Clothes for a Life I Do Not Live
Big day.
I went through my wardrobe to finally admit that I am not the kind of person who wears red fake leather trousers.
Some items I have kept over the years “just in case.”
Just in case I wake up one day with a new personality.
Just in case I’m asked to attend Fashion Week (still unclear by who).
Just in case there’s an event that requires… red leather trousers.
Anyway.
The rule was simple: if I hadn’t worn it in the last 18 months, it’s gone.
Which is how the red leather trousers in my wardrobe finally ran out of excuses.
They have, however, been a staple in my wardrobe for years.
Not on my body.
Just… spiritually.
They lived there because one day, obviously, I would wear them.
I bought them after seeing my best friend wearing black ones about five years ago. Immediately ordered my own online, but red – because I am bold, apparently.
Because once upon a time when I was about 13, I owned red skinny jeans, and if I wore those, surely I would wear these.
Reader, I have never worn them.
This logic made perfect sense to me.
What I failed to consider was:
- They are unbelievably hot to wear. Like wrapping your lower body in a bin liner.
2. They are aggressively camel-toe-forward.
3. I live in a place that is the exact opposite of a red leather pants kind of environment.
I did try them on again about two months ago, just to check.
Just in case the vibe had changed.
It had not.
I stood there, sweaty, plastic-adjacent, staring at myself, thinking, girl – where exactly do you think you’re going in these?
So today, they went into the charity bag.
RIP to the Freddy Ireland Pants.
Admired from afar.
Never worn.
Never fulfilled their destiny.
Public Commentary I Did Not Request
Earlier that day – before the emotional farewell to the red leather pants – I went to the gym.
First session back after flying home on my leave.
First proper workout in WEEKS.
I was easing myself in gently, because I’ve been sick recently and also I’d taken a very intentional break from training this last contract at work – zero motivation, lots of early nights – and although I’ve lost some strength, it feels like a break I probably needed after two solid years of going hard.
Within an hour of leaving the house, I’d received two comments about my tattoos.
The first was from an older gentleman, who told me I have “two beautiful legs – but one more beautiful than the other,” pointing very confidently at the tattooed one.
Older people really do commit to their compliments.
No hesitation.
Just straight in.
Then there’s the woman at my gym.
She’s very pleasant. Very smiley.
And absolutely cannot rest until she’s told me she hates my tattoos.
We said hello.
Wished each other Happy New Year.
Our normal, friendly interaction.
She then went into the toilet… and immediately came back out before she even shut the door to specifically say, “You’re too beautiful to be painting yourself. Have you finished doing this yet?”
This is not the first time.
This is not even the second time.
She has made it her personal mission to inform me – repeatedly – that I am ruining my body.
Always with a smile.
Always like she’s doing me a favour.
It’s not a compliment, it’s more of a performance review I didn’t ask for.
I don’t know why she feels so compelled to share this with me, but I admire the commitment. If you’re going to be backhanded, at least be consistent.
After the gym, I went for a walk on the beach.
Barefoot, feet in the water, that immediate hit of happiness that reminds you why you live here in the first place.
Spotify was all bangers – Spice Girls, ABBA – and once again I was reminded that a walk solves almost every problem I think I have.
It’s free.
Immediate results.
I did put sunscreen on my face, which felt responsible. I did not put it on my chest or shoulders, because I like to let my skin see the sun for the first couple of days I’m back, and I decided an hour would be absolutely fine.
The African sun disagreed.
My chest and shoulders are now burnt to a crisp, which feels like a bold choice for day one back.
Choosing My Character
That was all yesterday. Today was a quieter day.
I went to the gym again and did legs, which I am actively trying to stop being a little bitch about. That said, I am still refusing to do heavy back squats or deadlifts because I like my back and I’d like to keep it usable.
When I’m home, I always fall into a really good routine – that part isn’t new.
Strength training, daily steps, short morning yoga when I wake up (15–20 minutes max), running (I’m usually a solid 5-10km runner), and reformer Pilates, which I own but have ignored for an impressive amount of time, but am now fully intending to bring back into my life.
The running hasn’t changed yet, but it’s about to.
Which is how this has quietly turned into a pick your 2026 character situation.
I’ve just signed up for a trail half-marathon.
Character selected.
Half-marathon girl.
This particular event is brutally hilly, which feels like a choice I made without fully thinking it through. I did the 10km version of the same event in 2023 and enjoyed it enough to forget how hard it was.
For context, here’s me at the end of that 10km in 2023. I did it mostly for the ice cream.
Worth noting: the event does an excellent medal, inspired by the Cerne Abbas Giant.
Anyway, I assume once this is done, I’ll then have to do a Hyrox, because that’s how these things tend to go.
Apparently, it stands for Hybrid Rockstar, which is objectively hilarious. My bestie explained this to me in Ibiza earlier this year, where we did absolutely zero partying and socialising, and just lay by the pool drinking water all day, and hoarded roughly 800 water bottles in our room.
We later agreed it should stand for Hydrated Rockstar, which we were already extremely overqualified for.
Maths I Could Have Lived Without
While casually planning my future as a multimillionaire, I realised something deeply offensive.
I was working out exactly how long it would take me to get there through investing when ChatGPT told me I have 16 years until I’m 50.
I assumed this was a mistake.
Surely it meant 25 to 30 years.
It did not.
Rude, but okay.
I then realised that the number of years between now and me turning 50 is the exact same number of years since I was 18.
I did not ask for this information.
Bangers, But Make It Orchestral
Today’s soundtrack matched the mood perfectly.
Still bangers, just a different genre – Harry Potter, Disney music played by the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, plus some beautiful classical pieces from movies.
Click the Spotify playlist below in case you want some nice, calm tunes – I only make excellent playlists, and I won’t be taking feedback at this time.
So That’s Where I’m At
Anyway. That’s the update.
Red fake leather trousers gone, half-marathon booked and sunburn acquired.
If you want more of this kind of thing, you can read the rest of my Delulu Diaries posts here – same energy, different days.
Or scroll down and add your email at the bottom of the page. I occasionally send out fun bits by email – things I’ve enjoyed, found useful, or laughed at and thought you might too.
You’ll also get a small set of cute images I’ve made that you can use however you like – for mood boards, Pinterest, posts, projects, or anything else you’re working on.
