An exclamation intervention

Hello and a very happy weekend to you all! If I sound terribly overenthusiastic and chirpy today that’s because I…well I’m not feeling either, particularly, but you’d be forgiven for thinking I was permanently ecstatic, being the serial exclamation mark user I am. 

There’s an F. Scott Fitzgerald quote that I often remember at work when I’m tempted to stick one in any form of official communications: "Cut out all these exclamation points. An exclamation point is like laughing at your own joke." Which is of course never a great look. But I can’t seem to extend the same principle to my personal life.

As any of my friends could attest, the way I write in texts and Whatsapps makes me sound like Zoella on speed: it’s all 'amazing!!!’ this and ‘LOL!’ that. Before sending a long message to someone, I have to go back and do a mandatory exclamation mark cull. Usually, I’ll find I’ve absent-mindedly ended every single sentence with one, and I have to forfeit at least one for a full stop to save me from sounding like I’m completely MANICALLY ENTHUSED ABOUT EVERYTHING!

And while I might not plaster them all over the stuff we send out at work, I’m still terrible for using them in emails to my colleagues. Invariably, a ‘Sorry for the delay!’, ‘I know you’re busy!’ or ’Thank you!’ ends up in there somewhere. Even if the message I’m replying to contains none itself, and despite the fact that I never really expect to get any back – and certainly not from anyone senior – I still can't help but worry I'll come across as blunt or abrupt or overly pushy without adding the odd one in.

I don't know when it first started, but when I think of the potential explanations for my exclamation addiction, it’s hard to know where my pathetic need to please ends, and the patriarchy begins. By that, I mean part of my over-usage is certainly down to the fact that I hate seeming like I’m pissed off…even when I am. I wouldn’t want someone to actually KNOW they’d annoyed me. But a large part of it is also surely because I've fallen victim to the general expectation for women to seem amenable and cheerful at all times.

From a young age, we're taught implicitly and quite explicitly (‘Cheer up love, it might never happen’), that part of our role here on earth is to please men, emitting only sunshine and prettiness – never mind whether we’ve recently found out that someone’s died, or, you know, just had a bit of a shit day. So it's unsurprising that lots of women lack the same straight-talking, direct tone in messages that men do – for fear of coming across as 'aggressive' or 'bossy'.

Thinking about it, all the serial exclamation mark users among my acquaintance are fellow women. It's weird how along with razors and Bic pens and perfumes, even punctuation is apparently gendered. In fact, the only man who immediately springs to mind as a big exclamation mark fan is Donald Trump. His tweets are littered with them: "Bad performance by Crooked Hillary Clinton! Reading poorly from the telepromter! She doesn't even look presidential!”, one of his most recent exclamatory (and typically absurd-sounding) missives read.

Patriarchy aside for a moment, as the Donald Trump example so aptly demonstrates, the exclamation mark also isn't exactly the coolest member of the punctuation family. Any ostensibly ‘cool’ people – I’m thinking the likes of Raf Simons, Chloe Sevigny, Lily Rose Depp and the like – all have that calm, aloof insouciance thing going on. Enthusiasm is for losers, their 'give a shit' demeanours seem to say. And if punctuation were listed in order of use like emojis are, I doubt try-hard exclamation marks would make the top of their lists.

But it’s not really the need to appear like less of a distinctly uncool enthusiast that's led me to stage my very own exclamation intervention. It's more that I’ve used this piece of punctuation to such an extent that I’m now basically in competition with myself. How am I supposed to exhibit the correct amount of feeling when my friend tells me something genuinely exclamation-worthy, like say, that they’re getting married or got that promotion they desperately wanted, when I greet news even of their lunchtime Pret choices with such rapturous enthusiasm? And if no one else at work is worried about sounding too demanding without them, why should I?

I'm not sure I'll be able to go cold turkey. Self discipline isn't my forte – as anyone who's seen me around a packet of biscuits will know – and like nail biting and the Daily Mail sidebar of shame, old habits die hard. But from here on in, I’m going to do my best to ration them out. So, if you get a message from me that seems uncharacteristically pissy in future, please know it’s not you, it’s me. I promise [!]

