‘Life is a rollercoaster,’ sang Ronan Keating in the year 2000, and while my days may be more like riding the teacup ride, last week was filled with some unexpected twists and turns.
I’m on a date and he breaks the fourth wall by referring to it as a date. This doesn’t feel like a date. A date is something more than what this is. This is a meeting with a stranger off the internet to see if we vibe.
He confesses he’s googled me and looks uncomfortable about it. ‘You write about personal things,’ he says shifting in his seat.
I choose not to ask him what he did see during his Google search. I’m relieved that my latest articles about being single and lonely on long weekends and changing dating apps and now hot guys are throwing themselves at me are behind a paywall. Neither of those would have been good for him to read.
I put those articles behind a paywall because I didn’t want people to read them, but then I was upset that people didn’t pay.
The problem with launching paid newsletters is it can make you feel bad about your writing. I question my value. If people don’t want to pay £4 for work that takes days of your time, then maybe it’s not worth doing. I dealt with this crisis when I asked Why Am I Not Famous? I’m going to keep writing whether people care about it or not. Do these feelings of inadequacy ever go away when you’re on the creative path?
I get some of the bad bits of fame without much of the good. I get creepy messages on social media which can be relentless. My date who googled me now seems to be scared of me because of the types of icky, taboo subjects I write about. Being on social media, being prolific, producing content is a chore. I can see why I often freeze and just…don’t.
I’ve spent six months trying to do a handstand. It’s been a struggle because my brain is an anxious place and doesn’t want to go upside down. In class, I finally do a kick-up to the wall and then hang upside down for a while. It feels great.
My classmates cheer me on and it means a lot because it’s taken me so long to get here. Some people come to class and can handstand the first time, but that’s not me.
When people ask me why I’m doing a handstands class, I can’t articulate why. Perhaps when life is spiralling in uncertainty, it’s nice to focus on something physical.
It may be harder for me than others, but if I work hard and commit, I will eventually be able to go upside down. I also hope that by overcoming my fear of going upside down that will trickle into other parts of my life. Because everything, everything comes back to fear. Fear is often what holds us back from true happiness.
The glow of achievement after handstand class is dampened when a date texts to ask: ‘What should we do tomorrow?’ The passiveness of this riles me. My head is down as I walk along the street texting my friend about this. She points out that this is a guy who every evening would ask: ‘What’s for dinner?’
‘Hello,’ says a familiar voice. I look up from my phone and jump in shock. It’s my ex. He walks off again before I have a moment to take it all in. I wouldn’t have seen him, he could have kept walking. He loves being a ghost and reminding me that he’s there.
I forgive Hackney for feeling too small when an attractive man asks if that’s my bike as I get to where it’s locked. I hope my ex will turn around but he’s disappeared among the Broadway Market summer evening revellers.
The man is talking to me because he’s the victim of a crime. He tells me thieves have tied a bike to his so he has to leave it overnight and they can come back and steal it when the streets are less busy. I hadn’t heard of this tactic before. It seems like a lot of effort for what looks like an average bike, but I don’t tell him that. My bike isn’t worth much, but I’d also be devastated to lose it. The man says the police won’t do anything.
Your bike and phone will inevitably get stolen if you live in London and I’m not sure why we accept it. I read that because they now sell unlocked phones to financial fraudsters, the phone-stealing business has become more valuable for criminal gangs than the drug trade.
I’m addicted to reading about local crime on the neighbourhood forum app, NextDoor. I open every email they send me and click through to watch all the videos made on doorbell cameras of criminals stealing things. I read the mad, fiery comments on all posts and those people scare me more than the thieves.
I’m now extra-terrified that my bike will be stolen. I’ve had it for over ten years. I beg a members’ club to let me bring it in (a service for members only). They let me as a one-off.
Sunny weather makes all the difference as I sit on a rooftop at the club on a Monday afternoon and catch up with a friend.
