I took myself on a date last week, and quite frankly, I want a refund.

Everywhere I look, I see women championing solo dates, telling me not to miss out on coupley experiences just because I’m single and urging me to simply GET OUT THERE and date myself.

So I did.

In my head, there was something so Carrie Bradshaw about it.

After testing the waters on the group chat about going to see the new Housemaid movie and getting a wishy-washy response, I had what the internet promised, was my empowering activity. I was going to lose myself in a movie, turn my phone off for two hours and spend some quality time with myself and good snacks.

There are a few basic rules to follow on a date. Don’t talk about yourself endlessly, don’t mention that you want to hit your ex with a car, don’t send a nude because it’s fun when you go to the bathroom, and never ever get messy drunk. All very easy to do when you date yourself, I’m happy to report. Check check check.

But something felt off.

The sense of unease began as I booked a singular cinema ticket. It felt so final. Was I really going to go and watch a movie alone? It felt sinister.

Places I would have felt less dodgy driving to.

A tattoo parlour

A strip club

A crack house

Prison.

Driving myself to a solo date was like an out-of-body experience and came with a twang of shame, like any activity that you would hide from others. Like going alone to a casino or an AA meeting. Ordering a full red velvet cake to your door, answering a U UP text from situationship no 3 at 2 am, asking for a breakfast Cava in Spain at 8 am.

I was suddenly convinced that if I was capable of doing this alone without telling anyone, what if I started doing stranger things, and this was the first step in a long string of serious, prison-worthy offences?

Suddenly convinced that I was on the verge of starting a cult, joining one, turning to hard drugs or worse, developing an insatiable taste for crochet. This is because work is quiet, I thought, you’ve left society, and now you do weird things during the day. Isn’t this how every Catfish documentary starts?

I texted my friend to tell her I was going on a solo date, so I didn’t feel so shady.

Her reply just said:

Who are you really with? A hinge date?

Reminding myself I was only going to the local Odeon and not the happy ending Thai massage parlour, I parked my car and went straight to the bar for an emotional support prosecco and a pizza slice, failing to see the little box where you need to type in your car number plate.

The cinema had four other people in it, and not one of them was dating themselves despite Instagram gaslighting me into thinking this was how everyone was spending their days. This is fine, I chanted with every step as I gaslit myself into thinking I was having a great time with a force I usually save for the gym or any form of jeans shopping IRL.

I chose a seat in the back row. Somewhere in the middle of the first advert after the lights went down, a man who was about 11 feet tall and 11 feet wide stood up, and I suddenly realised with a start that in an empty cinema I was boxed in alone with no exit by a gladiator-sized man wielding a Coke.

As he rose to his feet, my knee-jerk reaction was to immediately stand up and sit back down, which in hindsight must have made me look insane. We did this dance every time he got up to go to the toilet like an unhinged game of stand-up, sit-down bingo. I sat for the duration of the film with a glass of prosecco in my left hand and my house key as a makeshift weapon in my right.

Relaxing.

I cursed every female influencer who had ever told me to date myself and the Odeon for not putting a panic button in for solo female cinema goers, or at least a break in an emergency bottle of bubbles or a Marlboro Light. By the time the film started, I’d already produced, branded, directed and starred in a female safety campaign in my head for women who wanted to date themselves.

If I wasn’t already having a mental breakdown, I was sure that two hours of this would bring one on. As I tried to reassure myself that if the man at the other end of the row tried anything, I could simply jump the rows, I was immediately humbled by my sprained ankle housed in its compression sock. I turned the seat to the highest elevated level in defiance. If I’m going to die, I’m not doing it with puffy ankles.

My prosecco and pizza were stress snaffled before the film had even begun, and I was instantly bored out of my mind and scrolling on Instagram while the ads still rolled. I realised this was the first and last time I would ever date myself. I asked myself what I thought I was ever going to get out of this. Part of me thought I might see a cute stranger, airdrop my number, and the rest would be history. Part of me thought even if it went badly, it would make a great story.

The funny thing was, I found I’d been dating myself the whole time without realising.

Taking myself to the spa for massages, booking myself a reiki session, tucking myself into bed with a glass of champagne (silk eye mask on the side), buying myself flowers, giving myself a little compliment (and a medal) for washing my own hair, surprising myself with a new pair of sunglasses, and just making sure I felt loved, valued and cherished at all times.

I’m the type of person who will flirt with everyone and everything I meet, but when I really fancy someone and intentionally want to flirt, I will become Seth Rogan levels of awkward and shout something unhinged like ‘shall we kiss?’ and totally ruin the vibe. Dating myself intentionally was exactly the same!

My advice is, if you want to try dating yourself literally, go big. Way bigger than I went. Hire a yacht, take yourself for a macaroon in Paris, eat pizza in Italy, not your local movie house and rent a jet while you’re at it.

The parking ticket I got two weeks later was another sign from the universe to never date myself again.

Check on your single friends. We are not ok.

Not to be dramatic, but there has been a direct attack on my personal brand. Please respect my privacy as I navigate these extremely challenging circumstances.

As a woman, life is 70% admin, 20% beauty olympics, 8% trying to find clean knickers and 2% frolicking in Chanel.

Being an adult often means doing a whole load of tasks every day on repeat that you know will need doing again in a hot second. So when we find a foundation that we love, we can box that job and feel satisfied that we will never have to attempt the extreme Olympic sport of finding the right shade and texture liquid foundation for our face ever again.

My beauty schedule runs like clockwork: nails, toes, lashes, hair, brows, facial, massage, reiki and a quarterly tarot reading thrown in for good measure. But none of this matters if I can’t put my foundation on my face in the morning. And putting on a backup foundation will only lead to me going about the day with a level of rage I usually reserve for people who say things like ‘Oh, I probably won’t get a dessert.’

Let me tell you. You simply don’t know fear until you’re scraping the very last drop of your staple Chanel foundation, armed with hope and a singular Q-tip, with no legal way to source another bottle.

Que a crise de panique.

Life as you know it has changed overnight, and you wonder if you should use, save or freeze the last drop in the hopes they will invent a way to clone it in 20 years’ time.

You know how, when you are financially fighting for your life, all of your makeup runs out at the exact same time?

Spoiler alert: It’s because you bought it all at the same time, because it ran out at the same time.

Well, this is like that, but worse, because when I went willingly to hand over my fifty-two English pounds to replace my holy grail foundation, I was met with the most offensive D word in the dictionary.

