Self-Care Sunday – Just STOP

This is a Self-Care Sunday post, which was started by wonderful blogger and social-media expert Elizabeth from Rosalilium: a weekly post to talk about self-care. And because I believe self-care is extremely important, I have decided to join my fellow blogger and write about it.

This week I’ve been thinking about stopping: dropping everything and just standing still. It’s like when you used to be a student with no car and had to walk or take public transport to go to the supermarket. You would put all of your groceries in plastic bags and carry a week’s worth of shopping home. You’d begin with a lot of energy and determination, to soon start questioning how smart it was to buy a box of detergent and that huge bottle of milk. With those crappy plastic bags cutting your fingers, your back seizing up, you quickly realise how worthless it was to shower that morning, now that you are completely drenched in sweat. You spot a bench, drop the bags, sit and you’re in heaven. Not only does it feel wonderful, but that short pause gives you the extra energy you need to get home, with a better stance so your back suffers less and an actual smile when you walk into the guy you like.

Self-care is self-preservation. Animals know it best. They won’t put themselves at risk if they feel weak or vulnerable, because they don’t want to pay with their life.

Why is it that some of us ignore the warning signs and carry on? Why is it that when we know, deep down, that we are not functioning, we still keep at it? We become snappy towards those we love, we get sick, we take stupid risks like driving under extreme stress, or make the worst decisions of our lives out of a form of self-inflicted pressure.

On Friday I stopped. I just couldn’t function anymore. Sick, weak and in a lot of pain I held on to the idea of walking my dogs. I kept thinking I had to do it even when I broke down in tears, even when a coughing fit almost made me choke, even when my abdomen hurt so much I could scream of pain. All I had to do was stop. Nothing else.

I spent the day on my sofa. I watched Jane The Virgin, I took a couple of naps. The world didn’t stop spinning, I still have to do the dreaded tax-return, finish knitting some 2,000 pieces, unpack my travel bag, dye my hair, go to Yoga… the list goes on.

If you don’t stop, how are you going to be the best version of yourself? How are you going to function when your body shuts down? You are of no use to anyone or yourself if you are not strong and healthy.

If you don’t practice self-care, who is going to do it for you?

Confessions of a grown-up groupie

I’ve always been a bit of a rock chick. Whether dreaming of bleaching my hair and becoming Debbie Harry, joining Prince’s band à la Sheena Easton, or discovering the badass side to silk blouses and mermaid hair with Alanis Morissette.

The true feminist in me would love to tell you that my love affair with rock music came from idolising inspirational women. But alas, before becoming a rock chick, I was a groupie. Not that I actually trailed tour buses because where I lived, southern Spain, very few buses were worth jumping on. Teeny me would see a man with a guitar on MTV and forget about my toast and nearly burn the house down. My younger self would hang a gigantic flag with a certain rock idol’s face, taking over half of the bedroom, while my little sister was forced to stick her Spice Girls posters behind the door. 

So, here it is: I publicly confess a liking for tight jeans, leather jackets and Ray-Bans. It started at an early age and as I grew up, went through a list of crushes I will now proceed to share with all of you… because I feel like embarrassing myself.

Age 7 – Joey Tempest, lead singer of Europe: In my defence, this one sneaked up on me. Up until that age my life was Madonna, hiding under the bed whenever the Thriller video came on and learning Janet Jackson’s best moves. Watching Europe perform Carrie on TV, my parents blew my cover noticing me staring at the screen, hypnotised by the skin-tight leather and permed locks. While I longed to be Carrie, Joey Tempest never replaced my New Kids On The Block posters, so this crush was short-lived.

Age 12 – Jon Bon Jovi, lead singer of Bon Jovi. Because, what’s better than a long haired rocker? One that cuts his hair and becomes the sex symbol every single teen in the nineties wanted to snog. The first vinyl I bought – as it came with bigger pictures of the dude – Keep The Faith, had me dreaming of becoming Mrs Bongiovi. I bought a Bon Jovi t-shirt and decided I would get a Superman tattoo as soon as I hit 18. A couple of years later I stopped paying attention to the band and thankfully, never got that tattoo.