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Someone who runs

These days, one of the questions I dread being asked the most is 'How's your love life?', which any sane person knows is something only sociopaths ask. But when I was younger, and blissfuly ignorant of the twin evils of curious acquaintances and societal shaming of single women to come, my least favourite question was probably: 'What are your hobbies?'

As a kid, the only things I could even vaguely frame as a 'hobby' were misanthropic staples like reading and erm, playing Sims. I was never particularly sporty. I wasn't preppy enough to go horse riding, or committed enough to learn an instrument, and no one counts listening to music as a hobby, even if it takes up a large proportion of your time, because basically everyone does. Which is why my younger self would be shocked to learn that were that dreaded question to crop up again today, I would actually have a fairly legitimate answer. And one that involves physical activity, no less!

Until now, I've resisted ever writing about running because I'm aware that generally, it's a topic that ranks alongside having to listen to someone recount their latest dream. But I just finished reading Alexandra Heminsley's Running Like A Girl, which despite its fairly twee-sounding title is actually a properly readable, inspiring book – but not in a bullshit, self-help sort of way – and I realised it was a topic that could be made interesting, WITHOUT being preachy.

Even after plodding along regularly for about three years, referring to myself as a 'runner' seems a bit grandiose. Someone who runs seems more apt. So as someone who runs, to those of you who think there's no way you could ever be that kind of someone too, however predictable it might be, here's what I've learnt:

Anyone can run. Yes, even you

I can already hear some of you scoffing – the ones who get out of puff just walking up the stairs and who gave up their short-lived attempts at running after a stitch made its side-splitting appearance – but it's genuinely true. And you can trust me on that, because I was a big ol' scoffer myself. It turns out our bodies are designed to make us think we can't run, initially – the first ten minutes when you hit the streets and start jogging along see a build up of lactic acid that leaves your legs feeling like lead and your chest all raspy and phlegmy, but if you power through, it really does get better.

You should start by thinking in landmarks, not kilometres
Seems obvious, but when you've got all your snazzy new running gear on and you've set aside the time to actually bother doing some exercise, it can be tempting to think 'Yes! I'll smash out a 5k no problem, how hard can that even be?!' When I first started running regularly, I was at uni in York and near my house there was a sort of country path that led out into the fields surrounding the city. On my first outing, I boldly ran along the entire length of the path (which can't have even been a kilometre) and honestly nearly had a heart attack in the process. I practically crawled home, spluttering for breath, and I remember thinking, 'I'm just not cut out for this.' But I persevered, and the next time, I thought – I'll just run along as far as that first footbridge. After I'd done that a few times, I went a bit further, and again, and again, until somehow, I was reaching the end of that path no problem.

It's perfect if you hate the gym

Oh god I loathe the gym. I know a fair few gym bunnies, and I don't know how they can stand it: all the preening, show off men monopolising the weights section, all the perfectly toned, glamorous women being chatted up as opposed to merely setting new records for how red it's possible for a human face to turn, which is more my forte. I can't deal with classes: I hate having a stranger bark orders at me as I bumble along getting whatever exercise it is I'm meant to be doing wrong. I do however like that running doesn't cost me 60 quid a month, and that I can do it whenever and wherever. I also like that the time passes by about ten times quicker when you're plodding along outside, perving on park dads, as opposed to pounding the treadmill. If you share any of these gym misgivings, running is for you.

It can be a surprisingly sociable activity

A combination of extreme competitiveness and sporting mediocrity was never going to make me a great team member, so a big part of running's initial appeal was its solo nature. But since starting, I've realised that it's more sociable than you'd expect. Go in for a race with someone you know, and you can train together and sympathise during the inevitable moments of regret at ever having signed up. When you run a big race, the atmosphere among competitors and crowds alike restores your faith in humanity (which anyone who's watched the London Marathon can attest). When my friend and I ran a half together recently, we got talking to someone on the way round and he joined us at the pub for a celebratory burger afterwards. And he didn't turn out to be a lunatic!