Discontinued.

Excuuuuuuuuse me?

I am bereft.

I have worn the exact same brand and shade of foundation since I was 18. Yes, I might have cheated a few times, depending on what Sienna Miller is wearing this week, but like the fuck boy in your DMs, I come back every time. Chanel beauty is my most stable relationship to date. Being left on read when I’ve sacrifed 80% of my hard-earned salary hurts.

I got married wearing Chanel foundation, I got divorced wearing Chanel foundation, I gave birth wearing Chanel foundation, and I planned to be buried in it.

This post is for every woman who is currently scouring eBay for Chanel Vitalumiere foundation in shade 40 Beige or 50 Natural. Instead of sending drunk texts, I’m triple-messaging Vinted sellers to see if the tester they have listed for £120 is still available. I’ve turned to Google looking for a Chanel black market foundation Facebook group and have spent hours researching dupes. All of which I’ve tried and written off.

I cannot comprehend how I am supposed to adapt to this severe level of change in my 40s. I have a strict capsule beauty lineup. Chanel base, Dior eyes, Nars cheeks and a Kiko lip. There’s a system, and it works. I would say this is going to directly affect my dating life, but that would suggest there has been any dating this year.

For those who haven’t registered this as a full-scale crisis yet: Let me explain:

Things you can do with Chanel foundation on your face:

• Get away with anything

• Flirt with single dads

• Lure unsuspecting men into bed and still look good the morning after

• Look flawless for 8 hours even after 8 spicy margs

• Charm a cop - I’m sorry, officer *flutters lashes* etc

• Dance around in compliments as they are showered on you like confetti

• Look good on your wedding day

• See free drinks materialise like magic

• Get on a yacht

• Look immaculate after 8 hours of labour and some minor forcep drama

• Be a cougar

Things you can’t do without Chanel foundation:

• Lure unsuspecting men into bed

• Get away with murder

• Flirt with anyone

• Put foundation on your face

• Use facial recognition or do digital banking (Hello HSBC)

• Avoid your natural skin texture

Suffering from SFL? (Sudden foundation loss)

Head to my subscriber chat to join my SOS Chanel beauty grief support group. Or email: myfacelooksscary@prettyprivilege.com

PS: Full disclosure: I know that when you are ghosted, you are supposed to go no contact, but I accidentally fell into Chanel in Milan last week, forgot I was mad and came out with a new pair of shoes. Don’t judge me until you’ve walked a mile in my two-tone flats. I also need pretty shoes to distract from my bare face. See also reward for sprained ankle (s).

Race you to CC rehab! First one there gets a flap bag! JOKING. Chanel and I are on a break.

Sponsored post: Besties, if you have been a victim of a foundation recall, there’s a super simple way to get your perfect shade match with no hysterics. Join the group chat to be the first to discover shade match heaven. MYRRAR, which uses advanced AI to analyse your unique facial features, provides tailored product recommendations and guidance. No more menty b’s at the makeup counter. You’re welcome!

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Days in Vegas: 3

Boys kissed: 405

Girls kissed: 2

Husbands found: 0

Threesome Invites: 3

Threesomes attended: 0

Dress casualties: 1

Gigalos: 1

Rollercoasters: 1

Runaway bagels: 1

The way I feel the depression (and all common sense) leaving my body whenever I enter the state of Nevada.

Fun fact. I have a holiday alter ego. Let’s call her Helena.

Helena appears the moment I’ve cleared passport control, activated by no less than 7 pre-flight mimosas. The second she enters duty free, she has more money than Lisa Vanderpump, and Chanel makeup is her birthright.

She won’t queue, she won’t fly coach, she gatecrashes VIP with no invite, and only takes Limos to get from A (Aria) to B (Bellagio). She’s pushy, but it does have its perks. She’s the CEO of the complaint letter, which is how we found ourselves checking into the Bellagio spa for £1500 worth of free treatments.

Unlike Helena, the UK version of me is low-key; she gets her steps in, she does the school run sober, but more importantly, she gets her nine hours of beauty sleep. She Gua-shas her face religiously after her 10-step skincare routine and never steps out without SPF. No carbs after 5 pm. Bath, book, bed. In that order.

I’m an introvert. My circle is small. On British soil, I have no situationships, no drama, just peace and harmony and the odd complex crochet project. Helena is an extrovert, she leaves Las Vegas with no less than five new boyfriends, one annulled marriage and a new best friend she found in the strip club.

Question. Are you even having fun if your first night in Vegas doesn’t end with having your dress safety pinned back onto your body by six strippers before chasing a bagel through the halls of The Aria, via one Magic Mike gig after accidentally dining next to Michael Jordan?

Let me start at the beginning.

Helena and I are like night and day, but Vegas is our spirit animal.

The minute she lands, she forgets we’re 40, she forgets we’re a mum, she forgets I sprained both our ankles, and she forgets we need sleep. Helena is nocturnal. She can also drink me under the table. Her signature drink is spiced rum and Coke. HEAVY on the rum.

Worst of all, she uses FACEWIPES.

In the daytime, we get along, we like to spa, go to pool parties, and we like to drink breakfast wine.

After dark, Helena goes rogue.

Powered by 85 espresso martinis and the love of her own reflection, she flirts her way down the Vegas strip, throwing dollars we can’t afford around like confetti. She thrives on a 90/10 fun-to-sleep ratio, and not even a wardrobe malfunction can stand in her way.

The night started like any Vegas night. Full glam in the room, a fancy cocktail at the Cosmopolitan bar, pre-game pizza slice at The Aria. Helena’s chatty, so of course, we make four new friends at the bar. Our new friends invite us to a club off the strip, and we say yes. As I hop in the limo with the new friends we made, I hear a rip and look down to see the whole side of my dress gaping open.

My friend glances at it and matter-of-factly tells me to simply ‘put my bag over it.’

So that’s exactly what I do.

Luckily for me, our new friends (whom I still follow on Instagram) were going to a club where girls wore no clothes, so I didn’t need to worry about not being let in. But it’s not lost on me that somehow I’m the most naked woman in the strip club.

20 dollars can get you a whole lot of naked in Vegas, but it can also get you three very well-placed safety pins and a piece of tit tape. As I was trying to zip my broken dress back up by myself in the toilets, a beautiful girl wearing full suspenders and a lace bra with six-inch heels approached.