Age 15 – Jarvis Cocker, Pulp icon, a god on stage and the guy that made me realise clever lyrics and the right attitude were far sexier than ripped jeans and curls. I wanted to be in his band – oh Candida Doyle how I envied you – I dreamt of moving to London and bumping into him in a pub, a romance blossoming around chintz wallpaper and sticky coasters. Years have passed since my britpop fever, but I still love Jarvis Cocker’s moves, his wit and yes, one of my dogs is named after him.

Age 17 – Steven Tyler, of Aerosmith. The definition of a bad boy, the guy that had been around for decades before I spotted him, and the sexiest man to utter the word pink. My crush was short-lived though, as I soon discovered Alanis, Sheryl Crow, TLC and Aaliyah. I thought I had kissed the bad boys goodbye, until …

…at the age of 25, I was dragged to a Stereophonics gig, seeing Kelly Jones live for the very first time. And this is where I stop, because honestly, we are at a point that is hard to beat. Leather jacket? Check. Shades and a rock star attitude? Check. R-rated lyrics? Have you heard I Could Lose Ya? And finally, THAT voice. The kind that hits you and all you can utter is “wow”. The raspy type that can’t-sound-this-good-live but then it does. It’s obvious, I’m still hooked.

The funny thing about having a thing for men who play guitar, is that you look back on the –very questionable– real life guys you dated, and how can one not blame rock n’ roll? We all have a dodgy past, our “what was I thinking” crushes. Mine reflect a side of myself steadily developing over the years: the rebellious side, the one that got tattoos and piercings, the one that wasn’t afraid of falling for the less popular guy, dumping those wanting me to be someone else. And now, if you will excuse me, I’m going to play that new Stereophonics song  one more time.

C’est La Vie is the first single from Keep The Village Alive, Stereophonics’ new album, out 11.09.15

Pictures: Europe/Epic, K Fuchs/Rex Features, Steven Tyler via Facebook

It’s Christmas, go treat yourself

It’s finally Christmas. The season of Yule is here, with its colourful lights and mammoth supplies of eggnog . There is nothing to be gained in refusing every mince pie that is happily shoved into your face, saying no to those ever regretful office parties or convincing yourself you will never get caught in a kitschy Christmas jumper – even the Foo Fighters are selling one. Embrace it with open arms, wear that tinsel on your head and knock back some Baileys before diving into the crowds, for the stress filled-bonanza of shopping for others.

Or, maybe… you could do it all the same, but buying for yourself. If there is something more heartwarming than overpriced mulled wine or receiving yet another singing elves e-card, is the joy of loving oneself. In the gospel of Parks and Recreation this comes under the TREAT-YO-SELF psalm. And it is good.

Please don’t get me wrong, I love giving presents to others, especially when I gift something that doesn’t involve socks or a voucher. Few things beat seeing the face of a loved one light up… but, let’s face it, it comes a close second to gifting yourself. That wonderful feeling when you open your wallet to buy that special object you may not need, but will make you endlessly happy. I did that recently, except it was less of buying an instant joy fix, but more, investing in my long-term happiness.

This particular TREAT-YO-SELF moment came via Sali Hughes’ Pretty Honest, a cute book on the outside, filled with all things beauty and wellbeing on the inside. It was a treat because, generally, due to my being-a-writer-with-no-means-but-a-hell-lot-of-dreams budget, I get my books from charity shops or borrow them from someone. On this occasion, this was not possible. So off I went spending £15 on the Guardian Bookshop – because, apparently, I’m a liberal and screw Amazon, really.

Being “pretty honest” about this photo: Jarvis doesn’t get out of bed for less than two biscuits

Sali’s book is packed with no-nonsense advice and straightforward explanations that are very useful for a hopeless tomboy like myself, or anyone wanting to learn about how to make the most of their skin. Amongst chapters on make-up, serums, pregnancy beauty and the like, my eye-opening discovery came via: “wait, you TIP at the hairdressers???!!”– there I was, happily collecting negative hair-karma points with my blissful ignorance. Who knew? But yes, it is common practice.