No one really cares how far you've gone

Alongside "If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?", the next great philosophical question is surely "If someone goes for a jog and doesn't tell someone the distance, did it even happen?". The longer the distances you start to chalk up, the more you find running becomes less about struggling to breathe, and more about the battle between you and that little voice in your head that tells you you're probably not going to make it home and should just give up. So it's understandable that you'd want to share the distance over which you managed to ignore said evil murmurs. But still, however much they might pretend to, people don't actually care all that much, so you have to be prepared to know this is something you're doing for you.

It makes you feel great (give or take the odd injury)

Sadly, running a few 5ks a week does not a Victoria's Secret-worthy body make. But there's still a lot to be said for it: I now laugh in the face of people standing on the right side of the escalator, and can power confidently past them even to reach the faraway summit that is Angel tube station. Running also helps to do that wondrous thing which is to disassociate food from guilt. However much you love eating, as a woman, you're conditioned to feel that food = BAD, skinny = GOOD, so to have anything in your life that makes you more likely to think hey I'll eat this cake no problem is liberating and wonderful.

Running is still always a little bit awful

Don't go into running thinking it's going to revolutionise your life. Sadly, no matter how long you persevere with it, you're never going to reach a point where you can breeze along the entire distance without a hint of discomfort. I think in three years I've only ever felt that mythical 'runner's high' about twice – once when a bitch of a stitch that had been dogging me finally lifted and I was so glad I remember feeling like dancing along the path, the other, because I saw a huge crate of flapjacks awaiting me at the end of a half marathon. I never really relish the prospect of goingfor a run. But having gone for one? You can't beat that feeling.

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The compliment economy

Around this time last year, I went to see Laura Marling at the Southbank Centre. Being a longtime fan, I was already pretty excited to have secured tickets for a rare London show. But I was even happier when I looked down and spotted that one of my all-time favourite writers was taking her seat, smack bang in front of me. A woman whose writing I'd followed for years, whose Twitter feed continues to bring me regular lols and whose career I've watched rise to the national newspaper territory she now enjoys, was sitting right there. For a sad journalist fangirl like me, this was akin to even the coolest of celebrity spottings. 'Should I?', I thought to myself. Should I just tap her on the shoulder and pay her a simple compliment: 'I love your writing!' or something to that effect? 

Of course I didn't. My stereotypical British reserve took hold, and I convinced myself that it would be awkward and cringe-worthy and that she'd probably find me creepy for recognising her from little more than her byline photo. And even a year on, I still regret that a little bit. Someone telling me they've enjoyed reading something I've written is one of the nicest things they can possibly do. Even the bullshitters who claim they "Just write for themselves" feel that way. And I'm sure this woman would have too. Everybody loves to be validated, every now and then.

The very same writer I spotted at the Southbank wrote something recently that's stuck with me. In it, she coined a term for the group of people you can ALWAYS rely on for social media support: 'the Sisterhood of the Selfie'. "We are the reason", she wrote, "the like button is still such big business over on Facebook. We’re keeping the compliment economy afloat." It stood out to me because my friends and I had recently acknowledged a similar phenomenon: we are each other's social "cheerleaders" – that failsafe group of people that you know, come rain or shine, will be double tapping your latest post, whether it's a selfie or a snap of your new shoes. We laugh when we talk about it, but liking someone else's Instagram photo really is more than just a cursory gesture – it's an extension of the sisterhood.

I love being complimented. There are plenty of people who claim to HATE compliments, and it's true that some people don't take them particularly well: squirming at a nice comment and not wanting the attention that comes with it. But we can all be, as they say, our own worst critics, so to have someone interrupting your self-doubt with an admiring comment, or comforting you for spending probably a bit too much on your latest purchase by saying how much they love it, is welcome, in my book. And luckily, lots of the people I know clearly feel the same way. I heard the phrase somewhere or other that "the world is your runway" and whether that's true or not, the corridor of my office certainly is. Pretty much every morning when someone comes in, we're gushing over outfits and haircuts and validating each other all over the gaff.

