Love on the spectrum, I know it well

This week in therapy, I’ve been speaking a lot about how my rampant people-pleasing is getting in the way of good parenting. At the moment, we’ve been experimenting with a household sugar ban, which is hard to police when in the field. Cut to saturday and Reuben has unearthed a bowl of boiled sweets in his friend’s bedroom and runs upstairs to show off his spoils. Despite my better judgment and because of my deep fear, intolerance, and potential allergy to causing a scene I decided to allow it (Plus I slightly subscribe to the rule of finder keepers) a move i came to bitterly regret when we went to watch a procession of giant Indian puppets traipse down Exhibition Road and Reuben started accusing them all of being demons. Must be stronger next time.

On Monday, I went and met the entire Delevingne clan at a bar in South London, which felt very trendy and alternative. There were lots of people on dates drinking organic wine and discussing their neurodivergence. Love on the spectrum, I know it well. After downing a bottle of plonk we went to an underground vaulted cave which had been spray painted with amateur graffiti and looked like the kind of space Vans might rent out for one of their public facing spon con events. There we watched Cara perform some of her newest material and drank more wine - canned / definitely not organic - before remembering it was a Monday and that getting smashed would be completely unnacceptable.

I also went and saw Romain Gavras’s exhibition at 180 Studios; An apocalyptic meditation on war and peace, love and hate, reverie and surveillance. The afterparty was at Heaven, which i dont think i’ve set foot in for about a decade. I spent most of my night in the green room(?) slash VIP area which was really just a drag queen staffroom replete with a treadmill, smoke machine and fridge full of dog food and clean vibe drink. A weird smokey vortex, i could have stayed there all night until a girl with a star patch on her face started arbitrarily handing out napkins, potentially having smoked whatever young lean was smoking in one of Romains videos, at which point i realised it was time to call it a night.

On Wednesday, I watched a cast of colourful characters/rent-a-crowd queue up diligently for their turn on the Royal Academy summer party step and repeat and realised that not one of these people gave two hoots about art. Then again, I realised, maybe it doesn’t matter?

I thought I wasn’t really in a shopping mood - back on meds, so mentally a little more stable- but then i came across this sugar spun confection - a 2002 ruffled Dior situation - and thought it might be nice to have in the wardrobe for any future wedding, even though i actually hate weddings and slightly wish my friends would stop inviting me.

I’ve been thinking a lot about oversharing, probably in light of starting this substack off with the line “This week in therapy” and it got me thinking about the absolutely iconic email my eldest sister Pam used to send out to all her friends back in the mid-noughties. A proto newsletter detailing her life in the mean streets of Manhattan, in it she would give every man she encountered an animal name (Golden Retriever, Prince Hamster, and my personal favourite Mr Tumnus - part animal still counts) and would go into great, whimsical detail about her various trysts. After rereading one particular zinger from May 09, I’m convinced she needs to start a substack of her own. Oversharing clearly runs in the family.

I did a shoot in North London with a real-life snake. Which isn’t the first time I’ve been caressed by a serpentine creature, although I’ve never met one called Yorkie. I chose the male one to hold instead of the female one, just in case she took against me. I think, on balance, after slithering down my own scaling limbs, it felt quite at home.

On Thursday, I went and got ultratherapy on three out of my four chins because every time I see a picture of myself not taken from a ¾ degree angle, preferably self-captured, i look like i’ve got chin cleavage. It hurt so much i lay in the fetal position the whole time and had to use two vibrating fidget toys, one in each hand. Tbh it wasn’t the physicality of the pain which bothered me, rather the mental image of cells melting into fleshy tar between the layers of my dermis, which isn’t even how the procedure works - that was causing me the most anguish.

I wonder if i could expense this?

On Wednesday evening, I went to Ikeda, a Japanese restaurant with Tom and our friend Mel, where we feasted on warm bean curd and hot soupy egg, which is so not my usual sushi order (very Tom’s) but i was feeling in a frisky mood. And tbh it was banging.

Didn’t really hear anything of interest this week. I might actually delete this category. Thoughts?

Can you expense tweakments?

Where can you go in London after midnight for a civilised drink?

How many supplements are too many?