Being British, I struggled on in silence. She pulled a safety pin out of god knows where and began to put my dress back together. She shouted for backup and a sewing kit.

‘We need a bigger safety pin.’

Another girl arrived wearing a neon one-piece holding a speaker blasting gangster rap, and handed the girl a needle and thread.

‘We need more thread’

A third girl appeared with a vodka shot for us all and some tape. You haven’t been humbled until you’ve had your back fat artfully folded back into your dress and taped in place by six strippers with fire bodies all singing Fetty Wap. But have you even lived if you haven’t?

Do you want some lashes too? A stunning redhead asked.

Helena did.

And just like that, I had a brand new dress, a fresh set of false lashes and five new best friends. I wonder if this is what it feels like to join a sorority or a really fun cult?

Dress intact, my best friend and I hauled ass to our dinner reservation at Catch at The Aria, where we sat at the next table to Michael Jordan and about 600 women who were all trying to date him. We stared a lot and got shouted at by security for trying to take a picture. Delighted with how the night had turned out, we sashayed our way to a VIP table at the Chainsmokers concert, supported by Tyga, who, I swear, looked me dead in the eye.

It turns out that stripper tit tape is no match for a three-course meal. The night ended with me trying to hold up my dress that had burst open after dinner while trying to eat a post-Magic Mike bagel that I dropped 506 times in the hallway. I recruited a male gigolo (see bloopers) we found in the corridor to carry my food and drinks back to the room.

Gravely hungover but without missing a beat, the next day, Helena hit the strip in search of our second husband, armed with a footlong daiquiri and a t-shirt saying as much.

God bless Helena.

Outrageous things Helena did in Vegas that I would never do:

• Put Baileys in her morning coffee

• Gambled before 8 am

• Wore a t-shirt with a QR code on that said Looking for Husband no 2 (see blooper reel)

• Went to a strip club wearing fewer clothes than the strippers

• Befriended a gigalo (see blooper reel)

• Paid for a limo (see blooper reel)

• Rode the Stratosphere Rollercoaster

• Got on stage at Magic Mike (see blooper reel)

Helena, I love you, but we’ve got a crochet project to complete back in the UK.

Now for the blooper reel:

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Since becoming single, I’ve naturally leaned in to being a Yes girl. You’ve all probably read the Power of Yes and flirted with the idea of accepting every invite and opportunity in the hopes of levelling up a little career-wise or casually meeting the love of your life.

So, when a dinner invite landed on my lap from a new friend I barely knew to have drinks with three girls she barely knew, I, of course, said yes. What could go wrong? It helped that the venue was one of the most exclusive hotels in the county.

I’m a Gemini. My superpower is being able to fit in anywhere from a Slipknot Concert to a Royal wedding. I can flirt talk to anyone about anything, so socially I am a delight. My Mum taught me a valuable piece of advice when I was younger. Walk into every room like you own the place. So I did, and I still do. Feeling like you belong in any environment is a powerful skill and one that has got me into many an adventure.

I learned a lot of things on this particular evening. I learned that when you combine four beautiful women with 80 Pornstar martinis, you will have the time of your life. I learned that 79 pornstar martinis is my limit. Lastly, I learned that if you dress in black and don’t wear heels to a restaurant, people will think you are a waitress and ask you for more water for the table. And you will pour it for them because you are toxic.

I laugh this off because, honestly, it happens to me so much, especially in Zara. I don’t know if it’s because I’m naturally quite helpful, so people assume I work for the place, or if it’s a reflection of my fashion sense (or lack of).

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We were a mixed bunch. One of us was rebuilding after her husband up and left before her c-section healed, one was rebuilding after leaving a man and dating a woman, one was rebuilding after a stay in rehab, and one was slap bang in the middle of a high-profile divorce. But at this table, we were anonymous, we listened, and we didn’t judge. All of us had children, all of us had lost something. All of us were bored AF.

The conversation flitted from what facial we all needed to what dating app we had tried. One was worried she was being left behind, one was worried she was on the wrong path, and we all worried we had no idea what we were doing. But we all decided we were doing our best.

For one, recovery looked like new boobs and a Porsche; for another, it was a pilot’s licence and a law degree. Me? For me, it was saying yes to a tour of the closed underground nightclub and kissing the waiter in the grounds, feeling like a slightly pissed version of Cinderella.

For all of us, recovery was a Girl dinner. Fries, Caesar salad and countless dirty martinis. One of us left with a champagne bucket as a souvenir but forgot it was there and was sick in a friend’s Chanel bag, one of us left with a branded, stolen cashmere blanket as a souvenir, one of us left with good vibes and a situationship, and one of us left with her dignity and pride. Lucky her.

I have since been back to this establishment with my daughter and been met with many a raised eyebrow.

Were we outrageous? Yes.

Do I care?

Not at all.

My advice to anyone feeling lost, make a new friend and go get some girl dinner.

Great gifts not pictured above. Energy (Supplements). Youth (Botox and red light therapy). Mental stability (Therapist). Relaxation (spa day). A Porsche.

On a scale from cold hard cash to Ritz Carlton Yacht, how ready are you for Valentine’s Day? Fear not, the delulu gift guide is here. Girls, bookmark it, print it, restack it and send it to your boyfriends/girlfriends/lovers/sugar daddies. Men, if you’re reading this, print it, laminate it and let it live rent-free in your head.

So, we’ve all heard of the hot crazy matrix (created by men for men), which maps a girl’s hotness level against her crazy level. Naturally, I rank very high on the crazy to hot scale, so I’ve created a gifting system to cater directly for us girls in the danger zone. The redheads, the Geminis, the Hooters Girls, the red flags, the single mums and anyone named after a US state or alcoholic tipple. Dakota, Candy, Brandy, Crystal, Remy, Montana, I see you, and I salute you.

If you’re dating a girl who is a 5-8 on the hot scale but below the crazy line, you’re dating in the fun zone, and you can choose any normal gift pictured and even go off piste and favour charm or wit over a material gift. Easy street.

Obviously, no generic petrol station flowers, socks, mundane chocolates, bad sexts and worse, practical gifts.

But what should you buy for girls who are above an 8 hot and an 8 crazy?

Buckle up.

We want to look thinner, younger and richer in that order.

We want to cry less, and we want to sparkle more.

We’re talking diamonds, Augustinus Bader skincare, your cash on a Net A Porter voucher so we can buy youthful potions with wild abandon, your cash inside a love letter or kisses engraved on a Cartier love bracelet that we might return for… you’ve guessed it, your cash. Can you say gift receipt? SAY IT LOUDER FOR THOSE AT THE BACK.