Truthfully, this book has been pretty life changing, or more exactly, skin-changing. A long sufferer of acne and moody skin, Pretty Honest helped me truly identify, once and for all, my skin type and discover what lotions would suit me best. After a month following Sali’s advice, my skin looks clearer and brighter, to the point that I recently braved my biggest fear: going out with my fringe pinned back. My bangs are my best allies and the fail-proof way of hiding some forehead lines I detest. Now, those lines have practically disappeared and this is when those £15 – plus a few more I spent on the right, yet inexpensive, products – make Sali’s book a worthy investment in my happiness.

Treating oneself  is an act of selfishness, albeit of the good kind. You don’t even have to spend money, it may mean eating your partner’s chocolate because, hey, you deserve it. It may mean going out for a walk because it’s blissfully sunny, instead of spending the afternoon working like an ass in front of the computer – which I did that today. It may mean going to the cinema accompanied only by a huge bucket of popcorn, and eating said bucket in its entirety. It’s that clear moment when you realise “yes, I bloody well deserve this”. It’s Christmas, don’t fight it. Grab the tinsel, enjoy a delicious drink, and TREAT-YO-SELF .

Pictures: Fashion Limbo

The ultimate fashion tip

If there is one tip that I find actually works, and that can be applied to states of stress, depression, sickness, nervousness, moments in which everything surpasses me, it’s to make the effort to look good. Whether by styling my crazy hair, getting out of the pyjama bottoms – I could live in them – or applying some make-up. It works.

It’s about feeling good about myself, whenever I catch my reflection in the mirror or on a shop window. If I look good, I have something less to fret about, adding ease of mind and helping me feel better. Think about the opposite: if I do nothing, go out without washing my face or choose the beaten up old pair of yoga trousers to dress for the post office, it’s
very likely I will soon regret not having made a slight effort.
Why give myself the extra worry? It can take less than five minutes. These are my rules:

1 – Regarding make up, bucket loads are not required. Maybe mascara and some lipgloss, or just some foundation and a light blush. Personally, I feel made up with just some brown eyeliner, concealer to cover some dodgy areas and lip balm.

2 – Never underestimate the power of a nice fragrance. It’s been scientifically proven – that’s “Jess talk” for I read it somewhere – that people wearing perfume feel better about themselves. I love refreshing body sprays, no fuss and quick to apply after a nice shower.

3 – Invest in some nice loungewear, or ask for it on your next birthday. It’s not the same to walk around the house in your pyjamas – which is absolutely fine to do once a week, with a tub of ice cream, and The Good Wife on repeat -, than to do so with some nice-fitting cotton trousers and a flattering top. This applies especially if you work from home. It’s just too tempting to make no effort, and speaking by experience, it eventually will make you feel pretty miserable.

If it works for me, it can work for you. Whatever you are going through, whatever is making you curse your life at the moment, you deserve to feel better, you deserve to be happy about the way you look. You deserve to smile. Never forget about yourself.

Picture: Fashion Limbo

Thirty years of purple

Thirty years ago our lives became more purple. Thirty years since a short guy from Minneapolis fooled those who thought he was shy and insecure. The world became sexier, all because of Purple Rain. Prince was the audacious mind behind the project, an album and a film.

I was too young to understand the complexity of Prince’s catalogue, but I vividly remember – it is one of my earliest memories – asking my father why he seemed overwhelmed in front of the audience he was about to perform to. My father explained that he was hugely talented, but also quite shy. That’s the myth, that the man to become one of the most influential figures in music, lacked confidence. He soon got rid of that image by shocking audiences with his raunchy performances, explicit lyrics – Darling Nikki for starters – and overtly sexual album covers.

I grew up loving this man. I stole my brother’s Batman soundtrack to listen to Vicky Waiting on repeat. Playing Get Off really loudly, I heard my shocked mother scream from the kitchen “What did he just say?!” At the time I innocently ignored my mother’s question, but this is how the controversial lyrics went:

“I clocked the jizz from a friend of your’s named Vanessa Bet, Bet
She said you told her a fantasy that got her all wet, wet
Something about a little box with a mirror and a tongue inside
What she told me then got me so hot I knew that we could slide”

Purple Rain was how Prince came into my life. His eyeliner, the high heels, the gorgeous jackets, everything about his style had me in awe.

