Home, Humour, Lifestyle, Mental Health

Confidence: what is it and how do I get some?


I daydream about The Sound of Music an unhealthy amount.

I daydream about having a four octave range. I daydream about making clothes from curtains. I daydream about running up stone steps and climbing trees with a gang of siblings. (I’m not currently talking to either of my brothers as one of them bought they other one a ‘make your own felt soup dragon’ from The Clangers and didn’t get me one. And I can’t run up any steps without an inhaler. Also I’m an adult now.) I daydream about fucking over a group of Nazis by fiddling around with their car engine. I daydream about living in the mountains. I daydream about my life being a musical. I daydream about becoming a nun so I don’t have to decide what to wear every day and, also, you know, a place in heaven and an actual life plan.

There are more dreams and aspirations to take away from The Sound of Music than there are Nando’s order combinations, but it’s now, at the ripe old age of 28, as I embark on a new adventure called “freelance writer”, that I’m starting to think about maybe the biggest one of all. Confidence. That moment in the film where Maria has to find it in herself to do what she dreams of, to be brave, to stop doubting herself and to face her fears; to be confident.

Please allow me to pause briefly in my narrative, to contextualise the lyrics of Confidence in light of my new life as a freelance writer, so you get an idea of where I’m at right now, mentally and lyrically.

What will this day be like? I wonder.

(I open my laptop. Some melted chocolate is stuck under the “F7” key. I think about cleaning it but decide against it, for no particular reason.)

What will my future be? I wonder.

(One month into trying to write for a living, I’m googling that job at Edinburgh zoo I read about; the person who has to pick penguins up who keep falling over because of the planes flying in the sky above them.)

It could be so exciting to be out in the world, to be free

(If only I could actually bring myself to write something)

My heart should be wildly rejoicing

(OMG I get to be on SNL, what?)

Oh, what’s the matter with me?

(I genuinely have no idea how that could ever happen)

I’ve always longed for adventure

(By which I mean a Hogwarts letter…)

To do the things I’ve never dared

(By which I mean eat the hottest sauce at Nando’s, or, you know, actually put myself forward for something or say “I’m good. Pick me”)

Now here I’m facing adventure


Then why am I so scared?

(Rent to pay… wedding to organise… the fact my vagina went numb for two days, but that’s another story)

A captain with seven children

(By captain I mean biscuit tin, and by children I mean biscuits, and by seven I mean none, because I ate them all before lunchtime)

What’s so fearsome about that?

(Bloating, diabetes…)

Oh, I must stop these doubts, all these worries

(You’re telling me)

If I don’t I just know I’ll turn back

(Honestly, if this doesn’t work out, I’m happy to go back to any job I’ve had previously, except the one temping for an account who dribbled on me.)

I must dream of the things I am seeking

(To…be…a…writer…TO… BE… A… WRITER…)

I am seeking the courage I lack

(Seeking it in the fridge, in a yoghurt pot, because probiotics solve everything… right?)

You still with me? Good.

Confidence. Confidence. It’s a weird one. I think somewhere along the line I used to have it. I must have felt confident when I wrote my first pop song, at the age of eight, and performed it to my dad who, bless him, had to let me know it wasn’t appropriate to sing: “anytime, anywhere, you and I, well, I care lots, because when I’m with you we can make love.” Yes. You read that lack of scansion correctly. Lucky I’m not trying to be a freelance lyricist.

I also think, at times, I have it now. Or one kind at least. The courage to get up on stage and improvise in front of a paying crowd every week (although not enough to come off stage and stop myself from immediately apologising to my team mates for ruining the show). The kind that tells me it’s a good idea to write blogs and post them on the internet, not even anonymously (although not enough to feel crippled with fear and self-doubt the minute I hit publish). I will leave the house without make up, walk around in my underwear (obviously when appropriate, not at the dentist), happily talk to strangers.