We are lawless, so we want our parking fines paid, our credit cards cleared, and our speeding points erased. We want your credit card, too. We want money on account at our favourite bar so we can always be tipsy, our laser clinic so we can be silky seals, and please fill up our petrol tanks because we’re riding on 1%.

Champagne is always welcome, but add an unexpected element to it so it doesn’t get an eye roll. Personalise it with our Substack name or, better yet, a quote from one of our Substack posts! Pair it with a visit to a very exclusive vineyard or create a vineyard in our honour.

Wouldn’t Curiously Delulu look stunning on a Rosè label?

*Single mums are in a crazy hot category of their own. 11 hot/11 crazy. We want sex, but need to be powered by caffeine to have it. A Porsche coffee machine is the only way to get us into bed. Don’t forget the beans.

We probably don’t have clean knickers, so leave sexy lingerie on our doorstep. We like La Perla and Kiki De Montparnasse.

We are available February 14th 3.10 pm until 3.13 pm, and this will need to be booked 4 weeks in advance. Our love language is acts of service. Don’t leave until you’ve assembled any flatpack items.

I think I’ve covered all bases.

And what do I want for Valentine’s?

I want a fully stocked red retro fridge to arrive on my doorstep filled with Ruinart champagne and Augustinus Bader sheet masks. Plus 100 red roses to match. Duh.

See also: Go back in time and unsprain my ankle. Water that tastes like champagne. Red velvet cake with no calories. Someone to invent a way to tattoo my favourite fake tan on my body, plus a lash lift that lasts forever. A press for champagne button that actually works.

Oh, and all of you to upgrade to paid subscriptions. FLUTTERS LASHES

So nothing too wild.

Remember. It’s the thought that counts, and in this gift guide, thoughts are code for YSL.

Sidenote: This is not real gifting advice, but rumour has it the hot crazy matrix was inspired by me.

We all know that vacations are meant for drinking pina coladas and kissing boys you’ll never see again with wild abandon, and I never ever pack gym kit.

This is how I ended up running beside my bestie in Dubai, armed only with vibes and a borrowed neon Lululemon tennis skirt. Note to self. Don’t travel in trainers; people will try to make you exercise in them, and you will say yes.

There are two types of people in this world.

Those who look chic in the sun and those who do not.

I’m a shade girlie.

It was 42 degrees, and unlike my bestie, who is a personal trainer, fully acclimatised to Dubai heat, perfectly tanned, and who can pull off a cap like an off-duty supermodel, I was beetroot red with questionable fake tan, double Ds sandwiched into her spare sports bra, giving classic Amy Schumer vibes.

It’s the taking part that counts, I chanted as I almost lost a limb trying to fit into a size 8 tennis skirt.

I left my phone at the house because I had no pockets and didn’t want anything to slow me down. (Har de har ha).

After 1k, I started to regret my life choices. The air had no air in it, and every step felt like running through treacle. I told my bestie to run ahead, and I’d walk until she met me on her route back.

It took me about 3 minutes to realise that I couldn’t actually stand in the direct sun without my skin blistering, and I hadn’t brought any extra SPF. Maybe I’d go back to the house.

Panicked, I realised I had no recollection of her address or how to get there because I had arrived in the dark the night before after approximately 16 wines on the flight. (God bless the free business class bar).

Even stranger, all of the road names were different here, and instead of blah blah blah street, they said District X, Y and Z.

I was sure there was shade when we set off.

Too scared to ask for directions and not even sure how I would ask for directions to an unknown address, I reached for my imaginary phone to send an SOS to my friend. Who must be on her way back soon, I rationalised.

No phone.

Running under the radar in Dubai isn’t a thing for a blonde girl with double ds. It’s too hot for leggings and long sleeves. The roads were teaming with construction workers with power tools, and I felt like an extra in the Benni Bennasi music video, which I would have enjoyed if I didn’t feel like death was imminent. I wished I’d brought some music.

I contemplated asking a construction worker if they knew a Sam who lived nearby, but lost my nerve. Two minutes felt like an hour. I fixed my gaze on the horizon, waiting and praying to see the neon twinkle that would indicate a Sweaty Betty tennis skirt heading in my direction. It never came.

I imagined running down the street shouting my best friend’s name at anyone who would listen, but my last shred of dignity told me my friend would be back any minute. But with no watch or phone, I couldn’t tell if I’d been standing still for an hour or five minutes.

Somewhere between District E and L, I cursed Lululemon for not putting trackers in their sports bras like that fancy skiwear that lets everyone know your location in a snowstorm. I made a mental note to email the founder if I ever saw my phone again to let them know there is a market for trackable gym gear for over-adventurous vacationers.

I reached for my professional water vest and squirted ice-cold water directly down my top and instantly regretted it as my top went sheer, and I saw 5 more men appear out of the nearest manhole like giddy meercats.

The ice-cold water felt ice-cold for only 2 seconds before it felt hot again. More panic.

I imagined hitting the men who popped up out of the manhole covers over the head with a giant foam mallet like a game of whack-a-mole, and then let out an unhinged laugh that could only indicate severe heat stroke was setting in. This must be what it feels like to go insane.

I wondered if I was going to die of heat exhaustion, dehydration or sheer embarrassment of not being able to retain a street address.

Frantically, I found the only sliver of shade in Dubai. A thin and well-manicured tree cast a pencil-thin sliver of shade against a wall, and I contorted my limbs to match the exact shape. Standing like a praying mantis in broad daylight, I berated myself for not putting a snack in my socks.

I hoped that if I fainted, I would faint in a flattering shape and not be found with one tit hanging out of my Lululemon sports bra. I hoped my best friend would find me before the men in the manhole did, and I disappeared under the streets of Dubai forever.

I could imagine the headline. Beetroot red blonde woman, last seen wearing a neon gym kit, muttering about Lululemon alongside a photo immortalising me looking the worst I have ever looked.

I thought about my daughter and how she would have to grow up without her mum because, at the wise old age of 40, I decided I could run in 42-degree heat in a city I had never visited, with no way to communicate with anyone.

Tearful, I missed the times when my biggest problem was feeling like Mrs Trunchbull in a tennis skirt.

