Tag: writing

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Walking to town (to go to W.H Smith)

I’ve written quite a bit about moving from a small town to the city, and all the benefits that come along with 24-hour supermarkets, and ordering warm cookie dough at 2am. But while I was on my afternoon stroll today, I couldn’t help but think about the benefits of a small-town childhood. Namely, appreciating the most basic of retail outlets.



I should make it clear, when I say small town, I’m referring to the relatively small town centre. The reality is that Colwyn Bay has a modest population of 34,000. A fact that is all the more jarring when compared to Llandudno – dinging in at only 20,000. Especially when you take into account how vast Llandudno’s seafront is and how great it is for shopping.

What struck me the most when I got to reminiscing, was how, despite the relatively limited retail outlets, what we had was within such short walking distance. Obviously this comes partly down to the fact that my parents bought a house in such a central location. But also to how small towns are organised. Everything, no matter how limited, is usually within a relatively short distance of one another. And what Colwyn Bay had (and mostly still has) is a theatre, a supermarket, a fabulously rundown W.H. Smith’s (that I miss dearly) and a handful of pubs, cafes and market stalls that pepper the high street. It even had the smallest branch of New Look you’ll have ever seen (and how I worked that tiled floor in my faux Docs, and my even faux-er clip in extensions).

Right, where was I? Oh, yes! I would like to mount a passionate defense of W.H. Smith. Sure, some branches might not be able to compete with the range of choices available somewhere like Waterstones, or have the same level of customer care as an independent book shop. But what they did have were the very brand of soapy, commercial novels that instilled my love of reading.

Where else does an 18 year-old small town queer flock to for menthol fags and a Marian Keyes paperback? How about the endless hardback notebooks, waiting to be filled with what I did in work that day and what boy off Grindr cancelled a date to get his hair braided (yes, that happened)? W.H. Smith! And where else would one of my straight male best friends go to purchase the naked issue of Gay Times for my 16th birthday (yes, that also happened!).

So, let’s cut the shop some slack. The little one’s in train stations and airports are even quite nice (sometimes). I can spend anywhere upwards of 25 minutes going round-and-round the tiny aisles, filling my arms with bottles of water, cans of Coke Zero, awful falafel wraps, and a trashy mag for good measure. The one in Cardiff Central even has a fabulous little Costa counter, where for an extortionate amount of money, you can walk away with two packets of Percy Pigs and a very milky Oat Latte. What is not to love?!

In a world of increasing choice, and a decreasing high street, I feel exceptionally well-placed to avoid the burnout that comes with too much choice. And absolutely inoculated against the disappointment of a dwindling number of brick-and-mortar shops. Because as long as there’s a clapped-out old Smiths, everything will be alright.

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Going home

Come September, it will be 8 years since I left home and moved to Cardiff. I suppose, for lots of people, when you’ve grown up in a small town, there is a tendency to feel as though so much of our personality is defined by how we adapt to life in bigger, busier places. We start to see ourselves as an evolution of who we once were. And there’s no wonder, especially if we’ve spent years trying to figure out how to make life go faster. Then, once we’re on the ride, all we’re doing is trying to hold on.

But, honestly, I think the only part of me that’s really changed is my threshold for inconvenience. I now know that I am truly spoiled by choice and my patience is ruined. I didn’t expect to find myself getting irrationally angry at shops and cafes closing at 5pm. That being said, in December, I discovered that Colwyn Bay now has Uber. Yes, that’s right, my parents can now order a takeaway or a taxi from an app. Though I’d certainly be surprised if they ever did.

Something I was always grateful for, living in North Wales, was that the town I grew up was relatively well served by public transport. Even if I am constantly shocked by how much more expensive a day ticket is. So, on my birthday, Rob and I got the train to Bangor. A city with a high street that gets more than it’s fair share of criticism. Though, if you’ve grown up in the area and watched shops slowly disappear from the city centre, only to relocate on retail parks on the outskirts of Caernarfon Road, it would be impossible not to feel as though the life is being slowly drained away from the town.

What I think punches above it’s weight, is Bangor’s independent retailers, keeping the city alive. Whenever I go home, I’m always itching to hop on the number 5 bus, or catch to train to go digging around Mudshark. The very shop where I bought my first ever record (Bjork’s Homogenic, if you must know), and continue to find just about anything I might be looking for. Spiritually, it reminds me of visiting Cob Records, just down the other end of the high street, when I was a child. An event so exciting that it had my parents and two brothers, all crammed into my Dad’s car with fresh batteries in our Walkmans.

Cob lives on in Porthmadog, but for a long time, the Bangor location was up there with Kavern Records in Llandudno as the one of the most reliable and well-stocked music retailers in North Wales. Mudshark is really all about the vinyl revival though. And their emphasis on speciality and local artists makes it all the more exciting. I’ve been going there since I was doing my A-Levels, back when they were crammed into their old spot, opposite the New Look (also still kicking), and I’m glad to see them still thriving.

