Visiting from Venus the Podcast

ArgosBefore Amazon, there was a different sort of shopping phenomenon that took the UK by storm: Argos. In many ways, it was early Amazon — warehouse shopping at its absolute peak. It was the most exciting way to buy anything from toys to cheap jewellery. Rows of laminated catalogues were fixed to desks with small plastic boxes of tiny pencils that were also used when playing golf, and sheets of paper with printed spreadsheets of empty squares waiting to be filled with product numbers. There were little calculators where you could type in your product number to see if the item was in stock, and then off to the cashier to pay for something you had never even seen before. You’d eagerly wait for your number to be called so you could collect the item from a mysterious hatch backed by towering warehouse shelves.There were no items on display except for a small jewellery counter in the corner housing the exquisite Elizabeth Duke collection beneath a lit glass cabinet. Large gold hoop earrings, doll pendants and sovereign rings glistened from their maroon velvet boxes. One of the first things I would do when the new Argos catalogue came out was turn straight to the jewellery pages to choose which Elizabeth Duke piece I might one day be lucky enough to receive as an engagement ring.This is what vision boarding looked like in the 90s.One of the most popular girls in my year at school had a much older boyfriend called Scrout. At the time we all thought it was incredibly cool and impressive that he was in his twenties and dating a schoolgirl. The cherry on the cake was when he bought her an Elizabeth Duke necklace for Christmas. This is what popularity gets you.Around August, the Christmas catalogue appeared, obviously. This, alongside the Radio Times, practically counted as festive décor. Both would end up covered in graffitied biro circles.My sister and I would fight over who got to circle the items they most wanted for Christmas first. My sister would usually head for the pages of electronics like, Sega Mega Drives. I would go straight to the girls’ toys pages and be met with an array of pink hope for the future. I clearly remember circling a toy iron, ironing board and washing machine with a matching laundry basket. It seems that vision boarding worked a little too well, albeit delayed by several decades.If only I’d known back then about my absolute hatred of household chores. On more than one occasion, I’ve worn a swimming costume as substitute underwear because I refused to do a wash and had run out of pants. But as a young girl, I dreamed of an array of household appliances I could practise with before the joy of adulthood and getting to use them for real. It’s odd the boys’ toys pages didn’t have any of this — their loss.Every year I would circle a Girl’s World. That glorious head and shoulders of a woman with blonde curly hair and vacant eyes where you could practise putting in rollers and applying make-up. I’m curious – if you got one of these did you cut its hairStill to this day I have a genuine fascination with them, but never once was one under the tree for me.Other circled items that failed to make the cut included a Mr Frosty, a SodaStream and Polly Pocket. Luckily, as an adult, I now get to own a Mr Frosty and a SodaStream to sit in the cupboard doing absolutely nothing.I also quite liked the look of Sylvanian Families, but they were expensive and my friend Charlotte had the whole set, including the Treehouse. So if I fancied playing with them, my mum would just suggest a playdate at hers. I always came away with the same conclusion: a small velvet-covered shrew was nowhere near as entertaining as what a Barbie and a good imagination could get up to.Another new way of shopping appeared around this time and it was a top secret that everybody knew about. A magical warehouse that you could only enter if you had a special trade card that, in reality, required absolutely no credentials whatsoever. My dad always looked slightly nervous as he flashed his membership card while we stood nearby anticipating whether we’d be granted entry.Makro.Shelves stretched higher than seemed practical and everyday items could be bought in bulk in quantities that appeared capable of lasting an entire lifetime. Everything also seemed unbelievably cheap because the tax wasn’t added until you reached the checkout.A trip to Makro was treated like a family day out to a theme park. My best friend Fiona was allowed to buy huge plastic tubs of super sour Astro Belts and we would eat as many as we could until we felt sick and the coarse sugar coating had numbed our tongues. We weren’t allowed the jumbo sweet packs, but I do remember one particular visit when we passed a giant mound of fluffy life-size toy dogs. Out of the hundreds stacked up, one caught my eye. It was love at first sight.I hid him amongst a pile of kitchen roll and plucked up the courage to ask if I could possibly get something so elaborate. That day I went home with Wilfrid and he became one of my most treasured teddies. He was the perfect shape to nestle your head into at night and sat beside Snowy, my beloved cat teddy.Costco feels like the modern equivalent of Makro, but I still get exactly the same excited buzz whenever we visit and proudly leave with 340 toilet rolls and 54 fresh cookies that expire the next day.I’m glad small pleasures still make me happy, and I even got my original wedding ring from Argos!Now that’s how you do a vision board. