight hour session. Like most I tore through it with the anticipation of drama, some saucy scenes, and some laughs of course. But not all of these expectations were met...

Backstory bitches

I feel like the only real bit of feedback from seasons one and two that the writers of OITNB heard was "How great are the backstories?!" They obviously took this, and bolted.

Don't get me wrong, some of these backstories are incredible. And make for amazing character insights. Chang, for example, was one of my favourites.

But there are so many that are left unfulfilled and cryptic. Leanne's for example is fantastic, but it doesn't give us any explicit closure as to how she actually ended up inside Litchfield. Why? Come on guys.

Too many characters spoil the show

As humans, we like being told where to focus, and told to root for someone. The problem with this series, is we're not given a 'Team Piper' or 'Team Alex', or even asked to choose between the different cliques like we were before.

Instead we're presented with so many main characters, so many mini-plots, so many little rivalries - we don't have the chance to build up a case for who we like more. So we just don't.

The expansion of backstories, and increased focus on characters which were previously categorised as secondary, means that the main plot-line has definitely taken a hit.

The plot passover

There are some real big things that happen, the big plot moments which could have really driven this series, that are completely glossed over. Dayanara's baby's birth is over within half an episode, Nikki is driven off to the Maximum security unit very unceremoniously, Piper and Alex's break up is quaintly handled, and Bennet's exit was so brief I was left thinking I'd missed an episode out entirely.

These big things happen in the main storyline that could've been made so much more out of. I want to see Daya grieiving for her child, I wanted to see Red and Morello form an alliance over Nikki's removal, I want to know what on earth got into Bennet, and I wanted to see Alex tear Piper to shreds.

But no. Apparently they all just get on with life in prison now. Good for them. But boring for TV.

Also, side note - I guarantee that next season will include a lesbian prison wedding after yesterday. Go America.

Ultimately, this show is still doing what it set out to do. It's still breaking all kinds of assumptions with a female community which is ironically defying all of the fair sex boundaries. But it's disappointing to see that the writers think that the show can continue on this alone. Without a decent plot-line, OITNB is going to lose it's credibility and permanently fall into the "it's alright to have in the background" realm of TV. A real shame for a show which is doing so much for women in terms of challenging stereotypes.

Oh and, Ruby Rose just reminds me of a young Angelina Jolie. I like her accent and I hope she's back for the next season, because she's a good actress. That's all I have to say on that.

Love's not a competition(?)

So you're doing better in your love life than your ex. Want a medal?

Why is it that when relationships break down, everything between you both is suddenly a race? It's all who can get over who first, who can get a date first, who can get laid first, ultimately, who can reach their happily ever after first.

It's like a game of anything you can do I can do better. Or anyone. Or any where.

The annoying thing is that none of the, now competitive, points were ever anything to worry about when you were together. Going on a holiday without the other? Not a problem. More friends than the other? Who cares. Better job? So what.

When you're a couple none of this stuff matters because you're competing together. You're in the 'couples only' three-legged race - singles on the bench. These hurdles include: moving in together, marriage, babies. It's a long race. And not many finish it.

At least in the singles race the only way you can go is forward. The challenges are still brutal though: who looks better post-breakup? who had the best holiday? Instagrams with the most likes win.

And the worst thing that can happen in the singles olympics is watching an ex-partner defect to the three-legged competition.

All this is happily fostered in the breeding ground of hate that is social media bragging. If it wasn't for Facebook/Snapchat/Instagram, would we even know anything about the other's life? Would we care half as much? Can you honestly say you've not scrolled through a home-feed with just a little bit of terror that you might come across a humble-brag announcing something you were not emotionally prepared to see?

As a perpetual loser in this competition I have to ask, does it really feel that good to be 'winning'? Even if you are ahead in the race, or - worse - if you've upgraded to the three-legger, does it mean you're at peace with everything? Bear in mind - you are still running.

Personally, I'm all for dropping out of the race entirely. I'm not a very good runner anyway, and if I need to keep fit, I've got emotional baggage to lift.

Anyway, here are some of Hayley Williams' dulcet tones. Kaiser Chiefs, you know the struggle.

No man's land, or, 2015.

Six months into 2015 and, so far, four breakups. Rest in peace relationships.

In school there was a new breakup every other day, but now our dating lives have reached the chronological point that they're loaded with life changing promises. Moving across the country? Marriage and babies? Putting petrol in the car? So when people break up, it's not just a boyfriend that's gone - it's your whole future.

This isn't just a quick cry in the girls loos, this a trip to the medical tent in an all out war-zone. 2015 is a minefield and we're walking through it terrified about who's going to get blown to pieces next. First a friend, then yourself, then a family member. Boom, boom, boom.

Now I know why it's called no man's land.

The worst thing is. I'm actually trying to guess which one it'll be next. I don't want to put money on it but I do have a few ideas...

Then again, is it this year? Or is it me?

Do I put out a worldwide alert? "Red warning: don't come into contact with me if you like your relationship". I feel like I need to warn all of my happily coupled friends, like this is contagious - look out kids, it could be you next!

Or is it the curse of the 'twentysomething'? Is the early twenties the time that we all cut our losses and run? Big decision time: are you in or out? It's like Dragon's Den, the money's dried up, we're turning down your investment - everyone's out.

The silver linings to this shitstorm year of a cloud: more single girls to cry with, to drink wine with, to pick you up from strangers homes at stranger hours of night, and to comfort eat McDonalds with.

So maybe 2015 isn't the year of the breakup, but the year war veterans unite, chuck down a few beers and appreciate that we survived.