What I wasn’t prepared for, was how easy it was to find somewhere that serves vegan food. Domu, previously an Irish pub, making their green facade seem doubly appropriate, was a real revelation. The cafe is run by husband and wife Dale (a founding member of The Smiths) and Svet (Classical musician and music teacher). Both take on the roles of Chef and front of house, and I must say, were exceptionally lovely on the Tuesday afternoon we visited. I had a pumpkin stew with rice, Rob had the chilli. Neither disappointed. With only a week and half of 2022 left, we were both in agreement as we left that this was easily our top meal of the year.

Even the oat lattes and chocolate tart we had to top it off were faultless. And the place was packed. We managed to grab the last available table and straight away Svet was over to explain that they still had ‘plenty of everything.’ Everything, as it happens, is made in batches in the morning and sold until it’s gone. All in the spirit of an Eastern European roadside cafe. So, I was glad we got there just after midday for an early lunch. I couldn’t quite believe the amount of cakes and pastries (savoury and sweet) that were on offer. Note: if you visit, the chocolate tart was somehow both the richest, and lightest thing I’ve ever eaten.

Eventually, we made our way onto the pier. Bangor Pier is one of my all time favourite places. A colleague of mine who studied in Bangor told me that she recently visited with her husband, all with the purpose of having a scone at the Pier Pavilion. A cafe that serves just about anything you could imagine (salads, baguettes, toasties, soup, cakes – all with vegan options). We had another two coffees, along with a slice of lemon cake to share (it was my birthday, after all).

Garth Pier juts out over the Menai Straits, and on a windy day, anything that isn’t bolted down has a good chance of being lost forever. But the little huts at the end are the perfect spot to catch your breath, tighten your scarf, and mentally prepare yourself for the return walk. While Llandudno ‘s Victorian Pier might be filled to capacity with things to do on a day out (arcades, fairground rides, tat shops galore and more chippies than a seagull could ever dream of), Garth Pier is more understated. It’s somewhere to stop for a coffee and unwind. And all for a suggested donation of 50p.

It took us a few attempts to work the card reader. In the end, the attendant suggested we try again on our way out, or if all else fails ‘just pay next time’. In the end, it thankfully went through. Saving me the guilt of having to leave the friendliest volunteer I’d ever met empty-handed. As Pier of the Year 2022, it was more than worth the £1 entry for both of us. And following a successful trial after the 2017 restoration, even dogs are welcome now.

Sure, everything might close on a Sunday. And yes, shops close earlier than I’m now accustomed to. But every visit reminds me of how inconsequential endless choice is when everything that is on offer is so beautiful. It’s not hard to find yourself imagining what life would be like popping out for a scone and a coffee on Saturday mornings. Or with all that endless space to walk the dog. I left for the train full, and with that ever present ache until we next return.

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Exercise, when you’re someone who doesn’t exercise

It can be intimidating to step foot into a gym where incredibly passionate (and incredibly buff) people go to maintain their huge muscles and tiny waists. But what I suspect, is that there is a sizeable population of gym users, joggers, and walkers, that don’t have a single goal in mind. People who aren’t particularly interested in transforming themselves into an Olympic athletes or marathon sprinters.

I’ve had so many conversations with friends, or well-meaning gym bunnies, who love to roll off platitudes like ‘well, everyone has to start somewhere.’ Which is certainly true. But what if you’re not trying to look good with your top off? What if you’re just in need of getting out the house?

I’d had a long break from exercise, years really, by the time of the first lockdown. In March 2020, in Wales, we were permitted a daily walk, as long as we set off on foot from our front door. And do you know what I did? Absolutely nothing.

For the first few months, I rarely left the sofa. The only exceptions were food, and trips to the bathroom. I was too afraid some days to even collect parcels. Thank God for the delivery drivers everywhere kindly leaving us our romance novels and bulk-bought spaghetti on the step. I’d even put my mask on for answering the door. I was terrified.

My partner, also terrified, but certainly less than I was, carried on heading out every day to work. Don’t worry, I’m perfectly aware of how ridiculous it is that I, a person who was paid to stay at home by the government, seemed to be having a rougher go of it than my social care worker boyfriend. But, some of us are built from weaker stuff.

It wasn’t until, probably August of that year, when things began to relax a little, and the prospect of a trip home to visit my parents, who I’d missed miserably and thought about every other second of the day, all year, that I realised: Oh God, it’s time to get out.

So, off around the block I went. Headphones in, podcast playing. While I’ve never been one to do anything by halves, that was really all I could manage. I’d spent so much time sitting around and doing nothing, that I was exhausted, physically and emotionally by a 5 minute walk to the end of my road, round the street behind us, and back round the other side. EXHAUSTED.

Still, for pure desperation and need for some inner sanity, I persisted and two months later, I was off for all-day, 10, 12, sometimes even 15 mile walks. From my front door to Taff’s Well, Pontypridd, even Newport city centre. How I managed it, I’m not sure. But what I realised quite quickly was how insignificant all of my worries became when I kept moving. For those few hours I was out the house, sense prevailed. The light was pouring in through the branches. The tunnel, well, the end was lit.

Why had no one ever told me that a bit of exercise could do this? That something as simple as a walk, could have the power to offer so much mental space, so much clarity, and floods of comfort? Okay, they had. My Mum certainly had, even Rob had suggested I’d feel much better after a walk and he’s more content with crisps and TV than anyone I’ve ever met. What I mean to say is: why had I never believed them?

