Last week, a copybuddy said she was suffering with the old imposter syndrome malarkey. You know it, I’m sure. She asked Twitter for advice to quiet her traitorous mind, and I advised putting on a silk peignoir, smoking a candy pink Sobranie and reciting excellent lines from the silver screen to her reflection in the mirror.
The older I get, the more I find comfort in small things. Is that my life shrinking? I don’t care if it is. I’ve seen enough.
These are my ways to stop feeling like shit:
Make coffee in the stove-top percolator, then drink it from my Wedgwood cup and saucer. In the sunroom, preferably looking out at some rain and listening to it thrum on the roof. Pyjamas or silken robe must be involved.
Check New Arrivals on Zara. I know, how awful. But it’s the truth that I am comforted and cheered by how Zara just GETS me. It’s like looking at the inside of my brain. Moss green velvet, puce silk and tiny glistering beads on a cashmere blend.
Put on a podcast about serial killers and lay down on my soft soft bed. Perhaps a smol dogcat will come and lightly jump onto the covers, pad across to my face for a snoot boop, and then settle down to tangle their claws in my hair.
Drink something with my best friend. It needn’t be alcoholic but it is a totemic symbol, the chalice. It allows us to cup our hands around our subject and pour forth all the twisty stuff we’ve been storing. It’s easier to untangle with your best friend.
Write. It can take an effort, when you feel like a failure, but I always remember I’m pretty OK at life when I write. I also make money when I write so writing in any mood is a good plan.
Have a gin in a gold-rimmed champagne coupe. Stir with a small, glittery plastic spoon I keep solely for the purpose of stirring magic into cocktails. Probably smoke a fag, to be honest. I’ve stopped a thousand tears with a well-timed cigarette.
Play fetch with my boycat. Scrubble his tummy every time he brings back the sodden mouse and say “You such a good bo-oy! You such a good BOY!” I always insist he SITS between throws, which he’s getting very good at. A pure joy.
Instagram. Yes. I’m sorry. It’s just Instagram’s algorithm knows me so well? I can go on Discover and see thousands upon thousands of pictures of 1950s dressing rooms, hand-shaped novelty jewellery and cat portraiture. I’m sure it’s terrible for my psyche but it’s an indulgence that never fails to bring me pleasure.
Send my workbuddy a dog to name. Just that: one of us will send a picture of an animal and the other names him. The original sender then usually derides the namer for their choice. “Are you BLIND? His name is obviously BRUISER, you idiot.”
Write down outfits (OK, fine, make full-on mood boards). So soothing. Now I have all my clothes on rails, I can flick through them easy pie. Getting dressed is probably my number one hobby. It brings me so much happiness and totally influences my day.