Liv, laugh, lunch: The Spaghetti Incident, Bristol

Immaculate vibes and food at this unassuming Italian restaurant in Bristol – where the pasta is made in house!

TL;DR: It was pretty incredible.

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The Glass Hotel by Emily St. John Mandel

Book Review

The Glass Hotel is the latest novel by Emily St. John Mandel, author of my all-time favourite and award-winning novel, Station Eleven. In essence, it’s a story about white-collar crime: a Ponzi scheme that blows up and obliterates the structure of many lives in the process. More than this, though, The Glass Hotel is about belonging, about identity and growth, secrets and ghosts, and (in true Mandel fashion) how lives intersect, impact and influence one another.

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Sex in Sally Rooney’s Normal People

I read (and watched) Sally Rooney’s Normal People in under 48 hours.

Now, I’m not one for savouring things, even normally. Books and TV shows, though split into parts, are wholes – and I always have a niggling fear that, if I consume them too slowly, I’ll have forgotten the beginning by the time I’ve made it to the end. I’m fearful that I’ll miss something – whether it’s a clever cyclical moment, a key part of the plot or merely who a character is after rushing over them.

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Making up with make up

I love experimenting with make up – with eye shadows and eye liners and lipsticks. I delight in matching my makeup to my clothes, my eye liner to my earrings, my lip gloss to my shoes. I like exploring the colours that make my green eyes pop – copper, gold, orange, pink.

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Ishiguro, Chandler, Adichie

What I’ve been reading

Recently, as I’m sure you’re aware, time has been a little more free. I’m taking the opportunity to reignite my love for reading, something that – with an English degree equating reading with work – often fades. I’m reuniting with favourite authors, picking up books I bought and never got around to reading, and reading books I always meant to. Today, I want to talk about three authors I’ve recently read.

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Finding my purpose[lessness]

With the recent sunshine beaming down on the UK, I’ve been finding myself outside a lot: reading, writing, lounging, listening to music. I cover myself in lightweight clothing, and head into the garden. I watch the breeze brush through the bushes, the blossom drop in a puddle around the trees. I get to wear the summer tops – my favourite tops – that I haven’t worn since August. And cardigans and summer scarves and hats and sunglasses. I coat any skin peeking through in sun cream. (Being pale has turned me into a sun burn hypochondriac.) The smell reminds me of childhood beach days, and the sheen on my skin reminds me of last summer and my perpetual, sun cream-induced shine as I travelled through Europe. I like the way the sun hits my cheeks – it reminds me of the highlighter I normally wear.

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