For all of my moaning at the beginning, I do think the conversation around exercise is changing. Slowly are things becoming more inclusive, and as a by-product, more welcoming. Seeing someone who looks like you in a hoody and trainers goes some way to quietening your inner critic when you’re just getting started. But, here is where I need to admit that I was wrong. I’d always assumed that people who said they exercised for the mental health benefits were either one of two things: liars or addicts. And as someone who both didn’t believe them, and has been an exercise addict (oh, yes!), I couldn’t believe they were possibly saying something I needed to hear.

When I was 17, I lost a lot of weight (5 stone to be exact) in a relatively short period of time. I went mad for the treadmill, and long jogs in the sunshine. And I think, looking back, paid twofold for how extreme I was. Not just for the toll it can take on your social life, but for how it shaped such an unhealthy attitude towards food and exercise for the years that followed. So, as I went went away to university, drank lots, smoked lots, and ate even more, I began to stack it on.

By the time I’d finished my postgraduate studies, working as a part-time bar and retail supervisor, I looked and felt like an entirely different person. Not all for the worse, I’d met someone I loved, and we made a home together. I was also lucky enough to have an education that I enjoyed getting. But, I was also incredibly anxious, and trying anything to take my worries down from what felt like a 10 to a slightly more manageable 7.

Nearly 3 years ago when the world ground to a stop, I couldn’t have imagined how wonderful I was capable of feeling. 4 hour walks aren’t really an option now that I have an office job. I might work from home but there is only so much you can get away with. It’s nearly a year since I started going to the gym too, and I’ve been making smoothies and porridge like my life depends on it. And I’m truly not convinced I’ve lost a pound. And I don’t mind one bit.

What regular, moderate exercise has given me is both the balance I needed, and resilience, to feel equipped for handling stress. Now, I’m calm enough to enjoy every single day, and awake enough to take it all in. My starting point was a 5 minute walk around the block, and even if I still look exactly the same (though my haircut is certainly better than it was during COVID), I have to admit that those smug little bastards in Lycra might have been right: we all start somewhere.

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New Year’s Ease

The last time round, I was thinking a lot about the small pleasures of life. The sense of accomplishment we’re all capable of feeling when we feel able to find gratitude in the domestic. I wrote about what felt like the closure of a tumultuous time and the comfort I found in learning to bake. You may not know this but baking as a vegan is like engaging in a dangerous scientific experiment with a blindfold on. On Christmas Eve 2022, in my frenzied search for a dessert down the aisles of Tesco, I discovered my saviour: a bottle of egg substitute.

I’ve tried every variation of this type of product, some sort of okay for baking (though often producing a strange texture, far too dense for most sponge recipes) and some that scramble brilliantly, made from chickpea flour and, I assume, ground up pieces of pure solid gold. One box cost me upwards of £6. I don’t know any omnivore eating eggs for £1 a pop.

But this strange yellow bottle did the unthinkable. Already a liquid, it somehow managed to measure as the perfect baking substitute while holding it’s own in a hot frying pan. It’s not supposed to be this easy is it? The wildest part of this whole experience is that it isn’t even made from obscure ingredients like fermented mung beans, but instead: the humble pea.

I followed a simple lemon sponge recipe, swapping out the eggs for this gloopy genius (think egg with fresh cream whipped in) and whisked up some vegan cream cheese with the dregs of icing sugar left in my parents cupboard. The result: a fluffy, moist, lemon sponge cake with a delicious rich cream cheese filling. With it, an entire year of dedicated trial and error, chemical reactions, and endless baking, evaporated like it never even happened. Did it all feel like a waste of time?

Truthfully? I felt an unspeakable relief. No more carefully thickening soya milk with vinegar. Instead, decrease the oven temperature by 10 degrees Celsius and increase the baking time by 15 minutes.

So much of our resistance to change comes from our inclination to preserve our struggle as something worth while. Something necessary that we had to go through in order to arrive at an end point where we have something up on everyone else still slogging through it. We see it in resistance to our welfare system – why should it be easy for them when it was so difficult for me? We see it in generational attitudes to changing technology – why would I need a mobile phone when my landline works perfectly well? And we see it in our relationships too – why would I throw this thing away when I’ve already worked so damn hard to keep it alive?

But as I move into this new year, I’m not so focused on resolutions as I am on giving my head a wobble. Why work so hard when things can be easy? Maybe this year we can allow ourselves the gift of taking the easy road, instead of endless manoeuvring.

That’s not to say everything should be easy, or that the difficult to reach goals aren’t worth fighting for. Or that we can avoid hardship fullstop. But maybe, this year, we can give ourself the gift of not overly moralising when an easy option presents itself. Instead, why not allow ourselves to do simply whatever needs to be done, to give ourselves the space we deserve to finally put our feet up.

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Best of the budget skincare (2022 Edition)

My ideal holiday is somewhere cold with a proper good Boots. The kind that have cosmetics counters, not the little rubbish ones you get in train stations. Though, I have been known to spend just as much time in those. If you didn’t know already, SPF is my passion. Night cream, my way of life. But in 2022, I needed to go back to basics.