These days, it seems Taylor Swift is the self-appointed poster girl for validation. Despite the idea of 'squads' being around long before the pop princess brought it to the mainstream, she's made friendship and the idea of being a supportive girlfriend a pretty on trend thing to be. As cringe-worthy as this might seem, you can't really knock the sentiment behind it. Speaking to Time Magazine a while ago, she said: "Other women who are killing it should motivate you, thrill you, challenge you and inspire you, rather than threaten you and make you feel like you’re immediately being compared to them."

Paying someone else a compliment is one of the best ways to put this kind of thinking into action. Rather than hanging on to petty jealousies, it's always better to just admire someone else and what they're doing. And this of course applies to far more than just what we look like – with one small comment, you can make people feel validated for pretty much everything, from the good job they've done at work to their excellent taste in picking out your birthday present.

As T-Swift and the cult of 'squad goals' attests, validation is actually something of a millennial movement. Look on social media, and for every troll commenting something insulting and rude, there's someone being all 'YASSSSSSS! SLAY QUEEN'. For some reason, or maybe it's merely because social media gives us an unprecedented outlet for it, my generation seems to realise how incredibly important validation is. I'd be surprised if the term 'fangirl' doesn't get added to the OED one of these days. We're not shy about sharing the love.

Why? Well, life can really be quite tough. None of us really know what we're doing – we're all just making it up as we go along. As a grown up, you don't have regular reports from your teachers and exam results to monitor your progress for you, so to have someone cheering you on from the sidelines, like your mum once did at the egg and spoon race, is key – especially since the metaphorical egg is most certainly going to go splat on the floor every now and then. 

Admittedly, you don't want to be completely reliant on other people's opinions for your own sense of self-worth. We should all, hopefully, (to quote Queen B) be feelin' ourselves before we've even left the house some days. But to be able to give someone even just a momentary boost through a few kind words is an incredible power. It's one we all have, and one I think we should all be using as much as we possibly can.

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Learning to learn again

Last week, Tom Hanks made his debut appearance on Desert Island Discs. As Kirsty Young's latest castaway, he was as charming as you'd expect, and pretty moving, too; at one point, he had to pause to collect himself as he talked about the impact of hearing one of his song choices as a teenager, after a pretty nomadic and lonely childhood. “This was the ‘wow’ moment of my life", he told her. "Going from a kid trying to figure out what’s interesting in this life, to a young man yearning to be an artist."

 

But one of the parts that really stuck out to me from his time spent as a castaway was actually when he discussed his love of learning, telling Kirsty (in what I'm sure you'll agree was a particularly enjoyable turn of phrase): "I chewed up school like a delicious meal." Like pretty much every teenager that's ever lived, when I was at school myself, I was concerned with being considered – however elusive a concept it might be – as 'cool'. But try as I might, I was neverreally going to achieve this lofty status, because just like Tom and unlike most truly cool kids, I bloody loved school.

Don't get me wrong; I don't subscribe to that phrase you sometimes hear about your time spent at school being "the best years of your life" (a pretty depressing thought if ever there was one). But for someone who loves learning, it was a pretty great place to be. I never really knew what I wanted to be; I didn't have a sensible game plan to become a doctor – although my disastrous effect on science experiments would have soon put a stop to that – and much as I loved drama, I never felt, like Tom, that acting was my calling. So learning was always really just for the sake of learning, rather than with any real ambitions in mind.

It's pretty excruciating whenever you're asked in a job interview to describe yourself in three words, but if a gun was held to my head, one I'd probably use for myself is 'curious'. And it's this I think that's spawned my love for learning. I just love reading and listening and observing and exploring. And I also happen to be incredibly nosy, which, contrary to popular belief, I think is actually a pretty great quality. If you're nosy, you never tire of learning new things, of hearing other people's stories and thinking about things other than yourself (which, for someone writing a personal essay right now, is a bit rich I know). I'm also a massive know it all, which while incredibly annoying for other people, is pretty useful for the whole learning thing.

