jessica_hart89

We were having lunch at a local pub last weekend, and on a table close by sat a man scrolling through Instagram as he ate a roast and drank a pint. Meanwhile, what we presume was his daughter – age seven or eight – sat opposite, a kids’ roast in front of her, watching him. […]

There are moments lately where I find myself teetering on the edge of composure, sanity, respectability – call it what you will. It’s as if the most insignificant incident could send me over the edge into an abyss of rage. And there, I’d revel. I’d shout and swear and there’d be a momentary relief from

I’m wondering if, over a week since the Euros final, it’s safe to admit that I thought I might go mad if I heard one more person say “It’s Coming Home”. Anything repeated often enough gets annoying in the end…right? Still, I did enjoy the national enthusiasm for the line. It suggests a sort of

We’re finally joining the masses and getting green fingered – better late to this lockdown party than never. First, though, we got some people who actually know what they’re doing to establish some kind of order in our back garden, and now it looks – in our humble opinion – the tits. I’ve been buzzing

Avril Lavigne, I hear ya. Since becoming a mum I’ve encountered a whole new world of accessories, literature, hashtags, headlines. All this stuff that, just a couple of orbits of the sun ago, completely bypassed me. Before I joined the masses of parents that are bombarded with – and often blindsided by – the racket

I can understand why wisdom is tied to the accumulation of lived experience, if only because I look back on some previous versions of me and think, oh God. This feeling can mostly be explained by the fact I was a heady combination of young, naïve, arrogant and – often – as pissed as the