On summer days, my routine falls out of the window. I’ve stopped using my day planner. I block out time for things on my Google calendar, which I largely ignore.
Summer means:
Bad phone habits
Wanting to be outside all the time
Alcohol every night
Spending too much money
Throwing expired vegetables out of the fridge
And that smoking is a habit that creeps up on you
I find it hard to work when it’s sunny outside because I want to be in the sun, but the rain and gloomy weather make me not in the mood to work either.
My Monday afternoon on a sunny rooftop was a spontaneous plan. These are my favourite kind of plans. The sun is out, we’re in the mood to meet.
Scheduling is a nightmare for me at the moment. Everyone wants to see me when I’m not free and they don’t want to see me when I am. I have bursts of my diary being too busy and then too empty. I’ve struggled to find an evening when my sister and I are both free.
On Sunday, my sister rings me as she’s in town with time to kill. ‘I was about to head into town with time to kill,’ I say. I jump on the Elizabeth Line and I’m with her in less than 30 minutes: it turns out this is the way for two busy people to catch each other and it was just luck that she’d called for a chat. We wander around Soho and get ice cream. I just wrote about the joy of doing nothing with friends and here we are, doing nothing.
I’ve sat in the sun so much that my skin is two shades darker. I want a new foundation for my date. Anna and I make a last-minute plan to meet at Selfridges, London to visit the make-up counters.
I’ve written before about the Westman Atelier foundation but the woman in the store tells me to try the liquid drops and… oh my. My skin was in the middle of an allergic reaction and all signs of it had disappeared under dewy goodness. My face has gone back in time. I believe I look 24.
Anna encourages me to wait and walk around with a make-up item instead of my impulse to buy it immediately. This wisdom saves me £36 on a lipstick mistake that doesn’t last well as we walk around the shop. Instead, we discover an amazing lip gloss by Lisa Eldridge. I buy a bright pink colour and now I want more.
The lip gloss lasts well throughout the evening of my date. I can’t say that for my energy levels as I get increasingly depleted and need to go home after an awkward goodbye.
‘Today we found a good lip gloss and a good lip gloss is harder to find than a man, to be honest,’ Anna messages after my date de-brief.
Men on apps keep offering to cook for me. I must give off a vibe that I love food. I do love food. One man offers to bring knives to my house to cook, which I politely decline. Dating feels like another job: I have to be flirty and breezy, while on high alert and mindful of safety. Knives guy gets weird. I tell him I’m looking for long-term commitment to scare him away. It works.
I went to see a writer I admire who published an edited version of her journals that were honest about how her thoughts are often preoccupied with men. I worry that I think too much about men and it means I have a small and trivial brain. The writer says that maybe the desire for love is one of the greatest human needs.
Questions on the audience ask her for advice even though she’s made it clear she doesn’t like to give it. She says to succeed as a writer, work harder than everyone else. Earlier she said that writing should be fun and just write when you feel like it. I like the idea of having fun more than working hard.
The writer has had some bad reviews. The writer breezily says that if critics hate your work, then maybe you’re on to something. That maybe you’re breaking the rules of playing a game they don’t understand.
I decided I’d like a bad review so I can be as cool about it. Although, from a real critic, not those GoodReads people. They are not my audience. I don’t want to go to the pub with them.
The writer says that the ending of a piece of writing is important and it’s the job of the writer to have the whole story build up to it. I don’t know my ending, except it’s been a week of unpredictable moments and contradictions that somehow make sense.
More from Tough Love:
I love how this reads… like a walk and a hang with friends while doing nothing… but everything. How do people live with linear brains? Mine pings and bops all over the place all the time, exhausting everyone around me and I love how this reads…
Also, why are we happier to fins a good beauty product than a man?
First date(s) shouldn't be called a date. It's tasting the water. It's confirming whether they look like the pictures. It's making sure the chances of them being a kitten kill*r to be at 0. It's a gut feeling moment.