However. Once I'd left the school cocoon for uni, things took a bit of a different turn. I think I developed learning fatigue, at probably one of the worst possible times to develop it. When I had some of the cleverest people in the country at my beck and call, ready and willing to have a chat with me about Derrida's theory of deconstruction or finally clear up what the fuss is actually all about with Dickens, I couldn't think of anything worse. There was a huge library full of thousands of expensive books, endless clubs and societies to join, lectures and seminars to be attended, and I was mostly more interested in working my way through York's impressive selection of brunch spots and watching the entire run of Grey's Anatomy in the space of a few weeks. My curiosity to learn new things had transferred to seeing how fast I could reach the bottom of a bottle of Glenn's, as opposed to how many literary theories I could learn. Instead of turning to my professors for help in understanding Shakespeare, I turned to Sparknotes.

By the time graduation rolled around, the thought of doing a masters filled me with horror. I was sick of reading lists, of being told to read obscure Medieval texts and get up for 9am lectures (ha! how naive I was). There's a part of me that doesn't regret it too much; realistically, those three years were the last chance I probably had to treat the passing of time and the workings of my brain with such reckless abandon. But I do still feel like I have a bit of catching up to do.

Luckily, since leaving uni, it seems I've got my love of learning back. Maybe it's because the time you have to do so as someone who works a 9 to 5 is limited, but now, instead of seeing it as a compulsory slog, I love finishing off a book before reaching for a new one, and using those hours snatched outside of my office to listen to podcasts and radio shows or read the news. Sometimes I get overwhelmed just thinking about the number of  books there are in the world, and how many I still have to read. 

My teenage self would be disgusted at the levels of uncool: I keep lists on my phone of TV shows I need to catch up on, documentaries that need watching, novels new and old that need reading. I'm also lucky to live in London, which for someone who loves learning, is a gift in itself. Whether it's a retrospective of the Rolling Stones or just reading one of those blue plaques you occasionally find on buildings, there's something new to be discovered every single day of the week, if you take the time to look.

Admittedly, it's not like I'm using my every non-working hour for learning purposes. Unless of course you count watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians and trips to the pub as brain food. And sadly, I'm still looking at a pathetic PB of about five correct answers on University Challenge. But hey, I like a challenge, and there's something strangely comforting about the knowledge that however depressing the outlook is for the week ahead on a Monday morning, there's just so much still to be learnt. 

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The joy of doing a geographical

There's a saying that I've heard is popular among therapists: 'Doing a geographical'. It's a phrase that supposedly originated in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous, and it describes something that's common among addicts. Essentially, to impulsively up sticks and move their lives from one place to somewhere completely new, in the belief that while they're on the first train to Timbuktu or wherever, their problems will be long gone. Of course, sadly, this hardly ever works. Blaming serious issues on circumstances or surroundings is a convenient way of avoiding the fact that the real problem is most likely staring you straight in the mirror. So yep, doing a geographical probably isn't the best idea for the addicts among us. But for everyone else...I'm inclined to think it can be EXACTLY what you need once in a while.

Sometimes, you just need to pack all your troubles into a big suitcase or maybe just an overnight bag and imagine yourself coming back to wherever you live refreshed and free from all the things that were stressing you out. Anyone who works in an office can vouch for the fact that when someone goes on holiday, they come back looking practically unrecognisable. They just have that distinctive 'I've spent a week away from the rat race and the grotty tube and the jolt of my horrendous alarm and the hassle of having to wash my clothes and squeeze in a trip to the gym and actually maintain some semblance of a social life AND get all my work done' healthy glow about them. You know the one I mean. There's nothing like a post-holiday colleague to remind you how haggard we all look most of the time.

When we book a holiday, we're not just thinking 'Where do I want to go?', it's also a case of 'Who do I want to be?' Do I want to be adventurous, independent, relaxed or maybe a bit of a romantic? Ticking off the bucket list is often another big consideration; few people can resist the pull of a new place. It's always brilliant to explore somewhere you've never been before, expanding your horizons and your mind and your memories as you go.

And the beauty of it is that you don't even have to be with anyone else to experience this. I read somewhere that the French have a saying that sums this up quite nicely, along the lines of: "It's better to travel alone than to be badly accompanied". And while I've never been brave enough to holiday alone, one of my friends took herself off to Japan for a couple of months last year and had what by all accounts sounds like (clichéd as I'm about to be), a life-affirming experience. Another recently told me that the solo trip she took to San Francisco was one of the best times of her life. There's something about being in an alien environment – with none of your usual routines and familiar faces around – that leads you to throw caution to the wind and set off on an adventure.