I’ve picked my top three products of the year: a cleanser, moisturiser and SPF. Looking back, I’m not shocked in the slightest. These were by far, some of the most pleasant, easily accessible, and affordable options.

As the year began, all bets were off. I was trying products left, right and centre. But as the year went on, the unthinkable happened: adult acne. I’d been lucky to avoid any issues with my skin for most of my life, minus some eczema as a child. But when I started to get painful blemishes, I turned to tried and trusted Differin Gel, and a whole load of gentle soothing alternatives to the products I was using.

Starting with cleanser, my favourite product of the year has to be Aveeno’s Calm + Restore Nourishing Oat Cleanser.

If you’re a fan of Cerave’s Hydrating cleanser and unsure how cope with the rising tide of Cerave’s prices, I implore you to give this a go. It is every bit as gorgeous as it sounds. Colloidal oats soothe and gently cleanse, helping to keep my skin barrier from taking any further beatings. It’s also just small enough to fit in my toiletry bag – perfect for travelling.

Aveeno feature again in my top three, this time though it’s their Calm + Restore Oat Gel Moisturiser.

Every time I open this jar, I look forward to the cool loveliness of the gel cream. Gel moisturisers are a great option in general for anyone prone to oiliness or dealing with acne, but what Aveeno nail with this product is the simplicity. With glycerine as the main humectant, colloidal oats to sooth, and no added extras like niacinimide, this helped guide my skin back to it’s former glory.

I used to be a huge fan of Cerave’s PM Lotion. A product I would have recommended to anyone looking to consolidate their routine and save money on serums and night creams. But as the price crept up, and my skin seemingly lost it’s ability to tolerate niacinimide, I was desperate for an alternative. I thank God for this perfect all round facial moisturiser.

Finally, please give a warm welcome to a seemingly impossible product. A deliciously moisturising mineral SPF, with PA++++ UVA coverage, that doesn’t leave me looking like Casper the friendly ghost. What’s more? It’s not even tinted!

Within less a few minutes this product disappears, leaving my skin with a lovely healthy glow. The trick? Just let it sit. You might find on initial application that you aren’t convinced, but give it a minute or two and you’ll be wondering where all that product went as it dries down into the perfect moisturising, blended finish.

I opted to try some mineral SPFs early on in the summer as my regular chemical faves started to cause some irritation when I applied. I now chalk this up to a damaged skin barrier. But whatever the cause, I needed high protection, and I needed it not to make me glow tomato red before I even left the house!

Enter Rovectin Skin Essentials Aqua Soothing UV Protector (SPF 50+ PA++++).

Rovectin are known for their gentle barrier loving formulas. I’ve loved this product so much, I’ve repurchased from Stylevana over and over and over again throughout the year. It provides high protection that is easy to reapply without leaving a wild white cast.

In the UK, we’re flooded with so many amazing chemical SPF formulas that nobody wants dodgy sun cream that leaves the m looking like a snowman. That’s why I was so excited to see people raving about the previously inconceivable: an untinted mineral SPF from a cruelty-free K Beauty brand, that leaves no cast and gives properly broad spectrum protection from both UVA and UVB rays. Having and tested it all summer (and winter), I can’t recommend enough!

Let me know in the comments if you’ve discovered any new favourites this year!

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next christmas, don’t bother

I love most things about December. But, all the talk of last minute shopping and food preparation timetables can take its toll on a fragile psyche. If you’re alone, or surrounded by family, this time of year can be as tough as it is joyous. However, as a formerly frazzled, Iet me tell you what I’ve come to learn and maybe we can all feel a bit less hellish.

For me, it’s all about the weeks of wandering around high street, festive decorations and glittery window displays everywhere you turn. Once the day rolls around, you realise: there it goes, see you in a year.

So, if it’s over before we know it, how do we make the most out of the festive season without spending all of our time feeling frazzled? After spending a good few Christmas just the two of us (as a result of either my partner’s job or the global pandemic we had), I think I’ve nailed it. Allow me an opportunity to convert you to a lower stress alternative.

The best thing I ever did as an adult is learn everyone’s favourite fragrances. Perfume is my favourite gift to give and receive. Men’s, women’s, unisex, I don’t care. Chanel Bleu will forever remind me of my high school prom. And Black Opium? Every night out with my best friend. As a gift, the right scent can make even my sloppiest of days feel luxurious.

A trip to The Fragrance Shop, or a walk around the beauty floor at John Lewis, activates the most primal part of my brain. Suddenly, I’m 10 years old, on a Christmas shopping trip to Chester with my Nanna. Let’s stop for lunch in BHS (full Christmas dinner, please!), then off to Boots for the two for one gift sets. My mouth waters for that muddle of top notes, indistinguishable, but not overwhelming. Bottle that up and I’ll be your most loyal customer.

Nowadays, I’m betrothed to Eden Perfumes. I came across them for the first time on a trip to Brighton while I was in university. Staying with a friend in a seafront hostel, this strange shop with big bottles nailed to the wall was the height of luxury. In reality, they’re just a great vegan alternative to all the designer brands. You name it, they, uh… pay homage. They’re also much cheaper and they even do candles now.