If there was one song that changed my life, it was When Doves Cry. The opening with the mesmerising guitar rift, the pulsating beat, the lyrics, have had me obsessed since childhood. It remains one of my favourite tunes ever, to the point that if a song reminds me of it, it instantly becomes part of my playlist. Jessie Ware’s latest release, Tough Love, has me thinking me of Prince’s original, and I love it.

And another song with heavy purple vibes, Colour Of Moonlight, the song that introduced me to Grimes. If you know of any other piece of work that you think is influenced by When Doves Cry, do let me know.
Thirty years on, Prince is still everywhere.

Picture: Prince, Warner Bros.

13 random facts about me

At the risk of fuelling the ego-centric side of blogging, this post is actually a good exercise in writing – and something I should do more often. Without rambling further about the reasons behind this, here goes:

1 – I used to practise judo. I did five years of it, took part in a competition once and won a gold medal. I quit at the age of 11 to join the school choir.

2- I speak French. I learnt on the go while working for a high-end fashion brand in Brussels. I also ended up picking up some words in Dutch – although my “conversations” in this language mostly involved nodding and smiling repeatedly.

3- I’ve been a music junkie since my childhood which can make playing Buzzer with me slightly annoying. Ask me what kind of music I like and I break out in a sweat…I wouldn’t know where to begin.

4 – I always try to get rid of insects by – gently- throwing them out of the window. If I am forced to kill one, I always apologise to the poor creature.

5 – I’m a wannabe vegetarian. It’s more about ethics than dietary preferences. Living with someone who enjoys eating meat, paired with my low budget makes it very difficult for me to become a full-time vegetarian, but I do try to eat as little meat as possible.

6 – I spent most of my childhood in southern Spain, and after years of not being able to dance flamenco at parties, in my late teens I asked my friends to teach me. I only mastered a type of dance, called sevillanas, but became quite good at it.

7 – When I was 7, I asked a nun whether my dod would go to heaven after he died. She told me he wouldn’t, as beasts weren’t allowed into heaven. That’s the day I began questioning the Catholic Church.

8 – My favourite film is Drive. The soundtrack gives me goosebumps.

9 – I’m a bit of a nerd when it comes finding information online. It takes me seconds to make connections and go from one subject to the next. I am not sure what I can do with this skill, but it has become very useful to those closest to me.

10 – Although I can seem be very sociable, I’m actually an introvert. I lost my best friend a few years ago, and due to other events in my life, it takes me a while to trust people. I also don’t like to talk about my personal life to people I don’t know much.

11 – While I don’t read comics, I’m pretty well versed in the Marvel universe. This is thanks to my older brother brainwashing me as a child with the likes of Spiderman and X-Men. I gleefully devour any films on the subject of superheroes.

12 – I once lent my vocals to three songs by a pair of Belgian producers. I spent hours in a recording studio, and although I enjoyed the experience, I am happy to say this songs have been lost, especially a – very strange – dance track I recorded.

13 – I have tattoos in three different parts of my body. One on my left shoulder, a few small ones on my ribs, and the most recent one on my right foot.

And that’s it… feel free to share any random facts about yourself below. xx

From zero to your own hero

I used to think I was pretty useless. I labelled myself as a loser and considered myself undeserving of anything good, such as friends, money, holidays and love. More often than not, I felt deflated hanging out with people that earned more than me, admiring their lovely clothes and flawless manicures or their seemingly fulfilling existences. It’s not that I resented them, I admired them and their abilities to become who they were. The one receiving all the hateful judging was myself. 

Life treats us all differently. Whether you were fired from your job, bullied in school, abused by those who are supposed to love you, treated unfairly at any point of your life: the worst thing you can do, is believe what negative, narrow-minded and somewhat twisted individuals say about you. Someone or something may have put those ideas in your head, and they may not even be true, have you ever considered that?

