If you’re here just for the books, scroll all the way down.
Oh summer, glorious but also such a pain!
Hair removal
This year I decided not to get waxed before our short beach holiday. I just couldn’t bring myself to spend near on £100, (possibly more because it has been a year and well, inflation), to have six days of swimsuit freedom. There are so many other things I’d rather spend £100 on, like, ten books, a multitude of lipsticks, or a beautiful dress. But hair removal. No.
So this year I took a pick and mix approach. I epilated my lower legs, and imac-ed my thighs, bikini and arm pits, with the extra strong stuff, hoping that might buy me a couple of extra days (It did not). I’m sure life would be easier if I just ‘invested’ in laser hair removal. Trust me, every summer I think about this. But if I’m not prepared to spend £100 on a wax, I’m hardly likely to drop £7k on a full body de-fuzzing am I?
That said, when faced with epilation, I get very tempted because who the actual FUCK invented an epilator? I have a high pain threshold and still, never will I ever venture near my armpits again after once trapping the skin there and not being able to properly lower my arm for about a week. When this whirring wheel of torture touches down on my shin bone, I can just about make it through both lower legs. The worst bit though is once one leg is done, the other leg knows what’s coming and that always makes it feel more painful. After this whole debacle is done, I need to treat myself for mild shock with a strong, sugary cup of tea, at which point I inevitably spot a cluster of hairs that got missed in the haste to get the experience over and done with.
Swimsuits
Ahh swimsuits, the whole reason for hair removal in the first place. This year I got tricked into Hunza G. Wow, what a con. A one size fits all swimsuit. How I even got duped there is beyond me. Plus the price tag. I thought this could be an investment piece but alas, my body is not one size and it did not fit in any of the right places. Back it went. Instead I settled on a very demure one piece from Next which, having returned from holiday will likely not last another as it didn’t seem to be able to withstand salt water or suncream.
Summer shoes
Then, there’s summer shoes. Again, another torturous experience. My trusty Birkenstocks are no longer wearable since the sole snapped in the middle when I was pregnant, such was the weight of my body when I crouched down for something. They started to pinch with every step and I was faced with needing to replace them. Since this, I have been through two potential options (black Doc Marten sandals which I loved but immediately gave me blisters; and a posh pair of ballet pumps which produced a river of blood from each heel the first time I wore them, leaving blisters so bad that I needed the extra reinforced compeds to heel them before getting onto the beach). In the end I just returned to what I knew and trusted- another pair of Birks for me.
Sand
Enough said.
(This little heart appeared when I moved my towel on the beach in Italy).
Observations from Italy, July, 2025
After all that moaning, we did actually have a nice break- a week in Salerno (the less touristy/ less expensive part of the Amalfi coast).
Day One: Two women in a local Gelattario. They must be in their late sixties, possibly older, both eating something that looks like an ice cream sandwich. One looks like her leg is soon to be amputated. Both look diabetic. And completely joyful, with their ice cream moustaches.
Day Four: On the beach, a woman, tall, blonde, very slim, demurely putting on a baby pink bikini under her clothes. I don’t see her getting into the water, but when she emerges, she glides out like a model and stands at the edge of the water squeezing the ruffles of her bralet like some kind of exotic bird.
Day Five: On the beach again, there’s a boy-man with a tattoo across his chest that reads, “All eyes on me” in thick, cursive writing. The hubris of this statement makes me laugh- my eyes are indeed on him. He has a diamanté stud in his ear and a thin, slightly creepy moustache which he keeps stroking downwards as he talks to his boy-men friends.
Day Seven: There’s a particular type of woman here in Italy. She has a French, and Portuguese equivalent but perhaps not a British. This woman smiles, but not her eyes, at your child, she appraises your husband with a swift up and down glance in a way you can only take as a compliment, and she nods at you in recognition as a fellow female, but curtly and with mild hostility. She wears linen co-ords, and expensive looking beads, or a statement bangle, sometimes both. Her lip liner is ever so slightly darker than her neutral lipstick. Her hair is what I image ‘coiffed’ looks like. Her perfume trails behind her as she walks along in wedged open toed shoes. She is well put together, in a 90s European way.
This type of woman does not think twice about telling you to control your two year old when they sing merrily on a train; she approaches you very quickly when she sees your three year old thrashing about in their pram because they hate being under their rain cover, taking it upon herself to tell you that your child is clearly distressed under there (but perhaps this lady would prefer a soaking wet child instead?); and she will, with so much vehemence in her voice and eyes, tell you that you are stupid (if my translation serves me correctly, what I heard from her staccato Italian sounded very much like ‘sei stupido’), when your four year old, twirling along a cobbled street, stumbles and falls.
All of these three incidents have happened to me. These women have always approached me, the mother, unashamedly and unapologetically. These women have always been older. And I am always left wondering, what lesson is here for me to learn? I haven’t figured this out yet but I’m getting pretty good at shouting back like some kind of mad English woman.
(The very Italian-looking street we staying on. Also very noisy, as you can imagine).
Books
After telling you last time not to expect any updates from me, I did in fact manage to finish both There Are Rivers In The Sky by Elif Shafak and I’m mostly here to enjoy myself by Glynnis MacNicol on holiday. I recommend both. My best bits:
From Elif Shak: Ghost streams. I love the idea that there are subterranean rivers everywhere, especially in London, like the River Fleet, the River Effra and the River Westbourne all of which re concealed and have long, rich histories (page 197-198). And, Nisaba, the goddess of writing and patron of librarians and archivists (page 404-405), who fell out of history when she was replaced by Nabu (God of writing), and she became no more than a dutiful wife.
From Glynnis MacNicol: I’m saving a lot of my thoughts on this for a longer piece with
. I’ve turned down so many pages here. But, in short- Paris Syndrome (page 5), on how disappointed tourists from Eastern Asia (particularly women in their thirties) find Paris when they arrive; the whole of Chapter ten including talk of Lee Miller and Martha Gellhorn; and just the general vibe of this book.
(More on this one soon)
This morning I finished The House of Grief by Helen Garner and it is every bit as good as I thought it would be. As you already know, I ADORE Helen Garner. This book is so gripping, so humane, so alive. I’m following it up with this interview here with her, and really enjoyed learning more about the books that shaped here, here.
I’ve now started The position of spoons by Deborah Levy.
Last bits
Finally- two excellent events I’m looking forward to, curtesy
here. This talk with Wild Swans author Jung Chang, and this panel talk hosted by Toast about living curiously. Speaking of which, I watched the Bonnie Blue documentary on Chanel four and found it really disturbing. has written an absolutely stellar piece in the latest Grazia about this and I urge you to read it here.That’s it from me- more again soon.