For those spending the season alone, lean into those Whatsapp group chats. Chances are, even those at home with the extended family are feeling just as lonely and out of sorts. Times of tradition and ritual have the ability to unsettle as much as they soothe. We remember, for better or worse. The nostalgia is inescapable. So, if you’re not feeling yourself, give a friend a call. Send them a snap of your M&S dauphinois and your fluffy socks. It might be exactly the kind of grounding they too need to get through the stifling feeling of being an adult in your childhood home. But if it’s all still feeling too much, don’t be afraid to switch off and rejoin the world on Boxing Day.

Now, food is where I worry I’m going to lose you. My brother’s presence requires a turkey that feeds at least 8-12 people. If you’re a fan of the dry stuff, please hear me out: you do not need a bird that big. Nobody does. Christmas is an event brought to life by sides. It’s all about maple roast parsnips, and caramelised carrots. Roast potatoes are what make or break the meal, not the meat. I say this as a both a glutton and an advocate for excess, it’s only going to be drowned in gravy anyway.

I must be upfront, I’ve not eaten meat in a decade, so I can’t give you any meaningful turkey tips. But I promise, an M&S nut roast will always looks more festive than a weird slab of vegetable protein resembling a turkey joint. If the fake meat is your thing (it’s certainly mine most of the time), lean in. But if you’re worried about catering for any carnivores, give it a miss. They’ll only let you know with every bite how weird it is.

My general rule is that a roast shouldn’t take more than 45 minutes to prepare and cook. Some things are worth a little extra work, but in general, the pay off does not warrant the stress. If you’re living, or just spending the big day alone, this is enough time to keep you busy without making too much washing up for yourself. Sprouts, carrots, parsnips and potatoes can all be tossed in vegetable oil and shoved on the same tray. Though you might want to pop the sprouts in 10-15 minutes before the end.

If, like me, you grew up in a home where pre-prepared vegetables indicated a moral failure worthy of ostracisation, allow me to ease your concerns. Those bags of pre-peeled and chopped carrots? Buy them and save money elsewhere. Everyone’s expectations are so heightened on Christmas day, and if you’re anything like me, once I’m feeling frazzled, it’s hard for enjoyment to come anywhere near to meeting expectation. The truth is, no one will know or care how much time you spent slaving over the root veg.

For fellow non-drinkies out there, Nosecco is a fun novelty and it’s only £3. But a can Diet Coke is just as perfect. It can be a nervous time of year to navigate the ‘why aren’t you drinking?’ conversation and ‘because I was previously mad and still have the potential to be mad’ can suck the air right out of the room. But once everyone sees that you’re just as comfortable, having just as much fun as they are, it’ll be yesterday’s news in no time. If they’ve experienced the mad, they’ll probably be glad your tipple is now 99% sparkling water, 1% artificial sweetener anyway.

Time spent on the sofa watching reruns of the Vicar of Dibley on GOLD is invaluable. Boxes of mince pies don’t eat themselves. For the few days a year we might all actually come together, nothing much really needs to happen at all. This year I bought a vegan alternative to a tin of Quality Street, and everyone was dying to look at the little menu and see how everything compared, even if the overpriced chocolates were a bit rubbish. We went to M&S on Christmas Eve to look for mince pies and ended up just having a coffee in Cafe Nero. Nothing needs to go to plan. Sometimes just saying ‘fuck it’ is all it takes to pierce the tension and make everything more fun for everyone involved.

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‘tis the season to be eating

December might have only just began, but I must confess, I’m already one box of mince pies into the Christmas spirit. I know, I know, starting early gets a lot of dirty looks and judgemental comments. BUT – I’ve gone all in this year. I even put the tree up on the 28th of November. It’s been such a wild year (THREE prime ministers and energy bills skyrocketing) that I have decided the only thing to soothe the anxiety of 2022 is to lean in, as far as physically possible, into the festivities.

I’ve gotten a lot done this year that I never thought possible. A job I love, finally lost the weight I’ve been trying to shift for years, found a love of – dare I say it – exercise. I’m even learning how to save some money, and being financially responsible has never been one of my strong points. But as the seasons change, and our days become increasingly shorter, twinkly lights and the smell of all-spice and orange rind is the only thing that can save me from gloom.

What I think people underestimate is how much the change affects us as we slip out of never ending daylight during the summer months, into the dark by 4:30 misery of winter. I think it’s why I’m so grateful towns up and down the country are slinging up the decorations earlier and earlier every year. Without them, we’d all be wandering around wondering if we’re just in the middle of history’s longest ever solar eclipse. Weren’t we all just having barbecues?

It might be a bit of a controversial take, but other than toast, I am not a fan of a hot breakfast. For me, even in winter, a cold breakfast just seems more gentle. I love porridge, but ever since learning that a pot of coconut yoghurt and some oat milk can make it just as creamy as 3 minutes in the microwave, I’ve no interest in eating it warm. Anyway, for me, winter is all about larger mugs of coffee, toast made with a farmhouse loaf, swapping margarine for butter, and slathering everything in strawberry jam.