Luckily, pulling a geographical doesn't always have to mean venturing somewhere quite as far flung as San Francisco. And this weekend, mine was about as unglamorous as a geographical could get: Margate, to be precise. However much of a grotty reputation this little spot on the Kent coast might have, as the old tune goes, oh I do love to be beside the seaside. Yesterday, it was just as glorious as ever: the man boobs might have been out in force, but so was the sunshine, and the good cheer that comes with it (helped along by generous portions of ice cream and chips enjoyed on the beach).

Even in conditions that force you to unpack a mac, bundle up in fifteen layers and leave you with hair that’s less windswept, more wind-straggled, I still enjoy a trip to the seaside. I've ventured away from the Big Smoke to just about every location along the south coast: Whitstable, Dover, Broadstairs, Westgate, Deansgate, Dymchurch, Brighton and more. I've experienced the delights of the South West, during annual family holidays across Cornwall and Devon. I’ve even found myself sunbathing – or slow-cooking like a crackling pig at least – where such a thing is usually unimaginable: with Whitby Abbey looming in all its gothic splendour in the distance.

I know there are those who aren’t quite so convinced by the joys of the British seaside – with sand getting in places it shouldn’t, the murky seawater and tatty seaside towns being a poor substitute for the clear waters and four star luxury of the Caribbean – but for me, that’s all part of the charm. Where else but in Britain could you sail out to sea on a replica of Captain Cook’s ship, with the Pirates of the Caribbean soundtrack booming and a gruff voice of Northern wisdom to accompany your journey?

As my mother once wisely pointed out, the beach is also one of few places that can entertain anyone from the age of nought to 90. Whether you’re just watching the world go by from your sun lounger, engrossed in a book or building a sandcastle, there’s always something for everyone at the seaside.

And for those of you who somehow remain unconvinced by Sue's wisdom, just think: for your own getaway, there's always just visiting a park you haven't been to before, venturing into the countryside, or, as the legend that is Petula Clark once sang, the complete opposite, going 'Downtown, where all the lights are bright.' It might not be right for the members of AA, but if you're anything like me, doing a geographical might be just what the doctor ordered.

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Friends, romance and the meet cute myth

There's a moment in the 2007 classic that is The Holiday which I'm sure you're already familiar with, since the schedulers at ITV2 apparently LOVE a transatlantic, real estate-heavy rom com. In it, the elderly former Hollywood scriptwriter that Kate Winslet's overly earnest, new-in-town character befriends explains to her the concept of a 'meet cute': "Say a man and a woman both need something to sleep in, and they both go to the same men's pyjama department. And the man says to the salesman: 'I just need bottoms'. The woman says: 'I just need a top'. They look at each other...and that's the meet cute."

There, in all of five sentences, is the crux of all my ridiculous romantic expectations. I'm as bad as the Meg Ryan character in Sleepless in Seattle, whose friend informs her of a sad home truth: "That's your problem: you don't want to be in love. You want to be in love in a movie." Most of us have an overly romanticised view of dating and relationships, but for those of us who grew up greedily devouring books and films and music and TV shows containing perfect Hollywood-style, "You had me at hello" moments, it's even worse.

When I started writing this, wondering which moments exactly it was that brought about this hopeless romanticism, I realised that they were endless. It was watching The Graduate, where Dustin Hoffman dramatically puts a stop to Elaine's wedding. In The Notebook, where Noah writes Allie a letter every day, and single-handedly builds her dream house. In Pride and Prejudice, where Mr Darcy finally tells Lizzie, "You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you." In Dirty Dancing, where an absurdly handsome Patrick Swayze utters that immortal line, "Nobody puts Baby in the corner."