After 645 hours, I saw a flash of tanned limbs sprinting at super speed, and my bestie ran towards me with barely a bead of sweat to show for her run. Worried it was a hallucination, I clung to my sliver of shade.

I thought I’d do 10k! She said.

I collapsed into her arms like someone who had been thrown a lifeline after 7 days in the desert. Apparently, she had been gone only 37 minutes.

It took five glasses of champagne before I could speak of my experience. I politely declined the next morning’s run and celebrated being alive with a breakfast mimosa in the air con.

Lessons were learned.

This post was for my free subscribers, but feel free to send me an emotional support latte, or a mimosa!

Buy me a Coffee (or a Ferrari)

Fun fact: There was a celebrity in my DMs this week (it wasn’t Noel), which gave me ideas way above my station. Obviously, the group chat is on fire, but let me know in the comments if you think I should do it for the plot.

I’m leaning towards no, but that’s because I don’t fit in any date night outfits, and I still can’t find a dress that pairs well with an ankle sprain. Plus, it’s freezing.

So Vogue told us that having a boyfriend is embarrassing, but what if you don’t get embarrassed?

Dating me is fun because I have zero filter and I’m almost impossible to embarrass. That thing that most people have that saves their last shred of dignity during the dating process? It’s something that I simply wasn’t born with.

It’s both a blessing and a curse.

I am the CEO of both the double and triple text, and I’ll throw in 30 missed calls for good measure.

No answer?

A giddy voice note.

If you’re extra lucky, a voicemail, a smoke signal plus a polite follow-up email. That skywriting over your house that looks suspiciously like my phone number. That’s me. In the plane. In case you lost it.

I’ve done so many embarrassing things on a date, and honestly, it’s made the date better. Like the time I booked a table at a pizza restaurant only to discover I’d booked a table at the right restaurant but the wrong city.

Or the time my tomato from my full English breakfast flew off my plate and onto a STRANGER’S while I was walking back to the table where my date was sitting.

I get it from mum. My mum is the poster child for delulu dating and ageing disgracefully. She’s extremely proactive and leaves nothing open to chance.

When I was job hunting, she sent out a handwritten letter to some of the most powerful businessmen on the planet, asking them very nicely to employ me, so you can only imagine how helpful she is now that I’m single.

Did it work? No. Did we care? No. We howled with laughter and found waiting for replies really exciting. She didn’t put my CV in any of the letters, and so I still don’t know what she wrote to this day. But it’s always nice to receive mail.

My mum has linched men for me from the Ivy armed with only a screensaver and my Substack cards and not a hint of embarrassment. It’s not about the end goal; it’s your ability to put yourself out there with zero fucks and go for what you want.

Which I rarely do.

Dating today, it’s about swiping right with about as much emotional investment or creativity as it takes to Deliveroo a Starbucks muffin directly into your mouth.

I’m not anti-app, but all that dating apps ever brought me were emotionally unavailable men who were 6ft 3 5ft 7, who were either going through a bitter divorce or bitter about being divorced.

My Mum hasn’t given a fuck since 1912. Most days, she is a living reminder that, as adults, we can do it for the plot and have a riot doing it.

As I was scouring her wardrobe for some vintage D&G, I came across a signed photo of Noel Edmonds. Flummoxed, I asked her why she had it.

Oh, That’s Noel. I was mad on him! This one time… I asked him out at the BBC.

Three glasses of champagne later, and I was enthralled listening to how she hopped on a train to Kings Cross on a whim to ask him out. She knew he had a radio show, and she knew where it was.

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We all know that IKEA is actually the Swedish word for divorce, and you should never ever under any circumstances go as a couple.

Your love for each other will combust as soon as you enter the revolving door, and if you ever find your way out (I think I still have an ex-husband in the modular sofa section), a Swedish person will serve you a Bratwurst wrapped in divorce papers with immediate effect upon exit.

I learned this very early on in my marriage. Much less publicised is the fact that you don’t need to be married for IKEA to ruin your life.

You don’t even have to go in person; you can bring total chaos into your life by simply ordering online. Whatever you order will arrive in 7809 small pieces with limited instructions and questionable tools to put it together with.

There’s a process.

It goes like this.

Ooh, my new desk. I can totally put that together.

Maybe I shouldn’t; I don’t think I can.

I absolutely cannot.

Wine.

You watch the gigantic box take up space in your hallway for 7 days. Only when it almost topples and kills the dog do you realise you have to make a plan. But as a single woman, you only have two options, and both come with a small to medium chance of death.

Option one: A man.

Wrangle your latest Tinder date in to assemble it under the guise of a movie night and promise of seeing your boobs (small chance of death). Wrangle your ex-husband to assemble it. (Death of any fragment of pride you have left). Play damsel in distress to your cute neighbour.

I have done field research on this last one (for Substack purposes, obviously) and I can’t stress this enough: a fully assembled FRAKTA is not worth six months of awkward waving every morning, so pick the ugly neighbour that you won’t be tempted to kiss. You will thank me for this.

Option two: Yourself

Putting it together yourself with wine always seems like a great idea, but your three types of screwdrivers are never the right ones, and you give up, but not after turning to hard liquor.

Before you know it, centuries have passed, you’ve aged 21 years, and you are surrounded by 8009 nuts and bolts on all sides, dangerously close to drowning in a pool of your own tears while descending into alcoholism.

The desk has taken precedence over your social life, your hobbies and your housework and you consider sending IKEA an invoice for your valuable time. Mariah Carey sued her husband for wasting her time. Can we do the same for IKEA?

So after seven days, the big heavy box still hasn’t materialised into a desk, and I’m cursing myself for being so naive. If someone has my Voodoo doll, can they teach it DIY?

It turns out that nothing will give you a menty B like an unassembled SKOGSGRANSEN leaning casually in the hallway, taunting you for being single.

I’ve written a complaint letter template. Feel free to steal it and edit it with wild abandon.

I think I’ve nailed it.

Dear IKEA.

• Subject Line: Formal Complaint: “FAULTY” SKOGSGRANSEN

• Opening: I am writing to complain about an unassembled and, quite frankly, unmanageable SKOGSGRANSEN...

• The Problem: I am crestfallen that this product came in 5007 pieces, and I would really like it if it came in one piece. I want my money back, my time back, my sanity back, and my dog wants its leg back. Please and thank you.

• Impact: Explain how this affected you (e.g., depression, insanity, dangerously low quality of life, a very sad dog, the vaping habit you’ve adopted to cope with the stress).