I’m a huge fan of finely chopped salads during the warmer months, I’ll even happily swap out a cooked lunch for a large smoothie with some protein powder. But as soon as November comes around, pastries take centre stage. And rightfully so! Popping out for a long walk on the weekend and sitting in some warm, steamy cafe with an Oat Latte and a vegan croissant – yes, please!

It’s also the only time of year that I’m patient enough to even attempt baking. The summer months are somewhat of a hell for us. Our attic flat heats up to temperatures only rivalled by the reptile house at the zoo. But if there’s one thing I’ve mastered as a vegan, that I can comfortably come back to every year, it’s the sponge cake.

So I’ll leave you with this.

Biscoff Sponge Cake:

Starting with a standard Victoria sponge recipe:

300g of self-raising flour

175g of caster sugar

150g of dairy free margarine or vegetable oil.

300ml of oat milk (with 2 tbsp of lemon juice stirred in)

2 tsp of bicarb

While it’s baking, get going on the buttercream.

150g of dairy free margarine

100g of Biscoff spread

600g of icing sugar

Half a packet of Biscoff biscuits

It’s as simple as this:

Preheat your fan oven to 160C.

Add the lemon juice to the oat milk and set aside for 5 minutes. This will allow it to thicken to a consistency similar to buttermilk.

Combine all of the dry ingredients and the margarine (or oil). Add your liquid.

I split between two cake tins. I grease with oil using a paper towel and lay down a circle of baking paper to stop the cake from sticking. I don’t have much trust for non-stick tins – especially when baking.

Bake for 30-40 minutes. I know 10 mins is a big difference, but just trust me, vegan baking is a bit mysterious. Give it a prick with a sharp knife or toothpick after half an hour, and then at 5 minute intervals if it’s not quite done. Baking without dairy or eggs tends to be a lot wetter. As a result, it often takes longer than it’s animal-derived sister.

For the butter cream, combine all of the ingredients in a mixing bowl and mix as hard as you can without getting icing sugar everywhere. However, you might find it a lot easier if you’ve got a hand mixer. Margarine can vary between brands/recipes, so add a tablespoon of oat milk if needed.

Wait till the cake cools, add half the buttercream to the middle, and spread half on the top. Smash the biscuits in a sandwich bag with a rolling bin, and add the crumbles to the top to decorate.

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November Reading

I’m writing today with the heating on, having just come in from a walk around the city centre. The Christmas stalls are out, and the transitional misery that comes with leaping into winter is starting to lift.

I was pleased to see the busiest stall being that of an elderly woman serving home-made Welsh Cakes. A smell that was made all the more otherworldly by the fact it is now properly freezing outside. Not entirely unlike the smell of doughnuts being deep fried as I walk up the high street where I grew up.

I thought the bustle of crowds on a sweaty August afternoon would be enough to teach me not to venture into central Cardiff on a weekend. But, apparently it seems we’ve collectively decided that as the cost of heating our homes rises, we might as well walk aimlessly around the warm shops instead. I don’t know if it’s a post-Covid thing but I think people are regressing. Nobody seems able to watch where they’re walking any more. A particular double wide pram blocking the walkway outside of Starbucks, while a bedraggled parent stopped to send a text message, had my eyes looking out of the back of my skull.

Anyway, first book. I’m going to work backwards because I was so touched by this one that I need to get this down immediately. Tom Allen’s Too Much is a properly cathartic hand-to-hold through grief, an unavoidable path we all have to eventually take. It weaves stories of the aftermath with tales of Tom’s father beautifully. But what this book did the most effortlessly was the way it carried us along seemingly unrelated trips down memory lane before landing at the lesson, or sometimes simply mannerism, Tom learnt from his father.

 

Dad, hanging the Christmas lights. Shot on Kodak ColorPlus 200


While I’m incredibly lucky to still have both of my parents, this book struck a cord with how my own Dad and I have come to understand each other as we age. I certainly had a tendency to need everything spelled out for me in absolute terms, too uncomfortable to sit with any kind of ambiguity, growing up. And I’ve never before seen such a beautiful depiction of a father and a son from different generations, simply seeing each other. Not everybody has what it takes to sit down and unpack a lifetime of impatience, every harsh word, and misunderstanding. But, it’s never too late to notice the small acts of grace and kindness we show each other. 

As you might notice, I’ve been on a bit of a non-fiction kick this month. It happens sometimes. And Moshin Zaidi’s A Dutiful Boy was another memoir I found quite touching. Again, there was a theme of alienation and the inevitable feeling of loneliness that can arrive when we don’t feel seen by our parents. I’ll come back to this when I talk about The Way Out by Tufayel Ahmed next month. 

Oxford graduate, criminal barrister and Stonewall trustee, Moshin Zaidi is the very definition of a high achiever. But, for me, it was descriptions of university counselling sessions and the overwhelming effort of walking back from feelings of hopelessness that made this book so relatable. A beautiful reminder of how despite our background, our childhood, our culture or our achievements, the universal human experience is how we recover from and reshape our pain.

Shot on Kodak ColorPlus 200 35mm

Right, if I’ve loved the last two, it’s probably time for a stinker.