But, that proper, deep-down self-belief, in who I am, and what I want to do with my life. That’s… harder for me to come to terms with, I’m realising. I had three back-to-back meetings the day I churned out this blog on a particularly uneventful train journey home, and kept wondering why I apologise in advance for everything I say and do. Why I don’t appear to have any belief in the ideas I’m presenting until someone else tells me they’re okay. Why I resort to jokes, or self-deprecation, when someone says something nice about me. For example:

“I like your hair.” “Thanks. I have a short stump at the back that you can’t see where it accidentally caught fire.”

“Your show was great.” “Thanks. I basically shat myself before I went on stage.”

We all do it. From time to time. Some more than others. I think. Women, especially.

“I like your dress.” “It was on sale, it would look better on you, it’s baggy around my waist/my nipples/my elbows.”

“You’re so good at this or that.” “No I’m not. Don’t be stupid. Why would you say that? No I’m not.

I cried a lot last week, turned into a bit of an anxiety wreck, and went to bed, because I lost track of a play I’m writing. I just couldn’t find a way out of it. And I ended up being so full of self-despair that I couldn’t look at my computer anymore. But when the loathing passed, I got a bit mad at myself. That I always see the worst in myself and the work I do. That I can’t seem to ever argue on my own behalf. That I have so little faith in myself. That I was drafting up an email telling the people who commissioned me that they should approach someone else.

It’s particularly tricky when you’re trying to publicise a show that you’ve written and that you’re also performing, as I was doing a month ago. I needed people to come and see it (like, in a box office guarantee way, you know) and, I guess, somewhere deep down, I did want people to see it too, but I also sort of didn’t, because it made me feel nauseous and vulnerable and exposed. So it’s a strange thing, going on social media and yelling, COME AND SEE MY PLAY, when there’s a giant part of you going, DON’T. DON’T DO IT. GO AND HAVE A DONUT INSTEAD. NOTHING BEATS A DONUT.

This isn’t who I want to be. I’m all for empowering women, lifting my sisters up with me, as someone cooler than me might phrase it, so why am I so bad at empowering myself? Where does it come from? Will I have my ‘Maria walking round the abbey walls’ moment where I suddenly start singing and believing in myself? Where will that epiphany take place? Tesco? The shower? The toilet on a South Eastern train? Should I just go to Austria? Is Austria where dreams are made?

For a little while now, it’s felt like this ‘thing’ I’m trying to do in life is just a game I’m playing. Like a strange version of The Sims with more croissants. I feel frequently that I’m having some kind of out of body experience, I’m watching myself, and laughing. Is it just me? I doubt it somehow.

I don’t have any answers. I’m genuinely curious to hear from people who’ve found it. Found that core, that nut of confidence that keeps them centered, that keeps them moving, that stops them from saying “sorry” or “I can’t” or “I shouldn’t” or questioning constantly, wasting time questioning, instead of spending time sensibly, at a donut shop, where only good decisions are made. It’s in me somewhere, I’m sure. If someone told me, “you’re not funny” I think I’d have a thing or two to say about that, but I probably wouldn’t actually say it, I’d probably just feel a thing or two, and then go home and eat some more yoghurt.

Obviously this is a largely millennial, first-world problem. I’m aware I may be coming across extremely vain and self-involved and I need to get over myself, do what I have to do, and then do something worthwhile, like volunteer in a community allotment, or rescue a dog, or argue against tampon tax more often. But hey, I’m flawed, extremely flawed actually, physically too; that numb vagina could come back at any minute. It’s a constant threat. In that, my friends, I am confident.

Humour, Lifestyle, London, Summer

Heatwave? Well, it’s not cool.


It’s the hottest day of the year. Humidity levels are high. Humility levels are higher.

I dived for a seat on my morning train in a desperate attempt to secure a space to breathe in the sauna that is South Eastern railway. Unfortunately, and unbeknownst to me, my skirt got caught on the armrests, and I believe I displayed myself for between 7-10 minutes before realising. Not hot. Not cool.

When news of a heatwave hits London, I feel like running far, far away, or hiding in a fridge.