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

Sick day’s followed a very familiar routine. It would begin with a tummy ache, I do stand by the fact that I did, for most cases, have a genuine tummy ache – probably known nowadays as school anxiety, which also meant the minute I was given the all clear to stay at home it would subside. Luckily for me my dad would have left for work early leaving my Mum to deal with the pre-school chaos, a gentle and kind heart that meant a soft touch when it came to staying off school. I must point out here that kindness should never be mistaken for weakness – this was a piece of acting I had perfected.Once the curtain came down on act one, I would pull myself into the downstairs toilet in case by miracle I was actually sick and once the door was closed and locked I would very, very quietly jump up and down with my hands like two victory fists. By the time I had come back out the toilet, I knew the deal was sealed when the Tom and Jerry sleeping bag had been carefully laid on the sofa and TV poised for a day of daytime viewing.The utter joy of hearing the opening beats of This morning – carefully watching that slow zoom across the Albert dock before the camera finally closing in on the Ultimate ‘it’ couple Richard and Judy, because it indicated weekday TV and that indicated I had landed myself a sick day. The Madeley & Finnigan Albert Dock era was also the pinnacle of daytime TV.Once happily settled with a cold flannel the ‘gold bell’ would appear. That’s right. If, while I was watching Fred Talbot jumping between Ireland and England on the floating map and I felt I needed emergency help, I could ring the bell and my mum would emerge. One time we had misplaced the sick bell, but my mum always the creative problem solver decided to get a mop and tie it to an extra broom handle so the mop head was in the hallway and the handle just in arms reach of me, so I could raise the mop to indicate I needed medical assistance.Luckily in the early 90s we had two full proof cures for any sort of illness, it really was quite a remarkable feat of science. The first, a large glass bottle of Lucozade wrapped in dark orange cellophane - maybe to protect the medicinal excellence or to stop the e numbers and sugar content from losing their potency in daylight. The second was two spoonful’s of bright pink strawberry Calpol carefully administered on the helpful flat white spoon that came in the box. Nowadays its sugar free and comes with a plastic syringe which when I administer it to my kids almost makes me feel like a qualified doctor, or junkie. Often giving one filled syringe to them and one to me – like a sort of numbing aid for overworked mothers.If my initial attempt of a sick day failed, the back-up would be a visit to the medical room in the hope a call would be made home and I would be collected. The medical room, I imagine was like most school medical rooms - located in a cupboard. A photocopier was wedged next to a wartime style camp bed, topped with a homemade crochet blanket. It smelt of potent disinfectant, which really helped with the gag reflex when you were trying to dry heave over the schools universal bucket. Sometimes I tried so hard to bring up anything tears would stream from my eyes, but then every little helps. I was usually alone in the medical room unless it was the day the nit nurse visited, then I would be joined by the same brother and sister having their seemingly permanent residence evacuated. Until the following visit.Along with staying at home for sick days I really enjoyed trips to the local A&E. Although, to get me into an A&E waiting room nowadays I’d have to have at least one limb hanging off.The local A&E to us was not as you would imagine, it was more of a small village walk in, in a tiny hospital. A woman would sit behind a hatch in the wall and around 5 bays with beds were behind a large wooden door. I went for an array of reasons including several asthma attacks despite the fact I did not have asthma, but I really wanted one of those turquoise inhalers. Several suspect bone