You should never cease to believe that you are your own person, master of your own life, and, incredibly enough, your own hero. When was the last time you looked in the mirror and saw yourself for the incredible human being that you really are?

The operative word being “used” – as in I used to be pretty cruel to myself – this is what made me change the way I looked at myself.

1- Sleeping more: As simple as it sounds, getting some extra time under the covers can do wonders. Fatigue makes me cranky, and when I’m at my moodiest, I take it out on myself. I feel slow, incapacitated and lazy. Every night I attempt to get a minimum of eight hours sleep, or whatever I need to wake up feeling rested. If I need more, a 20 minute nap in the afternoon can do wonders. Sleeping more will make you think better, feel better and it has a direct link with improving your health, so get snoozing.

2- Carefully select what you share and who with: The best decisions I’ve ever taken are those in which I really didn’t consult anyone. I was always the type of person who needed a second, or even third opinion when it came to decisions affecting my career or my lifestyle: basically, anything that was relevant only to me. Over the years I listened to those that said “that’s a stupid idea” or “you’ll never be happy if you do that” and even “how can you want to do that?!”. Each of these opinions came from people that, supposedly, loved me. The truth is that, taking their own fears and doubts as my own, I ended up unhappy and pursuing nothing. Since I stopped doing that, which was easier than I thought, I am feeling happier by the day, failing and succeeding at my own decisions. I’ve never felt freer. I’ve never felt greater.

3- Take up a challenge: Maybe it’s climbing a high mountain, or training for a half marathon, or you may want to read four books in one month. Whatever you fancy doing but are unsure, just set yourself the challenge and get on with it. Mine was getting a yoga teacher’s certificate, with a life-altering injury and zero confidence. You can read more about it here, and here. Last week I was given my certificate, and I am now fit to teach Yoga. That rectangle of paper made me feel like a true badass…which is quite a wonderful feeling. 

4- Listen to your gut: it something doesn’t feel right, it’s probably because it isn’t. Don’t force yourself to do things that others expect you to do. Ask yourself, who will be disappointed? If it’s others, think long and hard about what you do to yourself. How will the situation affect you and how will it feel after you do it. If you’re the one to suffer, don’t do it. Take care of YOURSELF, then take care of others, just like the safety announcements on planes.

5- Replace the nasty lie with a beautiful statement: Most of my negativity comes from statements such as “I’m a slacker and a loser”. If I am going to make declarations that are not true, why not make them wonderful? “I work REALLY hard and I’m a success” -> this is the mantra I should apply to myself, the words I should keep in my head. Not the negative, self-destructing ones, because those do nothing for me. Think about what negative things you say about yourself, write them down, then turn them around. 

Life is tough enough, with its daily battles, dizzy highs and trying lows. Realising you are the most important person in your own existence, championing yourself and celebrating your own achievements is as important as drinking water. Feed yourself from the inside out, you deserve it.

Does anyone actually care about sweatshops?

A year ago, a Bangladesh clothing factory collapsed, killing 1,129 people. I write this number** but I still barely believe it: one-thousand-one-hundred and twenty-nine human beings died while creating garments for Benetton, Mango, Primark, El Corte Inglés and many other brands: tops, dresses, coats, clothing we get for, really, very little money.

At the time there was so much written about it, petitions pushed forward,  many brands signed pledges to strive to improve workers’ conditions, to ensure every person involved in the process of creating a garment could work in complete safety and for a fair pay.

However, it only takes a short look into the fashion industry to realise that, this is not something that is easily done by brands – it takes a lot of money, time and ultimately, will. More importantly, if the customer expects to pay a tenner, five dollars or euros for a t-shirt, then the conditions in which the garment is produced are going to be extremely cheap, quite basic, and with pretty slim safety checks.

So, have my shopping habits changed since the Rana Plaza disaster? Do I shop and if so, am I willing to pay more for clothing that’s not made in sweatshops?

As a freelancer, at this moment in time cash is pretty limited, so you could say I’m the perfect consumer for low-cost brands. Whenever I get some money, I could easily walk into H&M, or Primark, and score an outfit for less than 20 euro. Get a fashion fix, think nought of the consequences.