I’m not insane. In some ways I do love the summer. Vitamin D, picnics, light nights, light mornings, endorphins, strawberries, barbecues and cider for breakfast…I want it all.

But, the thing is, I also just hate it. And it hates me.

Every picnic has its wasp. Every sunbathe has a sweat patch. Every bargain strawberry has a pesticide (it’s true – I read it on The Guardian). Not to mention way too many photos of people kissing dolphins on Facebook. Just stop it, guys. They’re not happy.

Don’t get me wrong, as soon as we hit June (read: a tepid day in March) I am digging out the sandals, shaving my legs post-hibernation, freezing everything in sight, and spending as much time as possible outside, trying to grow more freckles and looking for dogs in hot cars I can rescue.

But I also realise about four minutes in that summer is bloody hard work, right? I am facing a constant battle to stop sneezing in fear of my internal organs falling out my nose. I overheat so many times in one day I think I could potentially become the newest source of renewable energy. I resent being inside every single moment it is sunny which makes me very impatient at work. Not to mention the impossible feat that is trying to look good. It is exceptionally traumatising trying to be, not even sexy, just merely recognisable, when you have a constant brain freeze from all the ice, potential septicaemia from this year’s sandal blisters, and a rash from sitting on the grass.

So I’ve been thinking to myself (today at work, when I should be outside, but I’m not, because life, but whatever) how to make it happen for me this year. I don’t think it’s realistic for me to expect this to be a totally sweat-free season, but I need to figure out how to stay cool, in all the senses of the word. This summer has to be cool because at the end of it I turn 25, which may be too old for slogan crop tops.

But how…just…how can one look hot…but not look hot?

London is full of exceptionally beautiful people. This can be demoralising when my beach waves look like hair I’ve just pulled out of the plug hole. I just seem to fall apart in extreme temperatures; my foundation slips off my face within about five minutes of being outside, and my eyes water so much from the pollen I’ve rubbed most of my mascara off before I get anywhere. But bare-faced chic is not an option. If I don’t wear make-up I resemble a blind mole seeing light for the first time. It’s the curse of the fair haired. We are reliant on eyebrow pencils and eyeliners so that other humans recognise we have eyes in the first place, therefore enabling us to communicate successfully.

How, then?

Well, whilst our hair and features blend into one in the sunlight, as blondes, we do get away with not shaving our legs every day. That’s five whole minutes freed up each day that we can now spend necking Pimms (or a European stranger if it suits – as long as he doesn’t notice your leg stubble glittering in the sunlight). But most importantly, most importantly, I’ve realised (/am telling myself) that summer makes everyone a lot more vain. Every surface in the sunlight is automatically about five thousand times more reflective, which means we are all way too busy assessing our own apparel and beach hair or trying to find the sun cream at the bottom of our bags to worry about anyone else.

So we can ease the pressure off looking hot in the heat, right? No one can see anything anyway because of the sweat blinding their eyes. It’s time to chill and have fun.

It’s time for food al fresco at least once a day. I’m working all over the place right now and while temping is genuinely the opposite of cool it does mean I get to find somewhere new in the city to eat lunch every day and I love it. I really think I will remember this summer not only as that time I had to wear a suit in 35 degrees but more importantly, the time I fell back in love with London again.

It’s time to freeze everything. It’s about re-living your childhood with water fights, ice pop overdoses and sandcastles. It’s time to actually make the most of a weekend. There are outdoor cinemas on every street – the best ever place to hide if you’re worried about other human beings seeing your heat rash and the perfect place to lower your body temperature and slowly but surely increase your self-esteem. It’s time to learn a new language so you have an excuse to book another holiday and to eat as much tapas as possible just because. It’s about finding time just for you, a life-changing book, and all your tanning potential. And late night walks while it’s still light – even if you can’t see a sunset you might see a disorientated badger.

So I feel like I’m getting there. I haven’t seen a badger yet. But there’s still time. Happy holidays! XXXXX