NEW BLOG: I Went on a Date…And Ignored It Entirely
My friend met a guy and wanted to go for dinner with him but didn’t want to go alone, so without consulting me she arranged for a double date with an hour’s notice. I didn’t want to go, but as ever the networker, I thought it might be a new business contact at the very least and a free dinner. So with minimal effort (I didn't even brush my hair) I met them at the restaurant.
In Cyprus unfortunately smoking is allowed everywhere and I detest it, so before I had even sat down there was a cloud of cigarette smoke wafting over the table. So I shook hands and moved my chair back to almost the table behind, which was empty. Right then I was ready to leave.
I didn’t go to charm anyone, make small talk, or nod politely at the wine list. I went to support my friend and maybe, survive without pretending to be someone I’m not. But they had the personality of a piece of cardboard. Communication skills should definitely not be listed on their CV. So I pulled out my phone, something I would be normally horrified if anyone else did. There was a message from my friend sat next to me telling me I was rude. Like I give AF. I am not going to make small talk to people I am not interested in. I was existing quietly in the corner of someone else’s romance, not mine.
Society tells us we have to be engaged in every social setting. Smile, laugh, validate. But why? Just because I share the same space doesn’t mean I owe anyone performance points. And don’t get me wrong, when I am in a setting with people I want to be with, I am absolutely hilarious and entertaining. But this was not that night. I was thinking of ways to leave from the moment I arrived, without bailing on my friend.
I don’t want to date unless they are sending a car to pick me up and meet at the airport for a surprise trip. I don’t want to meet anyone unless it’s a business lead and I don’t want to make small talk with mediocre men in baggy polo necks and ill fitting jeans. So I whatsapped my kids, played on my wordsearch and did anything to kill time for an hour until my friend setted into her date.
Watching from my little bubble, I realized the scandal wasn’t my wordsearch. It was everyone else’s assumption that I should have been entertained or entertaining. I was present without being performative. And shockingly, nothing fell apart. The couple flirted awkwardly. I solved words. The world kept spinning.
So yes, call me rude. Call me awkward. Call me whatever you want. I call it self-preservation, with a dash of rebellion. Sometimes, doing nothing spectacularly well is better than pretending to care spectacularly badly.
Next time, maybe I’ll bring a book. Because in a world obsessed with performative politeness, I’ve found a loophole: polite invisibility.
I don’t think I was being rude, I didn’t even order dinner. I just sat there nursing a pina colada until I felt it was ok to leave. Because one thing I have learned about getting older is that I won’t be fake for anyone.

NoI Love My Age — I Just Don’t Want to Look It
It's my birthday next week and I'll be 54. When I was a kid, that seemed positively ancient.
I remember thinking anyone over 40 had basically seen the dinosaurs. Fifty-four? That was retirement, wearing smock dresses and flat shoes and bingo halls. And yet… here I am on the cusp of 54. Still clubbing, still partying.And I love it.
There’s something freeing about being this age. I’ve lived enough to know who I am, and I’ve stopped apologizing for it. I’ve seen my share of wins, losses, heartbreaks, and hilarious mistakes that now make for excellent stories over wine. There’s a confidence that only time can teach, a quiet voice that says, “You’ve got this. You’ve been through worse."
But loving my age doesn’t mean I want to look it or feel it. And I don't. I am stronger than I was in my 30s. My energy is on top form. My joints don’t ache. My face? Well, let’s just say it’s aging gracefully. Sure, I have a few wrinkles, but they’re part of the story, and I embrace modern aesthetics to enhance what’s already there. I’m not hiding my age; I’m celebrating it, on my own terms.
Loving my age doesn’t mean I want to look old. I want to look vibrant, alive, confident and polished in all the ways I choose. There’s joy in taking care of yourself, in combining experience with style, strength, and a little bit of playful vanity
I’m not chasing twenty anymore, no thank you. I don’t want to erase the years; I just want to wear them well. I want to glow because I feel alive and comfortable in my skin. There’s power in that, in refusing to let the world tell you that beauty has an expiration date.