I love fashion, and I used to fantasise about having a HUGE wardrobe. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t genuinely curious about the latest Topshop collection, or that I don’t get excited when I hear of H&M designer collaborations, but lately, there is a little voice inside of me that tells me that this wouldn’t be right.

This year I decided to stop eating meat, I did so because I feel strongly about animal rights, and because I believe there is an excess of meat in supermarkets. Too much waste, too many animals kept in horrible conditions, and way too many chemicals injected in what’s supposed to be our food. I’m tackling my fashionista habits in the same manner: I have stopped going shopping. I unsubscribed from Topshop newsletters, “unliked” Facebook pages by Zara, Mango and H&M, deleted their Apps from my phone, and I avoid the areas in Barcelona in which these stores are located.

So, while I’m not  boycotting brands per se – which, maybe, could be the only way forward -, I have began to shop differently, driving my attention away from these major labels.

I believe there is no denying we buy way too many clothes, there are countless amounts of brand new garments that don’t even make it to the shops. A contact at H&M once told me that from the Martin Margiela collaboration for H&M, certain stores received an excess of stock, with dozens of boxes left unopened. This is the product of hours of underpaid work in a factory: waste.

So, how do I go about finding cheap fashion? Currently I’m focusing on several alternatives: charity shops, Ebay, and vintage stores. Recycling has never been easier, and with more and more websites like Vestiaire Collective to do so, it’s become a lot of fun, and for some, the only way to shop. It’s kinder to the environment and goes against the main point of fast fashion: we don’t just throw it away, we give it further life. I recently scored a Zara leopard print coat via Ebay. I could have bought any of the replicas the brand has produced since, but I decided second-hand (and cheap) was the only way to justify the purchase.

This post is not written with the intention of tooting my own horn. I simply wanted to give my own take on the video above. I could do more, and sometimes it’s hard to resist the power of shopping therapy. I also understand that not everyone is prepared to shop differently. Maybe it needs to be a combined effort: our responsibility as consumers to drive sales of ethically sourced fashion, and of the brands with the most money and influence to find a way to really and truthfully change the way they do business.

After the Rana Plaza disaster, brands like Zara, Topshop and H&M continue to enjoy successful sales and huge profits. Their Apps are still downloaded, their Facebook and Twitter accounts attract hundreds of thousands of followers. H&M has developed their eco-friendly line further, but it’s a small side of their business. Most of their stock is still produced in “questionable” factories in Asia. Whether they can actually control what goes on at the end of the production line, remains to be seen.

Am I a dreamer? Should I be doing even more? Does anyone actually care about where our clothes come from? Do you ever think about sweatshops? Do let me know, on the comments below, or via Twitter, I’m always up for a friendly discussion 😉

Picture: Fashion Limbo

*Further reading: thanks to blogger and stylist Arash Mazinani for directing me to this:
“Why do we need a Fashion Revolution” by fashionrevolution.org. Worth checking out, they are organising an awareness day, on April 24th 2014, to get consumers to ask brands where their clothes come from. More info via their website and Twitter @Fash_Rev.

**Regarding the Rana Plaza death toll, 1,129 is the number on Wikipedia, while other sources claim it has gone up to 1,133.

A feather for a writer

I wanted to be many things when I was little but none of them were what was expected of me. I came alive when I listened to music, sang with the choir, or doing drama at college. I remember dressing up as Madonna to perform a “colourful” dance routine in front of students and teachers at my Catholic school – although the nuns didn’t seem to enjoy it. At age 8, a teacher referred to my writing praising my creative imagination. At secondary school, another said I was a diamond in the rough – although he did place quite a lot of emphasis on the “rough” part.

At fifteen, I was made to choose a “serious” career. “Arts will bring you no money, Jess”. Unlike many of my peers, I didn’t want to be a teacher, or work in a bank, become a doctor or a high-paid lawyer.

With no means of studying anything creative or artistic, to please my parents I decided on a career in teaching English. Years have passed and that first choice has turned into a nasty habit: pleasing others ad infinitum. Maybe I should have pushed harder, maybe I should have left home sooner, but I chose the path of least resistance: the cruelest on myself.