• Your Solution: State clearly what you want: I will accept compensation for sanity and pride lost in the form of one tall Swedish boyfriend to put together future purposes. Also: Therapy.

• Evidence: I have enclosed copies of... (Therapy invoice soaked with real tears).

• Deadline: I expect a response within 14 days.

• Closing: Yours faithfully/sincerely,

PS: This is not a real complaint letter.

Love you, besties.

The reason I thought about writing about my (still dismantled IKEA desk was this beautiful essay by Joy Sullivan. Go read her writing, you won’t regret it! I treated myself to a paid subscription just this morning!

The year is 1997.

You’ve got the Spice World album in your hand, and it comes with LYRICS. You can’t believe it. You study every word. You play every song in order, then replay Say You’ll Be There 63 times in a row, reciting every word.

Your mood ring turns purple with joy. It’s just as good as you imagined when you saw it in HMV sale in the 4 for 3 pile. This blows the Titanic soundtrack OUT OF THE WATER.

You hear your Tamagotchi beep in the distance, but it barely registers as the Spice World CD cover is now 99.9% of your personality. You pause only to put on the Miss Selfridge dress, which is the exact shade of blue Baby Spice wears, and wrestle on the white trainers you found in the sale at Barratts.

You feel like you might explode from sheer coolness as you smear on your Rimmel coconut-scented shimmer lip balm and your blue eyeshadow.

You are ready.

You make a mental note to phone your best friend after 7 pm on the landline to see if you can sit together in English tomorrow and to ask when she can come over to do the dance routine. Your pink Baby G watch makes it 6.50 pm. You still can’t believe you are allowed your own phone in your room. It’s a see-through handset with a neon light that flashes when it rings.

You place the empty CD carefully on top of your pile of prized possessions scattered on your Groovy Chick bedding. A tattered Blockbuster membership card (you must return the Clueless Video), a Sugar magazine, a folded Jane Norman bag and the holy grail, the Filofax. Just when you think life can’t get any better, it does. Jasmine and Kaleigh have phoned you and it’s a three way call!

You don’t phone Phoebe because she will want to be Baby Spice, and it’s imperative that you are Baby, and there can’t be two Babys. Although you do want to borrow her patent Kickers for school. You cross your fingers that she wants to be Scary Spice.

You call Chantelle because she always wants to be Ginger Spice. She has ginger hair and is the only one who wears a real bra. It’s a Little Miss Sunshine one. Pink gingham.

You promise you will let her borrow your hair mascara for the front bits if you can borrow the bra. You make a mental note to ask your mum if you can go to La Senza. You have no boobs but are monumentally excited to get them.

No one is sporty, but Jasmine has Adidas Poppers, and that is basically the same thing.

Kaleigh is Posh Spice because her Mum works in Waitrose and she lets her shop at Russel and Bromley. (Whole Foods and Nordstrom for my American friends)

You all agree to practise the routine at lunch.

You contemplate transferring the lyrics into your Filofax for safekeeping. Just in case.

Your Mum shouts you for dinner, and you quickly turn off your lava lamp and skip to the kitchen table while singing Zig a Zig ahhhhh. You add a high kick.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer is on TV.

Life is good.

Do you remember when you took out the booklet in your CD when you were a teen, to find the lyrics printed for every song on the album? That feeling of having struck gold?

Well, this is the exact feeling I want to conjure up for my readers with this post. Finally, a step-by-step guide to dealing with the nonsense men in your phone.

Gather round.

After seven years, I think I’m qualified to throw dating advice around like confetti. Dear reader, I won’t be telling you how to get a boyfriend or make a guy you like obsessed with you. This has sadly evaded me during the majority of my single years, but what I am qualified to educate you on is dealing with nonsense men. I have a degree in it.

I used to ignore red flags. Hot and cold behaviour, the immediate request for a bikini photo, asking me to download a cryptocurrency app, I could go on.

Now I call them out, and you can too.

I’ve been on dates with men who turn out not to have jobs, men with DUIs, men who say they have a housemate who actually lives with their mother, men with secret girlfriends, secret boyfriends, secret children and even worse, men who think axe-throwing is an appropriate first date.

Don’t get me started on wedge trainer Wayne, steak bake Jake or nude sending Nate.

Usually, men manage to keep their nonsense under wraps until at least date two or three, but the last man I planned to go on a date with couldn’t even hold it in until date one.

Right off the bat, he asked me if I wanted to FaceTime.

Cute, I thought.

He’s nervous and wants to get the small talk out of the way with an ice breaker.

FALSE. It transpired that he was actually wanting to vet me. “Usually, I always FaceTime to check that you look like your pictures. The last bird looked like she ate her profile picture.”

Flabbergasted, I chided myself for being so naive. Then I laughed out loud that the average-looking Jo in my phone felt the need to vet my looks before a first date and missed out on it as a result.

I’ve been catfished before, it’s no fun, but I’m a girl, so naturally I found the man’s Twitter account and LinkedIn and alerted his place of work and his wife before he had time to say send me a nude.

It got worse.

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Alexa, extend my vacation.

I want to let you in on the most unhinged way to wield your free will in 2026.

It makes no sense physically, mentally, spiritually or financially, but of course, that’s why it’s fun.

We’ve all heard of Fuck You money, a small pot of funds so that if you need to get out of dodge, you can, and this is a little bit like that. But instead of saying Fuck You to a situation you are trapped in or a relationship that no longer serves you, this is giving the middle finger to that voice inside your head that tells you to conform.

Create a stay another day fund, and even if you never use it, you can be gleeful just knowing you could. Think of it as a little hall pass to whip out when you truly deserve to say yes to yourself.

Today’s newsletter comes to you from my bed, wearing an Augustinus Bader (can anyone actually pronounce that?) sheet mask because it’s the only place left on earth that doesn’t cost money to exist, and movement of any kind seems to result in a sprained ankle.

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Actual footage of me.

Forget bougie gift guides with fancy caviar spoons, Victoria Beckham eye palettes, and eye-wateringly expensive candles we don’t have time to light. I’m going to give it to you straight.

There’s a straightforward formula for what women want at Christmas. Alone time + free money to enjoy it.

We want to book beauty treatments with wild abandon, we want to escape Christmas chaos (see beauty treatments), and we want the gift of permission to check the fuck out (while enjoying a beauty treatment we didn’t pay for). We also want to drink champagne for no reason at all while doing it. To sum up. We want to spa.

