Did Saturdays even exist before the Blind date column? Not as far as I’m concerned.
In times of need, some reach for a bar of chocolate or take up residence at the bottom of a large vodka tonic. But the beauty-conscious are increasingly turning to face-shaped bits of fabric soaked in “serum” – or, as they are commonly known, sheet masks.
Not everyone can be the life and soul of the Christmas party, the crowd hanging on their every word, the Insta-paparazzi desperate for a selfie with them. Historically, alcohol has gone some way to helping wallflowers peel themselves away from the anaglypta, but in recent years booze has evolved from confidence accelerant to an entire way of life.
What does it mean to put a label on your sexuality, to assign a category to your own existence? And where does it come from?
Yes, the nights are drawing in, leaves are pirouetting from trees, but the sky shimmers like a glitter ball. Time to practise the samba in your slippers.
Time was, if someone you knew was getting married, your only involvement would be: receive invitation; check diary and be dazzled by its stark, blank white pages; RSVP; attend wedding; nurse three-day hangover.
Pride is a time for us to recognise the amazing progress we have made in LGBTQ rights but also continue to strive for not only total equality, but justice for wrongs of the past and present.
Summer’s beauty lies in its brevity. For a few short months, our world is transformed into a clement paradise with pleasures so wonderful they could only ever be temporary – picnics, rooftop cocktails, thigh-high shorts, YOU.
There is something quite heroic about the term “breadwinner”, isn’t there? Perhaps that’s why we cling so hard to the idea of being one.