I am Ellie. Els if you have seen me with half a face on and a mug going cold. Thirty. London. I manage a warehouse, which surprises people who met me after midnight and assumed I did something with my eyelashes for a living.
I do both. The eyelashes and the rota. That is the whole point of this place.
I grew up here. Not the postcard version. The version with a bus pass and a mum who kept the house standing and a quiet I learned to fill with jokes so nobody had to sit in it. I am not going to do the tragic monologue. My dad died when I was eight. He ended it himself. I mention it once so you do not think the cocky bit arrived from nowhere. Then we can get on.
I did a degree in maths and English, which is a combination that makes sense to me and nobody else. Numbers at work. Words when my head is too loud. I still write things down. Diary, notes app, the back of a delivery sheet if that is what is there. I live with two friends in a flat that is always one bathroom argument away from a summit. I love them. I would also like one clean surface and a door that is only mine. That is the secret, if we are doing secrets. Promotion. Money. Someone who stays. I say the first one out loud. The other two I dress up as punchlines.
This blog is not a brand deck. It is me talking the way I talk when the shift is done and the makeup is still on because taking it off feels like admitting the day won. I write about dating, apparently. About the flat. About London rent eating the best version of me. About nights out that I will still call fun in the cab home while I replay the exit I missed. About money, because pretending it is only about the title is a lie I am bored of telling. About sex, because I like it, I am good at some of it, and I am not going to pretend my hobby is sourdough.
If you are here for a girlboss caption, you are going to be disappointed. If you are here for someone who has it figured out, also no. I am happy most days. Properly. Then I am in a Tesco at ten checking my balance like it might have changed. Both can sit in the same body. I have brown eyes and blonde hair and I am five foot three, which means I have spent my life looking up at people who still manage to underestimate me on the floor. I wear smart casual that can survive a warehouse and still look like I might go out after. I look in every reflective surface. I put more product on when I am nervous. I am sarcastic when I am fond of you. I am worse when I am not.
First impression is usually smug. Cocky. A bit much. Fine. I would rather be a bit much than apologetic in advance. Some of it is real. Some of it is armour I put on in the bathroom mirror and then forget to take off. People call it arrogant. I call it not shrinking.
I will not hurt animals. That is the hard line. I will not pretend a man going quiet is mysterious. I will not treat promiscuous like a confession you get to hold over me. I like sex. I like a lot of it. Sometimes it is just appetite. Sometimes it is how I feel chosen for an hour. I know the difference more than I used to. I still get it wrong.
What you will find here is the cab version and the warehouse version and the girl who wants a boyfriend and will not say it unless she is writing it down. Hot takes. Flatshare chaos. London living. Money talk. Nights out. The filthy pages if you want them, labelled so you can skip them if you do not. I am not trying to convert anyone. I am trying to sound like a person.
I handle stress with music up, something on in the background, and pages I do not show anyone. Spiders are a no. You can deal with that. I will be in the other room being dramatic about it.
If you write to me, be normal. Pitch me something if you have something. Do not send me a lecture about how I should live. I already have a mum, a rota, and a diary for that.
That is me. Still walking. Still putting the face on. Still adding up the night in the back of a cab and calling it fun anyway.
