Opinions are like genitals. Everyone has them, but there’s a time and a place to get them out – and I don’t want them shoved in my face, thanks. *insert frat-boy joke here*

At only twenty-three, I’ve spent the last few years being advised on things I just HAVE TO/SHOULDN’T do by the world (and his proverbial wife). ‘SACK OFF YOUR JOB AND TRAVEL THE WORLD!’ says Cosmo. ‘HAVE LOTS OF CASUAL SEX AND DON’T SETTLE DOWN UNTIL YOU’RE IN YOUR THIRTIES!’ says that girl I met in a nightclub bathroom one time. ‘MOVE TO LONDON!’ says literally everyone. Well, here’s what I’ve got to say to that…

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coat: missguided | blouse: zara | jeans: new look | shoes: missguided | clutch: love moschino at mybag | sunglasses: asos


Because I work in fashion, the general consensus seems to be that if you don’t move to London, you’re in serious trouble. However, London and I just don’t get on: I love it for a weekend away, or an impromptu shopping trip, but if I lived there? I think I’d legit go mad. Public transport and I just don’t mix (I cannot get my head around a tube map, however hard I try), and I get VERY STRESSED WHEN I’M RUSHED, so it’s not looking great really, is it?


I went to university the final year before the fees tripled, so there was no question as to whether I’d do a gap yah or not – it just wasn’t an option, unless I wanted a shedload-more of debt. And my shoe addiction kind of does that for me.

Some of my friends jet-setted off into warmer climes, and spent years building mud-huts and working in bars in Sydney and getting tanned, and it all looked super cool. After Uni, some of my other friends took six months out to travel, partying in Thailand and climbing mountains and seeing cathedrals. And that, too, looked amazing.

However – it’s just not for me. I’m going to hold my hands up here: travelling is just not something that tickles my pickle. I love beaches and hot weather and getting drunk on watered-down Pina Coladas at 11am, but a two-week holiday lounging by a pool in Spain fills my travel-quota for the year. The faff of organising a jaunt away – paired with the small fortune to ensure you’ve booked a window seat on your RyanAir plane – so doesn’t appeal to me; I’d rather buy a fabulous handbag and spend a week sorting out my life admin. And, as much as many would disagree: this doesn’t make me a loser. Mmmmkay?


I. AM. SICK. OF. BEING. TOLD. TO. LOVE. MY. BODY. I am sick of people pretending there is zero reason for  you to ever feel like you’re not at your best. Because, show of hands here: who actually feels great 24/7 about the way they look? If you do, that’s great, and I so wish I could one day acheive that level of contentment: but, if you don’t, that’s okay too.

The pressure to LOVE YOURSELF is overwhelming, and it can even be seen as a negative if you dare to criticise your own body. Listen, lads: if there’s something I’ve got a problem with regarding my own flesh and blood, I’m making no excuses for moaning about it til the cows come home. If you want to embrace your bod, that’s brill, but I’m going to have a quick whine about my cellulite. #sorrynotsorry.


I suffer from a very serious case of resting bitch face, and I am SO FED UP of people thinking they’re hilarious for telling me to smile. ‘Cheer up, it may never happen!’ – it has, you’re talking to me. GTFO.

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Mum, if you’re reading, now’s probably the time to skip down a few paragraphs. Okay?

You’re told that, in your twenties, settling down is not the top priority: in some cases, sexual freedom is even encouraged. Doing the no-pants-dance with a different Tom, Dick (ooher) and Harry every night seen to be the norm over moving in with a boyfriend, or buying a house with your girlfriend, or adopting a bozz-eyed cat from the RSPCA together, and people who prefer to do this can often be seen as BORING. (You know the drill: Jessica gets a boyfriend, and prefers staying in over drinking Jagerbombs in the local Spoons, and now you’re down a wingman and pissed off. We’ve all been there.)

However, I got all of that nonsense out of my system at Uni: these days, I dream of owning a house and buying a cat and getting married – that’s the stuff that gets me excited (not the adrenaline rush of narrowly missing out on a strain of chlyamydia). I’ll still wingman you, though…

almost couture - manchester fashion blog



4 thoughts on “STOP TELLING ME TO…

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