We want a break. We want to cry less in public. We want to relax for 3 minutes without someone talking to us.

Oh, and we want a medal (a thank you) for single-handedly completing the extra-hard Super Mario level that is Christmas.

By Christmas day, we’ve navigated the 55 nonsense fancy dress days at school, hit every grotto, gifted the teachers, braved the panto, moved the elf every morning, wrapped the gifts from Santa, stocked up on gift bags (double so you are ready for next year, blah blah blah), decked the halls, written the Christmas cards and bought the host gifts.

We want a thank you. And that thank you can look like a spa voucher.

I guess what I’m saying is, you don’t need a fancy gift guide or a crystal ball to get the perfect gift; you just need her calendar. She’s busy, and she wants permission to do nothing.

We want to sleep. We want to sleep in a hotel bed near a spa, on a massage table in the spa, and on a sun lounger by the spa pool. If you asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I would tell you I’m a size 8 in a hot stone massage in the Bahamas. I’ll say it louder. WE WANT TO LAY DOWN.

You can get a crystal clear insight into what a woman likes by how she spends her time.

Let me explain.

I like eyebrows that are the same shape, a wrinkle-free forehead, toned arms, a clean house, baby smooth heels, the perfect French tip, expertly lifted lashes, a hydro-facial and skin booster combo, a massage that feels like a holiday and just the right amount of collagen in my morning coffee.

Put some money on account at her favourite nail salon, better still, pre-pay her quarterly botox appointment, put a spa day under the tree or one of those red light therapy masks that we have seen on Instagram but don’t want to spend our own money on.

Anything that can elevate our existing routine is also welcome. A newer/fancier coffee machine, posh coffee beans, a chic coffee cup, and a supplement to stir into our latte. Anything that keeps us awake and alert in between those well-deserved spa visits.

If somehow the recipient doesn’t like spas, you can still give the gift of a break.

I’m unhinged when it comes to getting my friends and family gifts. Like a trained PI, I will use my conversational skills and wit to extract everything that makes your eyes light up, and I’ll keep a log all year so that when Christmas comes. BAM. I’ve not only got the perfect gift idea but all of the information to execute it.

In case you haven’t spent the year like this, I’ve listed the best of the best below to ensure you get major boyfriend, best friend, and sister points.

Let me present the four gifting categories:

Princess treatment gifts:

Take note of the places she goes to look and feel good. Throw money at them like confetti. Or pop your budget on a voucher. It could be fancy gym classes, pilates reformer classes, her facialist, her masseuse, her favourite hotel, spa or restaurant.

Cheerleading Gifts: Permission to run off and have alone time under the guise of a hobby or skill. Have they always wanted to try floristry? Do they want to learn tarot? What about calligraphy?

Bucket List Gifts: Alone time, but make it iconic. Is there a place they’ve always wanted to visit? A song they’ve always wanted to see live? A mode of transport they haven’t tried? Hello Orient Express. If you are shopping for me, I’m a size 10 in a fancy suite at the Amangiri Hotel.

The No Gatekeeping Gift

You are allowed to go off piste when it comes to gifting, if you believe you have found a product that will make her eyes light up or change her life. That collagen supplement you swear by, that cult beauty product that you can’t live without, the diary that organises your life, the podcast subscription that made you laugh out loud.

Don’t forget that people like to read in spas. Gift them a paid subscription to my Substack and get credit for what is IMO a joyful and original gift.

Kisses. x

Job rejection emails: 1046

Job interviews for jobs I don’t want: 60

Boyfriends: 0

Resilience: -2

Mental breakdowns: 70286

Just when I thought the low point of my year was going on a date back in February with a man who had a coldsore only to find he had actually burned his lip on a Greggs Steak Bake before selling half my sofa and then losing my job at the exact same time so I couldn’t replace it and spraining my ankle in the parents race at sports day, today I applied to be a garden centre Santa.

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I’m seven years into the circus that is motherhood, so let me enlighten you on some of the biggest WTF moments that motherhood has handed me so far.

Birthing plans are bullshit

That laugh you do when no sound …

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Welcome to my delulu gift guide! Best enjoyed with an espresso martini. Just saying.

If self-gifting is your vibe this year or you simply want to sashay into the festive season feeling like the gifting queen you are, this uber unrealistic gift guide is packed with everything that no one needs but everybody wants. Of course, every item on this list is generic, but the WAY you gift it counts. Buckle up. We have exactly 40 days to get our gift on.

I’m kicking off the gift guide with luxurious lingerie. Because if, like me, you’ve chosen to date yourself this year (or other people, lucky you), nothing makes you feel more put together than beautiful underwear. This Agent Provocateur number is divine.

Of course, if you are gifting lingerie, send it with a love letter and her signature scent. Spritz the letter. Watch her fall in love. Write your own or include some personalised stationery so she can write love letters to herself or her girlfriends. Wistful, whimsical and wildly over the top, head to Smythson and pick out personalised notecards, thank you notes and writing paper. It simply doesn’t get more chic.

And what goes with lingerie? Diamonds, of course. These earrings feature pink diamonds to make the boys wink.

For the woman who has everything but loves an accessory, there’s this insanely pricey but pretty Van Cleef watch. The design is inspired by a Palace in Granada and it costs about the same as one. I don’t wear a watch because if you don’t have one, you simply can’t be late. But if I did, it would be this one.

If your budget is more Primark than Prada this year, opt for a candle. Because I’m always being told to light the good candles and make every day special, I’ve followed this sentiment and included this slightly overpriced gem in the list.

This Jo Malone candle literally lets you watch your money burn, giving a hint of dark chocolate and orange in return. Facts. It’s more fun to watch your friend’s money burn as you scent your living space, which is why a candle is always a welcome gift. If it’s for your inner circle, get it engraved and include a cute matchbox.

A Jo Malone candle has always been my signature gift. Pssssst. They are great to have in if you need a last minute host gift for New Year’s Eve. Or for your facialist, your eyebrow lady, your daughter’s teacher. Stock your present drawer and never be caught short.

You can’t go wrong with fancy makeup. Lazy girl tip. Choose brands that do seasonal gift wrap. Dior is another one of those don’t need to wrap gifts and their lip kits come with a super cute star shaped pouch. I’m obsessed with the lip balm and lip oil kit. Gucci compacts, bougie highlighters and lipglosses oh my! If in doubt, go for sublime packaging. This highlighter with the galloping horse lid is unhinged in the best way. Opt for shade Sunchaser.