Now, I’m absolutely being unfair here, because Jeremy William’s Climate Change Is Racist is a perfectly passable primer for those who truly have no clue and want somewhere gentle to begin. My issue was that, upon finishing, I really couldn’t decide what I’d learned and why I’d bothered to spend time (thankfully not money, it was a library read) with something that almost completely misses the mark. 

Despite the author acknowledging his own whiteness, there’s little depth to any probe into the racial aspects of climate change. Even more shocking, the book doesn’t really attempt to engage with the racial implications of capitalism and corporations exploiting the resources of the global south in any meaningful way. It’s not all bad, it just felt more like a walk through of keywords, without the glossary needed to help put them into context.

Finally, fiction. 

Alexa Donne’s Pretty Dead Queens was everything I wanted and needed. A mystery novel about a mystery novelist. When you come from a small town, reading about small towns can be a risky move. I often brace myself for a cringe-filled depiction of backwards bumpkins. But, this book hit every beat with enough heart, and careful planning, that I could revisit Ceceilia (our protagonist) over and over. Hopefully Donne will return to this town, but even if she doesn’t, I know I’ll love whatever she writes next. 

The small town I’m from – shot on Kodak ColorPlus 200

Everything I haven’t got round to covering in this post, I’ll revisit in December. Once the tree is up and I’m at least a stone heavier. 

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Where you are

Cardiff, overlooked from Penarth. Kodak Color Plus 200 // 35mm.

Is there really anything romantic about the city anymore? Or has own online world made the metropolis moot?

I, myself, love the idea that I can go for a coffee at 9 o’clock at night. But that certainly doesn’t mean I ever go for one. For me, it almost boils down to a reassuring pleasure in knowing that I can quite literally hear life bustling on outside my open window, well into the early hours. Perhaps this background stimulation ties into a lifetime of friends convinced that my own constant need for movement is actually the presence of undiagnosed ADHD. The older I get, the more inclined I am to agree with them.

But actually knowing whether the city adds anything at all to my quality of life – or whether it in fact drains plenty away – is something I can no longer turn my head away from. Recently, at a wedding, our bustling table of vegans (don’t worry, we were happily grouped together) took a break from chatting about the uncomfortable strange yellow hue of soya milk, to discuss where we all came from. A topic I find as interesting as it is obligatory for any group of strangers forced to make small talk.

‘London,’ came the first response. In an accent as northern as, well, the woman herself. ‘From Leeds originally, obviously, but been in London for, God, nearly 7 years. I consider myself from London at this point.’

7 years is my own number too. I’ve lived in Cardiff since moving here for university in 2015. And I sort of understand her response, because my love was instant too. Even if, at times, tumultuous. Yet, all this time later, my go-to response remains ‘little town in North Wales,’ followed by the just as dependable ‘probably haven’t heard of it; Colwyn Bay?’

Mural by Colwyn Bay Pier. Kodak Color Plus 200 // 35mm.

I’ve always been conflicted about moving across the country. The main reason being how far away it is from my family. But, really, what it boils down to for me, is because of how obviously a product of my home I am. And when I say home, I of course mean ‘home’ home. I am consistently amazed by how late the buses run (and how cheap the price of all-day travel), by the amount of train stations in our part of South Wales, how late restaurants stay open, and the mere concept of Deliveroo. All things, those that grew up here, probably haven’t ever thought twice about.

There’s also a strange sort of longing I associate with coming from a small town. A nostalgia for dreaming about exactly what I have now. Without knowing a single detail of what it would actually be like. Because, when you’re not from a city, a city could be anything. A sort of frustration that something beautiful and exciting is going on elsewhere, while I stroll up an empty high street and eat chips on the beach.

Footpath alongside Llandaff Cathedral, Cardiff. Kodak Color Plus 200 // 35mm.

So, perhaps that’s why our responses are so different. Leeds, at least to me, is just as much a city as anywhere with rising rents, accessible public transport and nightclubs. But for someone who grew up there? Well, it’s a lifetime of memories, happiness, trauma and frustrations, sure. But it certainly isn’t blind to the reality of everything that the urban demands. And while we can all long for something bigger and more exciting, it can’t be avoided that growing up in a city prepares you well for living there.

Growing up in a small town? It’s incubation. More thinking time than you can imagine. Time spent walking everywhere, time spent at bus stops, always waiting to see if something will change, and always knowing that it likely won’t. It’s being an adult and wondering how long you’ll last before heading home. And whether there’ll be anything left for you when you finally get there.

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2021: The perfect sponge.

Image of a Victoria Sponge cake taken on Kodak ColorPlus 200 35mm Film. March 2021.

Starting the year, let’s be frank: things were pretty miserable.

Fresh off the back of the Christmas lockdown, plenty of us had spent the Christmas period unable to visit loved-ones. Or in my case, I’d been unable to raise my family’s blood pressure by suggesting that we pan-fry or roast the Brussel sprouts. And with the dull throb of wondering when we’d all be allowed to see each other again, I went to work on Christmas Eve. To a new job I hated more than I’d ever hated any job. Perhaps in part because – on paper at least – it was perfect. Or so everyone told me.

So, off I skipped to catch the bus – mask on and hands already tingling from the alcohol evaporating off them. Having managed to avoid doing so for 10 months already, catching Covid from someone on their way to do last-minute shopping would definitely have sped up the arrival of my P45. I’d have quit with 5 minutes of receiving the text to tell me my test was positive.