I worked as a teacher and was good at it, but ultimately it made me miserable. I tried working in office buildings, managed myself brilliantly through meetings and presentations, but inside I was in an permanent state of anxiety, hating going to work. Eventually it made me sick.

I did enjoy dressing mannequins and styled a high-end fashion store. I was also in my element during some bizarre sessions with a couple of Belgian music producers, straining my vocal chords to sing some dance club anthem – don’t ask for those recordings, I have skilfully misplaced them. The first time a magazine published an article I wrote I felt like the happiest person in the world. All of these activities paid little, or nothing.

After years of soul searching, life in different countries, jumping from one job to the next, and disappointing some people, I finally get it. I am a certain type of person, with a particular DNA and a specific make up. It means I don’t function properly in an office environment. Routine isn’t for me. It just doesn’t work.

It’s not about getting over it, changing, trying harder, or repeating questionable pseudo-mantras like “no one really enjoys their job”. Life is about accepting who you are, loving yourself for it, and making the most of your existence.

So…

This past weekend I travelled to London, and following my cousin’s Nic advice, went to Sims Tattoos in Croydon. I already had two tattoos, a dragon on my left shoulder, and some stars on my ribs. A few months back I had decided on what I wanted next: a peacock feather with a specific detail on the tip.

I chose to remain open minded about the design, had thought about some colours, but nothing more. A few minutes after meeting Michi, the guy about to decorate my right foot, I felt strangely at ease with him, so I followed his suggestions on the design.

I’m not going to lie, it hurt like hell. Having my ribs tattooed was painful, but this time the session lasted more than 3 hours, which meant Michi worked, repeatedly, on heavily bruised skin.

I worked through the pain in several ways: I had an “extremely chatty phase”, bombarding Michi with questions, trying to distract myself by finding more about his life – being nosy, a very Mediterranean way of dealing with pain. Then I went through the “get me out of here phase”, physically pulling away from him, as if wanting to detach my foot from my body. My cousin had to keep pushing me onto the chair to stay still.

Through those long hours, Michi was simply brilliant. The man is pure talent, and I wished I could make him justice through my words. He drew a bit of a draft (Head to Sims Tattoo facebook page to see the process) with a magic marker, to then, grab the needles, and proceed to do the tattoo freehand. He made the feather beautifully fold onto itself on the top left side and I love that. It looks like it’s moving. The tip of the feather has a writer’s quill on it. It’s simple,yet so skilfully drawn. Part of me was feeling physically sick at the pain, the other part was in awe, seeing a true artist create a stunning piece of work.

To me, this tattoo is a celebration of something I’m good at, a side of my personality that for years I thought was worthless. A part of me I was told would bring me no joy. I cannot thank Michi and the team at Sims Tattoos enough. I also want to thank gorgeous Nic for being the best tattoo-buddy ever.

I do live up to what a writer is, I am creative and sometimes intense. I am also generally skint. I can barely pay my bills, I have no money for fancy holidays, clothes – my other passion – and if any of my dogs require any veterinary care it means I can eat only pasta for a month.

I know not everyone will agree with my choice of lifestyle. Not everyone likes tattoos. I know some will read this post and think that I will never grow up. I know some still think I’m not good enough for them or their loved ones.

However, I’m loving being a writer more than ever. While I may  disappoint others with my choices, I’m not letting myself down anymore. This is who I am, and I now have a piece of art on one of my feet to remind me.

*If you want to see more of Michi’s work you can follow his Instagram account at @michelich, or find him via Sims Tattoo on Facebook.

**If you want to see more of my writing go to fashionlimbo.com/work

The introverted teenager & the CD

I’ve always been very fond of my own company. Throughout my childhood I learnt that spending hours in my bedroom surrounded by music, not only kept me out of trouble but it was also an effective way of drowning my parents’ fights. I played Madonna, Michael Jackson, The Beatles, Prince, Abba, Bon Jovi, even Paul Simon. Then, as I reached my teens, I went through an intense yet short-lived New Kids On The Block phase, until I discovered Nirvana and Courtney Love. Yes, hardly a defined taste.