Cosy gloves are on my list from LV. Because, well, Brrrrrrrrr.

This black Chanel bag has been on my Christmas list since I emerged from the womb. I think my first word was Chanel. Cover your ears YSL, I’m in love.

This universally loved hand cream makes the most unnecessary yet welcome stocking filler. Anyone over 40 is going to love this. Why? Because no one is buying this for themselves. My dream would be a stocking full of these. The best bit? Chanel gifts always come perfectly wrapped and you can make it extra special with a Chanel charm. Sit back and take all the credit! Run don’t walk!

For anyone you don’t know that well, Louboutin eyeliner for the win. Easy peasy.

I’ve added in the LV scarf of dreams mostly because it’s cute and because I have vouchers to spend.

Bougie LV lip balm to whip out on your imaginary first class flight. *dons eye mask* Read British Beauty Blogger’s review before you purchase this with your own money. It’s pretty but for die hard LV fans only.

Speaking of things you never knew you needed, Dior have created a face massager. Goodbye pennies. Hello cheekbones.

BALKS. His and hers couple candles. A gift for him (and for you). Look at the dice design! This decadent duo comes in Roasted Chestnut and Frosted Cherry and Clove. Perfection.

Sidenote: Jo Malone Christmas packaging is on point this year. Grab some hand creams and soaps for those gifts that creep up on you. There’s always one.

What do we all want? The gift of youth of course. LED facemask? Yes please!

A dopamine hit a day for December. Also known as the Dior Advent Calendar. *faints* It was inspired by the circus. Race you there!

Charlotte Tilbury contour stick duo. Because we all deserve to shimmer and shine.

This bag is FIRMLY on my wish-list. The YSL shopper bag. No words. Just Perfection. *Visualises*

Essential to life Chanel bronzer is a fail safe gift. Everyone loves this gift and you will too. I pick up one of these in every airport I go to as they are always sold out.

Go with everything cosy boots to stroll around the Christmas market. UGG boots are cool again! Just me?

My eyebags are Dior and yours can be too with these.

The Guerlain diamanté lipstick case is a cute gift for your girlfriends. I own one of these and it brings me joy on the daily.

Pjs, because I don’t own a single pair. Sue me.

Olivia Von Halle is the goddess of pjs and these oyster silk sets are to die for. Pair it with whatever magnesium supplement Elle McPherson is peddling this week plus some cashmere socks from The White Company and you’ve got yourself a triple threat.

LV keyring. Losing your keys has never been more chic.

Dyson have a new hairdryer shade we can get excited about.

Bestie lipsticks. My favourite gifts are the one for you one for me kind. Friendship never looked so pretty. Very Serena and Blair.

Pretty pastel powder pearls. Guerlain is the go-to for the girliest gifts.

Lv luggage for those who catch flights not feelings. Pair it with a silk eye mask if you’re travelling soon.

This press for champagne bauble is basically me in bauble form.

For maximum impact consider a gifting theme this year. Press for champagne is going to be my entire personality from now until the new year. Secret Santa? Nailed it. Hang it from your tree, wrap it up as a teacher gift, use it as a tag for alcohol gifts, give it to your hosts or your bestie, but for the love of god, send champagne with it. Or just use it to finish off your wrapping!

Gifts not pictured above. Coffee beans. A new pelvic floor. A credit card that has no limit. A Boyfriend.

Of course, we all know that an off piste gift is the best gift. So, why not gift someone a paid subscription to my Substack?

Want to buy me a gift? Upgrade to paid! *flutters lashes*

What’s on your list this Christmas? Sidenote. Can we talk about the Jo Malone advent calendar? *Gasps*

Seven years ago today, I skipped waddled into St James Hospital with my Jo Malone travel candles, White Company pillows and laminated birthing plan (let’s all laugh together) and embarked on what can only be described as a smorgasbord of birthing activities. What I expected was support, advice and empathy; what I didn’t see coming was the mum guilt. I remember vividly thinking I didn’t sign up for this, but I’m here to tell you, you don’t have to.

When my daughter was ten months old, I boarded a flight to visit my best friend and left my mum guilt behind on the runway. Did I miss my daughter? Ridiculously so. Did I feel guilty for leaving her? Not. At. All. Here’s what they don’t tell you about motherhood. Mum guilt is OPTIONAL, and you can unsubscribe from the get-go.

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Last night I went to sleep wearing a thong that was probably definitely a paid extra in 50 Shades of Grey. Why? Come my usual bedtime, not one clean thong could be seen with the naked eye, and not one full brief could be accounted for. Too tired to care, I slipped on some candy floss wire contraption that was tangled at the back of my underwear drawer and flopped into bed, questioning all of my life choices that had led me to this point.

I have questions.

As an adult, why don’t I have any clean knickers when putting a wash on is 99% of my personality? After all, what is being grown up if it isn’t just washing your clothes and then washing them again?

I think it’s because I used up all my adult energy on thrilling tasks like working out how to handwash my new cashmere jumper and trying to figure out which collagen supplement will make me look like Heidi Klum. Actually, who am I kidding? I’m a mum, so things that actually took priority over clean thongs this week were:

1. Power Ranger Party 1 and 2, Trampoline Party, Slime Party, signing 405 waivers for each one, present wrapping, costumes, 5 tantrums in Home Bargains (4 were mine).

2. Washing a tiny person’s clothes, stocking a tiny person’s underwear drawer, being a tiny person’s snack bitch at all hours, cuddles for the tiny person, managing a varied social calendar for the tiny person, plus a sprinkling shit ton of birthday party admin.

3. Wine.

Did I really navigate 577 school whatsapp messages about a singular lost PE sock, Harvest Festival day one and two (bring an old egg box and donate half of your life savings), ‘take your kid to school as Frankenstein day’ (and pay £3 for the privilege), donate your last living pound coin for the book fair day (cash only), birth your own Halloween costume day (we would appreciate at least one of your organs), Bonfire disco day complete with ‘take your last penny toy stall’ only to be bamboozled by clean underwear?

One thing I’ve learned about motherhood is that it’s very much like getting lost in Harrods. It’s sometimes sparkly, slightly overwhelming and always expensive. On the exterior, you might look like you’ve nailed it, but behind closed doors, we’re all just hoping we have a clean pair of knickers to face the day (or night).

Here’s the fun part…

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