After finishing at midday, and being dropped off by a colleague who most certainly took pity on me, we went through the motions. By all means, an M&S Plant Kitchen Christmas is hardly a form of torture. But sat, just the two of us in our tiny flat in Roath, and a year of desperation to feel that safety of the house I grew up in, I would have given both arms to have been able to travel home. Home home.

Over 75s had just started to receive their vaccinations in Wales, and even on the 1st of January, I don’t think anyone could have anticipated how quickly we’d all end up with a needle in our arm and life once again, beginning to blossom.

Photo of a cherry blossom tree in Bute Park. Shot on Kodak ColorPlus 200 35mm. April 2021

It was Monday the 18th of April when I had the phone call. One of the first properly warm days of the year. The saturation of everything switched from 0 to 100. The woman on the other end of the line asked if I could come down right away, explaining that the mass vaccination centre was in located in the old Toys-R-Us in the Bay.

Desperate for the call to end, so I could book my Uber ride, I was already stripping off my pyjamas. This meant that I was an hour early. So after chatting excitedly with a freshly-jabbed taxi driver who seemed more enthused than I was to be dropping me off for mine, I awkwardly spent 5 minutes trying to kill time in the huge Morrisons across the road from Vaccines-R-Us. Until I promptly gave up and checked in 50 minutes early. And you know what? It was to the eager smile of an admin worker who told me ‘yeah, just go straight through, they’ll do it now.’

Only a week later I was sat on the other end of a Microsoft Teams call for the friendliest job interview I’d ever had. Shops were busier, people were less miserable than I’d seen in at least 12 months – maybe longer. Every phone call with a friend, and there were many, were suddenly all about making plans. Not just the kind of plans we’d all made during the many lockdowns we’d been through, but proper, solid, concrete plans.

Of course, they were still punctuated with ‘Oh, we’ll be sensible. Obviously.’ But now we were jabbed. And the fear of losing even more than we already had, started to melt away like snow. Only the occasional glance out the window at the roof of the neighbour’s shed even reminded us it had ever been.

Bute Park April 2021. Taken on Kodak ColorPlus 200 35mm.

And in the rush of everybody’s hearts reopening to the possibility of normalcy. Every little niggling thought at the back of my mind told me if I didn’t deal with the weight of how unwell I’d become, not just over the last year of the pandemic, but really the last decade, I might as well stay home. Carry on pretending the world was closed for business.

For the first time I was able to see how much gloom had descended on my life, and how much disfunction I’d invited, relied upon, to make sense of it. The 2 o’clock cleaning to fend off waves of tears from the worry that, only exagerated by the pandemic, that my friends and loved ones would die, leaving me all alone. Or that I was heading for an early grave. That my worrying was going to send me to an early grave. Or my smoking. Or drinking.

By June, I had started a course of cognitive behavioural therapy, that felt as though I was most certainly drowning. Now on top of the worry I already knew about, was my lack of self-esteem to contend with. And the behaviours that ensued. The way I treated others, and the way I let them treat me. Even the way I facilitated and encouraged it.

Until a moment towards the end of the session, about four weeks in. When, as we wrapped things up for the week, as the counsellor did their standard warm down of well-dones and thank you for showing up did it occur to me, that I didn’t feel worse ending the call. And didn’t feel weepy. Just exhausted and grateful that I was floating. No flailing and splashing. No resistence.

Colwyn Bay Pier, 2021. Shot on Superia Xtra-400 35mm.

As the weeks went on, floating mostly, though still splashing, I moved closer towards the finishing line. Now the line might have just been a course of counselling with a local charity, but getting there felt like stepping onto the most solid ground I’d been on in my adult life. And maybe it was because, at 25, my brain had finally stopped maturing (though the jury’s out on what good that does). Or maybe it was the most validating experience I believe a human can go through: having our worries and fears, and heartache and tears heard by someone who can explain back to us in scientific terms just how normal we really are.

We’re all formed by the context of our lives. And reformed. Forever malleable to the world we’re living in. And I think we even acknowledge this potential for change in the way we push forward with so much terror, everyday. How can I prove my usefulness to my boss, or my family? How can I keep moving so I don’t end up stuck, stagnant? Even if the place we’re stuck has everything we need to find proper world stopping joy. Like discovering you like tea as an adult. Or learning to bake the perfect vegan victoria sponge. Or going for a walk and listening to an audiobook.

For me it was learning to bake. A lot harder than you might think. Especially for someone who tries to cut corners on every meal by cooking in a single pan. But that was it. Slowing down enough to do something for pleasure rather than function was like learning to walk for the first time. Even eating was just a process by which I could end hunger and lower my stress response. The trial and error wasn’t a tear free experience either. But here’s the thing: we don’t often get things right on our first go. Not a cake recipe, or mindfulness.

Disaster Cake – a Chocolate Buttercream Sponge – iced before the cake had cooled. Shot on Kodak ColorPlus 200, 35mm.

I think I’d decided on my 2022 goal, my forever goal, that first week of July. Four weeks into counselling. Go slow.