The Sparkly Boot Pilgrimage

So this weekend I did my favourite hobby: accidentally making decisions that feel small in the moment and then turn out to be massive.

It started pretty normally.

I walked back to that little boutique store I found last weekend (the one I talked about in European Winter Fashion Haul in my 30’s: Tartan, Bouclé & Sparkly Pieces)

AKA, the shop that had ✨ THE✨  shoes.

The ones I haven’t stopped thinking about since I first saw them last weekend.

Which became even more urgent, because if you’re new here – I work on a superyacht, and we are currently in a port (at an undisclosed location), and if we leave soon, I’ll NEVER see that shop again – and the idea of those shoes existing somewhere without me felt rude.

Anyway, the same lovely woman was working, and before I even opened my mouth, she came over and said, “Oh, you were here last week-you bought these” – then pointed to the exact pair.

Which is either incredible customer service or mildly concerning surveillance, but anyway.

I just sat down, tried on the boots, and immediately fell in love.

Not everyone’s taste. VERY mine.

(Which, coincidentally, was the exact vibe of the outfit I was wearing: a massive coat that made me look like a sheep, with a fluffy leopard print bucket hat. See below the hat in question. 👇 )

The boots are basically the sparkly, extroverted sibling of my original black boots – the pair my parents gifted me for my birthday when I was about 17, and that I still adore and wear now (at age 33).

So as far as I’m concerned, that wasn’t shopping.

That was destiny disguised as retail, otherwise known as long-term commitment.

The Universe Sent an Email

Anyway.

That was Saturday.

Then on Sunday morning, out of absolutely nowhere, my brain just dropped a fully-formed instruction:

“Right. We’re moving back to England next year.”

No meltdown.
No pros and cons list.
No pacing around the kitchen pretending to think.

Just a quiet internal click, like when you suddenly remember exactly where your missing keys are.

That’s genuinely how my decisions work.
I don’t consult a committee or call 12 friends for opinions.
There’s no PowerPoint presentation of logistical arguments.
No debating with myself in the shower.

Big decisions just arrive – fully formed, instant, crystal-clear downloads – like my brain has already done the maths in the background and only notifies me once the conclusion is final.

Not in a spiritual prophet way, just literally how my brain is wired.

So when the sentence dropped in, that was that.
Decision made.
Next chapter loading.

If you’re into Human Design (HD) (which, if you’re not, it’s basically astrology meets science meets psychology, mixed in a blender and served with a side of “okay wait, that actually makes sense??”), I’m a 6/2 Projector with Splenic authority, which basically means my nervous system hits a big internal “YES” button and the rest of my life scrambles to catch up.

Allow me to share a tale of one of those instant decisions…

Almond Milk-Gate: 2017

There was once a day, years ago, when I was working on one superyacht with the owner onboard, and a fully grown adult male chef decided to shout at me in front of everyone because he was convinced I was lying about almond milk.

Chef: “YOU’RE LYING. YOU DON’T MAKE THE ALMOND MILK. YOU BUY IT. WHY ARE YOU LYING TO THE BOSS?!”

Sir, please.

(☝️ Me trying to process being aggressively accused of almond milk fraud in front of the owner.)

We – my wonderful service team and I – literally soaked the almonds.
We physically blended the almonds.
We strained the almonds through a cloth like medieval dairy-maids.
We even added a pinch of cinnamon.
If anything, we were too committed to the almond milk.

And we did this EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT.

Meanwhile, he was serving store-bought sorbet and ready-made hollandaise like he’d churned them by hand under the light of the full moon.
So the hypocrisy was truly breathtaking.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t argue.
I calmly explained (multiple times) that we made it fresh nightly – but he just kept shouting “LIAR!” over the top of me like a malfunctioning parrot.

Eventually, the owner had to gently step in and say,
“It’s okay, G – please can you tell me how you make it?”
because this man would not stop yelling.

And my body just quietly whispered:

“Absolutely not.”

I finished the shift, walked straight to the bridge, and handed in my notice.

It was the final confirmation I needed – the end had been coming anyway, as I couldn’t progress anymore on there, I wanted to go travelling, and that moment just pressed fast-forward.

I worked my full notice period like a civilised adult, and then a month later I flew straight to Costa Rica and decompressed from The Great Almond Milk Fiasco.

The End.

Minor Headlines

Also, while we’re here, a few other notable events from this week:

• I gave myself the best blow-dry I’ve ever done in my life. Fabulous doesn’t even begin to cover it. I looked like I had a personal glam squad tucked in a cupboard somewhere.
  
  
• A fully grown adult man looked me dead in the eyes today and asked,
  “Do these gloves fit me?”
  As if I’m some kind of glove whisperer.
  Sir, just… bend your fingers. If they fit, they fit.
  
  
• I also enthusiastically showed my roommate the scarf I’m knitting, and in the excitement, I flung half the stitches off the needle, and put several back on wrong, and continued – now there’s a hole the size of a moral failing in it. I need to learn how to undo three rows because I cannot live knowing it’s fixable and choosing not to fix it.

Anyway, that’s enough ridiculous life admin for one week.

If you like these little brain-dump life chapters, you can read the rest of the Delulu Diaries here 💗