It was in Friends, where Rachel watches the prom video for the first time and realises that Ross is "Her Lobster!" In The Office Christmas special, where Dawn walks into the Christmas party as Yazoo's Only You plays, before snogging a young Martin Freeman's face off. It's when the baby faced Leo DiCaprio and Claire Danes lock eyes through that fish tank in Romeo + Juliet. When Heath Ledger sings I Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You to a bemused Julia Stiles. In Bridget Jones, when Mark Darcy tells her he loves her, "Just the way she is." And in possibly my favourite film of all time, when Harry finally tells Sally he loves her on New Year's Eve – with the most unconventional of speeches. These and countless other examples of stomach-flipping, firework-inducing moments have wound together to create the absurdly sentimental romantic I find myself today.

'Dating' in the modern, people-as-disposable-drinking-buddies sense of the word used to be a concept that was confined to fictional places, like Sex and the City. But there are now a pretty staggering 1.4 billion swipes made daily on Tinder, the king of dating apps, and countless more on the likes of Bumble, Happn, Plenty of Fish and all the rest. Pretty much every single person I know is on one, or has been at least once. Even people I know who are in relationships have accounts just for the lols, scared as they apparently are of missing out on the 2016 singleton experience. But even still, I continue to resist using them properly, very occasionally downloading it and sending the faces that appear in my feed firmly away like the ones on a Guess Who? Game. For me, there's been nothing 'meet cute' about meeting online since Tom Hanks starred in You've Got Mail.

I realise this is pretty ridiculous; the app's only been running a few years, but already there are Tinder marriages and Tinder babies in the world. Yet while I conveniently forget the good dating app stories I must hear pretty frequently, I can enthusiastically fill you in on every romance that's ever blossomed in a way which supports my idealistic expectations. There's the one about the friend who met her boyfriend because they shared the same train carriage to work, or the one who met her husband in an art class. Then, best of all, there's the one who shared a cab with a stranger to save money, and gained a future wife.

Of course, the real reason these stories stick out quite so much in my mind is precisely because they're so exceptional. And as the release of Beyoncé's latest album showed last week, delivering as it does what appears to be a full on rage against Jay Z and his adulterous past, even the stars with the biggest chance of a Hollywood-style romance haven't quite managed it. Life doesn't always follow the typical tom com arc – with couples wittily sniping at each other before overcoming their antipathy to live happily ever after in a Nancy Meyers-style mansion.

In Lena Dunham's TV show Girls, we only ever see one line of her character Hannah's book: "A friendship between college girls is grander and more dramatic than any romance." And I've since read Dunham echoing the same sentiment in real life, telling Interview Magazine, "I think about my best friendship – which the Marnie-Hannah friendship in Girls is based on – as like a great romance of my young life." When I reflect on some of my own friendships, I realise I've found the same thing to be true.

Some of the things my friends have done for me, heard out of context and with no knowledge of the women behind them, could easily be taken to be the grand romantic gestures of a dashing, Mark Darcy type. When we were at uni, my housemates and I were forever leaving each other little post it notes with cute messages, making each other mix tapes and throwing surprise dinner parties with our best homemade efforts. Even the smallest of actions, like messaging someone to tell them a song came on that reminded you of them, making someone their favourite cake, sending them a surprise present in the post, or writing them a post card from some far flung corner of the world, proves that not only is romance not just for the movies, it's not just for couples, either.

So, at the risk of sounding like a Hugh Grant voiceover going on about the Heathrow arrivals lounge, the next time you find yourself wondering where your meet cute is, or feeling miserable about the lack of romance in your life, just think – perhaps you've been looking for it in the wrong places.

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Letting go of guilt

I went to see Adele last week. She was absolutely incredible; every note seemed pitch perfect, every gap between songs was filled with a joke and one of her signature cackles and everyone there seemed to enjoy themselves...no matter whether they were a middle-aged mum or a tween boy who'd bought his beloved a ticket for her 18th birthday. I bet even Stormzy, the fellow Londoner she gave a shout out to halfway through, had an amazing night. As befits an Adele concert, I shared a bottle of vino with one of my best friends and sang my little heart out. I might even have shed a tear (look, YOU try not to cry when you're half a bottle of wine down and Adele's weeping over a tiny child telling her she'd inspired her to make music).

