An open letter…

Hey you, get over here.

My plea to ‘Holiday Amy’ – shouting into the void in the hope she hears and saunters on over with a cocktail in hand.

We need to talk about ‘versions of self’. We’d love to be able to say we’re our weird, bold, authentic (bleurgh) selves at all times, but if we did, we’d be lying. We hope to do that, I certainly have the best intentions (I know…road to Hell…blah) but I never quite get there.


A slice of paradise…

A glorious two week break from school logistics, work, life, social engagements, appointments and self-imposed pressure to create amazing things (see beautiful blog by my writing soulmate Laura on this subject) showed me, or reminded me of one of the better versions of myself – in my humble opinion.

In that spirit, I decided to write an open letter to Holiday Amy, with a view to enticing her join me in the day to day and without me forking out for a trip to Spain. I wrote this while I was just on the cusp of putting my reality cloak back on (setting the scene for you there; you’re welcome).


Dear…. me

We’re still together and I miss you already, weird as that sounds/is. I can already feel the inevitable creep of reality – the poop needing scooping from the cat litter, the pain of three hundred emails and the lists, oh Lord the lists – school items that need purchasing before the rush when all mothers (other carers guardians are available) turn into ruthless, diving sneaks to grab the last pair of gym shorts or multipack of tights (truth).

Aside (for our lovely blog readers). No-one has seen anything like the school shop chaos since Arnie tried to bag a Turbo Man for his kid in that movie…if you don’t know what I am talking about, we probably can’t be friends. Jokes. Jokes.



I can feel all of this stuff eroding your bronzed, laid back personality and it makes me sad. We have so much in common me and you; we talk the same, like the same music and have a rather OTT and somewhat insatiable love for pastries (though you get to embrace that with a little less self-loathing and criticism) and that’s just it. I really like you. I like the way you scrape back your hair, cast your make-up bag and daily pressure aside and just, are.


We have the same wobbly bits (you may even have more because of the aforementioned pastry deal) but you walk around with more confidence. The soft spill of a little extra curve doesn’t make you flinch – amazing what a little tan can do for a girl. You don’t panic like me, and this is a BIG deal. Instead you breathe in fully, take in the little details around you without the thoughts being shoved out by some random act of idiocy you are plagued with from ten years ago. You savour mediterranean air and take time to notice the warmth of terracotta tiles under your rested feet. Hell, if it wasn’t obvious already, I think I love you.

So, please come home with me. Help me make time to read, remind me how happy it makes me. Make me appreciate everything when I am back to being a dramatic, stressed out PR person, or over-tired friend who is beating herself up for never quite being enough. Most of all, come home and bring some of that ‘all in, this is me, wobbles and all’ attitude with you. We all need you on the home front.


Me xx

So there you have it.

Holiday Amy is awesome and I am here trying to emulate her majesty in real life. I mean, the jury’s still out on whether or not I managed to convince her to stay, but the fact it’s taken me four weeks to write this blog suggests reality may have scared her away.

Shhh, let’s leave these croissant crumbs here and see if she comes back.


When are you the best version of you? Let us know.

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