Fifty-four isn’t ancient. It’s seasoned. It’s textured. It’s rich with stories and lessons and laughter lines that prove I’ve been living.
So book the Botox, have the facials, lift the weights, and throw on an inappropriate outfit because age is an asset, not an excuse. And I plan to live it loudly, beautifully, and unapologetically.

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​UGLY IS A MODERN INVENTION.
Today was a disaster. It started off as a fabulous family boat trip on our favourite, The Black Pearl, but quickly disintegrated into chaos. A refreshing swim stop in the gorgeous Blue Lagoon turned into a beauty meltdown. My freshly installed hair extensions fused into one giant knot. Three hours in the salon later, half of them had to be cut out. A gel tip nail fell off mid-way through the day. And to top it off? My strip lashes peeled off and floated away in the sea like a tragic mermaid moment.
I drove home full of self loathing.
My daughter noticed I was quiet and asked what was wrong. I told her just didn’t feel good about myself, I felt ugly. Her reply was instant and cutting in the kindest way: "Mum, if you think you’re ugly, what does that make us, your children, who all look like you?”
I felt sick with guilt as the last thing I want to do is drop my plastic insecurities onto them. And then she added something that really stuck: “Before the 20th century, people didn’t even know what they looked like. Mirrors were rare. Portraits were for the rich. People weren’t obsessed with being attractive, they didn’t even know what that meant.”
And it got me thinking. As usual, she’s not wrong. It’s only in the last 80 years or so that we’ve become fixated on image. We call it self-care, but so much of it is just well-packaged insecurity. We’ve been sold the idea that beauty is empowerment but it’s just well marketed bullshit which I have built a career around. We’re drowning in the pressure to be seen, polished and perfect.
When I left my husband, the man who never really cared how I looked, I reinvented myself. I threw myself into beauty. Expensive skincare, hair extensions, designer makeup, nails, lashes, botox, aesthetics. You name it, I got it as I wanted to feel worthy again. I wanted to be visible, to look and feel beautiful.
But maybe, just maybe he was right to care less. Maybe I’ve been performing ever since. Exchanging one kind of neglect for another, a shinier one, sold to me by expensive brands that don’t know my name but know exactly how to make me feel not good enough.
Today reminded me that this version of vanity is man-made and very modern. We didn’t always live this way. And some days, I feel like I’m still acting in a role I never auditioned for.
So here’s to the mess: the lashes that don’t stick, the hair that tangles, the face without foundation. I know beauty isn’t in the mirror. Without sounding like a cliche, it’s reflected in your soul.
Your strength, your kindness, your honesty and your attitude is what undoubtably makes you beautiful but some days, it’s hard to believe that’s enough.
And sadly here’s the truth I’m not proud of: I know it’s fake but I’m not ready to let go.
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If you like my blog, read my book, You're Going to Die So Do It Anyway
https://lnkd.in/drWSDCax (UK)
https://lnkd.in/dVmqSc-S (US)

WHERE'S THE SISTERHOOD GONE?
Let’s be real: when you’re a single woman, people treat you differently.
The invites slow down. The catch-ups get fewer. Group events morph into couples' things. You used to be part of the crew. Now, you're on the outskirts, almost like your singleness is a social inconvenience and you're often looked upon with pity.
Here’s the thing: I’m not lonely. I’m not sad I’m not pining after someone’s lifestyle. I have a great life, I’m just observing as a writer. And what I’m noticing is that sisterhood, you know the real, honest, show-up-for-each-other sisterhood, often disappears when your life doesn’t follow the expected script.
When my book got published recently and started conversations in literary circles, the group chat got quiet. They knew this was my dream. But there were no congratulations. No likes, No check-ins. Just crickets. The same women I rooted for through every milestone suddenly had nothing to say.
And since we’re speaking honestly, I don’t want your husband or your boyfriend.
If I’m chatting and he’s sitting next to you, please relax. I’m not trying to poach anyone. I’m allowed to exist in the same space without it being a perceived threat. If the idea of an attractive woman being single and confident makes you nervous, that’s something for you to unpack, not me. If I’m talking and he’s sitting next to you, please don’t act like I’m making moves. I’m not. The assumption is tired and frankly, insulting.