Later on in the week, I was asked for a thing at work to reveal something I consider to be a 'guilty pleasure'. As it happened, this was something I'd actually been thinking about, since I count my love of Adele to be something of a guilty pleasure. These days, being an Adele fangirl is about as basic as professing a love of tea in your Twitter bio. She's warbled her way into the mainstream and conquered America – she's your nan's favourite as well as your 10-year old cousin's – and it's therefore not especially cool to count yourself among her fans (whatever the hell 'cool' even means). And this hasn't escaped her notice: "I'm doing Glastonbury just to piss off all the people who are pissed off about me doing it", she told the O2 with a mischievous cackle on Monday night.

It's quite difficult to define what exactly a guilty pleasure is, but I'd say a fairly good assessment is whether it's the kind of thing you'd be sure to avoid putting on a dating profile. By that token, mine are endless: listening to Dolly Parton, rewatching Love Actually, The Devil Wears Prada and any other film considered a 'chick flick', buying nail varnish in every shade going, squeezing spots, wearing fake eyelashes, eating picnic food (think scotch eggs, cocktail sausages and the like), reblogging things to my perfectly curated Tumblr page, listening to Magic FM, watching repeats of Sex and the City despite having seen it a million times...the list goes on. This isn't an exhaustive list of my interests by any means; my radio isn't always tuned to the same station and luckily, my diet consists of more than just beige, pork-based products. But even still, they're not the things I'm likely to lead a conversation with. No one wants to be pigeonholed by their guilty pleasures.

The endless viewings of Sex and the City I mention happen to have alerted me to another guilt-centric concept – that of 'SSB', or Secret Single Behaviour. In one of my favourite episodes, Carrie, newly cohabiting with boyfriend Aidan, is mourning the loss of all the weird stuff that she would only ever do alone – her SSB. One of the things she misses most is standing in the kitchen reading fashion magazines, making her way through a stack of crackers and jam, while her friend Miranda reveals “I like to put Vaseline on my hands and stick them in those Borghese conditioning gloves while watching infomercials." Charlotte, on the other hand, tells them that in her single days she used to study her pores for an hour every night in a magnifying mirror.

Everyone, Sex and the City viewer or not, must have their own SSB equivalent, and feelings of guilt aren't uncommon for people of both sexes. But I think guilt affects women on a more insidious level, thanks to centuries of patriarchal bullshit. Last week, I read that Mindy Kaling – the same Mindy Kaling who acts, writes, produces and is now worth a reported $15 million – sends apology cupcakes to people she feels she's been "too assertive" with. Do you think Steve Carrell's ever felt compelled to send an apology cupcake? Or any other successful male writer, actor or producer, for that matter?

Whether it's for eating a slice of cake, skipping the gym or for coming across as overly pushy, the number of things you hear women express guilt over on an hourly – let alone daily – basis is absurd. Phrases like 'a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips' might seem fairly innocuous, but they're actually an indication of just how deep-seated the guilt over some of life's simplest pleasures – or in the case of assertiveness, things that merely come as standard for men – are in our collective psyche.

There are some things for which feelings of guilt are perfectly justified, no matter who you are: that you don't visit your grandparents enough, or that you forgot your friend's birthday, or any other time you have to admit to yourself that you've been a bit of a shit. But there are countless other situations where our guilt is likely misplaced. Occasionally treating yourself to a chocolate bar instead of sticking to a rice cake isn't something to beat yourself up over. Telling your friend that actually you'd just rather stay in tonight, without making up some excuse, isn't the end of the world.

And as for guilty pleasures...a few years ago, admitting that you were a Craig David fan would have been met with a sneer, but now he's supposedly leading a garage renaissance it's perfectly acceptable. Not so long ago, eating a burger and chips meant a covert trip to McDonalds, now, going for a 'dirty burger' is seen as a cool, Instagram-worthy night out. The things we're supposed to feel guilty about can change over night, so why bother in the first place? And apart from anything else, who really cares what the contents of your Spotify playlist or your lunchbox are? Life's too short to feel guilt over the things that you enjoy the most.

So this week, why not eat that last slice of cake. Tell that person you're too busy to meet up with them. Listen to as much Adele as you please. And try, try oh so very hard, to stop feeling so bloody guilty all the time.

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