As an introverted girl, these private music sessions suited me. I lived in the south of Spain and went to catholic school up until the age of fourteen, with books and folders covered in Blond Ambition Tour pictures. I had unruly brown hair,  thick eyebrows, a huge dog, a vast music collection and problems at home. Prettier girls easily pulled the boy I liked or, alternatively, made me the somehow boring topic of their cruel gossiping.

At high school, I was never the “cool teenager”. I practically blended into the stained beige walls we had as background. I dreamt of cool clothes that I didn’t have, trendy curly hair that would never be mine, a certain brand of fitted jeans I couldn’t afford, and of flying out of Cordoba into a more vibrant life. I studied moderately hard and received good grades.

Me in my Keep The Faith Bon Jovi tee, supermarket trainers  for teen chic. My little sis plays the cute card

On weekends I stuck to my all-female group of friends, went to the minuscule bowling alley in the town centre and spent my pocket money on video games and drinks. I wore turtle-neck jumpers I “borrowed” from my mum – I also wore her boots, which weren’t even my size, and did the same with her Wonderbra. I caked my face in a powdered monotone peach shade, finishing it off with layer after layer of brown Revlon lipstick. I simply copied what my girlfriends did, never considering who I really was and what my looks said about me. Self-expression was confined to the words in my diary, safely written within by my four bedroom walls.

As a teen in the mid 90s, Britpop fever hit me hard, making me realise how great my native country was, with very few around me as enthusiastic as me. A few of my friends listened to Blur and Suede, which was fun, but then they moved on to Take That. I tried to get my dad to play Oasis in the car, but after the first guitar rifts in Roll With It, he would complain about the loud music and change the tape. Most of my boyfriends were more interested in The Offspring, Metallica, and Spanish rock singers trying really hard to be like Jim Morrison. My attempts to play DJ at parties lasted for less than a couple of songs before my choice of music was labelled “not fun” and swapped to some local band that regurgitated international sounds into something more simplistic, yet unsurprisingly popular.

It was during 1995 that I heard a song on a TV show that focused on international music charts, including the UK. I liked it so much, the second time I saw the video I recorded it on a videotape. I learned the lyrics, practised the moves, and that’s how I fell in love with a guy from Sheffield: the wonder that is Jarvis Cocker. My older brother was spending his summer holidays in England, so I asked him to bring me a copy of the song: Pulp’s Common People.

Whenever I listened to the CD single, every  hair in my body would somehow feel electrified – thankfully bushy eyebrows seemed unaffected. Each guitar, keyboard, drum, and the ridiculous amount of instruments on that song made me want to break into a dance every time the song started.

Through Common People, Disco 2000, later This Is Hardcore and its fascinating album cover, I began to understand who I wanted to be, and learnt how to express that outside of my diary. I read Smash Hits for the sole reason to hear about what was going on outside the charming little town I lived in. I bought a cheap silver faux-silk shirt in C&A and begged one of my aunts to cut all the stitches and sew it up again, to make it hug my skin. I cut one of my mother’s denim skirts to make it shorter and more rugged. I saved up to ask a pompous and rather terrible hairdresser to cut my hair like Justine Frischmann.

Outfit picture posing already happened in the 90s. Me age 15, with the silver shirt

It turns out, I ended up renting a flat above a shop, I cut my own hair, I got a job. I realised my dream of moving back to England, got a couple of extra gigs to pay for my studies, went to lectures smelling of fried food, to later go out “and dance and drink and…” you know how the song goes.

I now listen to Pulp’s Common People, and it is still, quite possibly, my favourite song ever. It was an anthem of what I was about to live, the people I was to meet just a few years later, the cheap clothes, the badly paid jobs, the debt I got myself into, the dodgy things we smoke, the awfully tasting alcoholic concoctions, the regrets the morning after… the life that was waiting for me.

I don’t have that silk shirt anymore, but I’m still an introvert. I still enjoy listening to everything from rap to folk music, by myself or with anyone that doesn’t mind me going into full music-nerd mode.  There is still no one quite like Jarvis. I still have that CD.

Pictures: Fashion Limbo, Island