I can hold a conversation without it being about scheming. That says more about the dynamic in your relationship than anything about me.
Sisterhood isn’t supposed to be conditional. It’s not something that only applies when our lives look the same. Real sisterhood is flexible. It grows with us. It includes the ones who are thriving, the ones who are rebuilding, and the ones who are just doing their own thing.
So where is it?
Because I still believe in it but I also believe we need to start being more honest about how often we abandon each other when life paths diverge. Let’s rebuild it without the ego, the insecurity, the silent competition. Let’s choose connection over comparison. Let’s actually show up for each other and not just when it’s convenient or familiar.
To the women who still do that? Thank you. You’re rare. You’re real.
And to everyone else, we’re not here to threaten you. We just want our seat back at the table.
Read my award winning book, YOU'RE GOING TO DIE SO DO IT ANYWAY
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FFMJGQQK​

THE SITUATIONSHIP
After I left my marriage, I didn’t fall in love. I fell into fire. It was fast, intoxicating, magnetic,  the kind of connection that lights you up and blinds you at the same time. A passionate situationship that felt like escape, like rebirth, like proof that I was still desirable, still alive. It had been 25 years since I had slept with another man and I never thought I would. It was exhilarating, exciting and all consuming.
But what I didn’t see at the time was how thin the line is between chemistry and chaos. He was charming, yes  but cruel. Belittling in a way that’s hard to put your finger on. Sarcastic compliments, Putting down my business, saying I didn’t do any real work. All subtle digs disguised as humour or concern, chipping away at my confidence while pretending to be supportive. It was manipulation wrapped in charm, designed to make me doubt my worth and question my success. Silent punishments, little jabs that made me question myself. And bit by bit, without realising it, I began to shrink again. I softened my voice. I tolerated things I screamed about in my marriage. I let boundaries blur, not because I didn’t have any, but because I wanted to be loved and desired so badly, I started to forget my own worth.I thought I was in control. But really, I was just lost again. This time in someone else’s storm. I accepted breadcrumb affection. I tolerated low-level cruelty and piss taking masked as banter. I allowed yet another man to dim my light to keep his shining. I will never lose myself like that again. Again, my boundaries were skewered. But I’ve learned passion isn’t the same as respect. Intensity isn’t the same as intimacy. And being wanted doesn’t mean being valued.
Now, my standards are sky high.
Not for how someone looks  but for how they speak to me.
How they show up.
How they honour my boundaries.
How they make me feel when I’m not naked and smiling.
That situationship taught me what I will never tolerate again. Funnily enough it was a word he used to describe me. I was “intolerable” to him. But really I was just a woman with a voice who wasn’t prepared to be quiet. I understand that intolerable often just means "a woman who won’t tolerate nonsense." It means I have boundaries, standards, and a voice I’m no longer afraid to use. If that makes me too much for him, then he was never enough for me. The situationship was a hard, necessary lesson and I don’t regret it. Because from that place of chaos, I found a fiercer kind of self-love. One with teeth. One with a spine.I am certain he has found less with someone else.
It didn’t end with a dramatic goodbye. It ended quietly by text with a message “I don’t find you sexually attractive”. And then I was blocked like I never existed. Erased in a second. That was heartbreak in its most cowardly form. Cruel, cutting, and deliberately designed to wound  and it says everything about him, not me. That text was completely unnecessary. And for a while, it did exactly what he wanted it to: it made me question my worth. My body. My desirability. Everything I had been slowly rebuilding since my marriage ended. I cried for a year. But here’s what I know now: When someone tries to destroy you with words, it’s because they already feel powerless.
That text wasn’t the truth. I know I’m gorgeous. It was a last attempt to humiliate me. He tried to break me but here’s the thing, I am unbreakable.The woman I am now doesn’t stay on the floor. She reads that text, wipes her tears, and writes a book. That man doesn’t get the final word. He most certainly doesn’t get to define my beauty, my physical strength, my worth, or my sexuality.
Excerpt from my book, You're Going to Die so Do It Anway,