breaks – always turning out to be ‘just a nasty sprain’ and one time I was simply the bystander of an unfortunate incident where my mum had asked my sister to close her eyes while she tried on a ring that was a prospective Christmas present which immediately got stuck and had to be cut free from her finger that was slowly turning an odd shade of purple, using an odd can opener style piece of equipment. God, I loved that place.The village also had a doctor’s surgery which was situated in an old coaching house. The building was beautiful with low wooden beams and an array of mix and matched vintage chairs in the large waiting room. Once I clearly remember a man checking in and then falling right through one of the ancient chairs. At least he had an appointment ready and waiting for his injuries.The village doctor was called Dr Hill-cousins, he was rather charming and as you explained your ailments, he would run a hand through his floppy longish greying hair. The tricky thing with this is nobody would visit him if they weren’t looking there best – an inherent problem when visiting a doctor and on occasion it was rumoured that once finding out you had been assigned to him you would change the very reason you went in altogether. It was exciting, like our very own real-life Dr Preston from Peak Practice.Eventually my love of being sick became an annoyance and unbeknown to me a meeting was arranged with my junior schoolteacher. I was given a special job in the morning and at lunchtime to distribute the registers to each class room in a weak attempt to make the prospect of school more appealing than Richard and Judy. My teacher was told not to send me to the medical room if I complained of a tummy ache, which resulted in an unfortunate vomiting incident in the corridor one day.I believe this is what you call the boy who cried wolf – or in my case the girl who cried tummy ache!*Footnote – I have zero regrets in the enjoyment I got from sick days as a child. As soon as I became a freelancing working adult and then a mum on top of that a sick day has become obsolete. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

I once spent an entire evening at a sheikh’s house folded into a box, because someone thought I was the entertainment.Fitting into places I don’t quite belong has always been one of my more reliable traits. When I was around 15, I had an English teacher, Miss Stanway—a very tall, slight woman who would hang off the doorframe, twisting her long beads around her fingers like Miss Hannigan. She would smoke a packet of cigarettes in the staff car park at lunchtime, and I always imagined she had some sort of hip flask in her desk drawer. A former actress turned teacher. Or maybe just actress in her toughest role yet - secondary school teacher. She had a shout and a laugh of equal decibels, and I will never forget her leavers’ book message to me: “I hope I get the first signed copy of your book.” I often wonder if she still will.One day she called me back after class and said an opportunity had come up, and she thought of me.There was a TV studio in Southampton—Meridian—where the local news was broadcast alongside smaller productions. They were trialling a new Sunday morning teenage magazine-style show for the newly launched Channel 5 and had reached out to a few local schools for audience volunteers.I was thrilled.I picked out a button-through denim top from my sister’s wardrobe and put on a dark red lip. This could be my chance of being discovered. The night before, I called my nan to tell her I had a big surprise for her, and that she and my grandad had to be watching Channel 5 at 9am the next morning. They were the only people I knew who actually watched the newly launched Channel 5.I remember the studio feeling enormous—high ceilings in a brand new building. We were ushered into a waiting area. I can’t remember if anyone else came from my school, but I’ve always been quite happy doing things on my own.A red-faced, harassed producer with a headset appeared and told us we’d be taken through shortly, his eyes darting around the room as if tracking ten things at once. About twenty of us were led into a white studio, with three levels of block seating built into one corner. That’s where we sat.The presenter was Josie D’Arby, a well-known children’s TV presenter at the time. She was sitting in the middle row, holding a large black microphone. Suddenly, I was asked to move and sit next to her.I couldn’t believe my luck. Right next to the host. In full view. My nan and grandad would be thrilled.The studio fell quiet as the countdown began. Lights blazed. A camera swung in for a tight opening shot, framing the presenter—with me right beside her. My heart was pounding. I fixed a full red-lipped smile and edged slightly closer, just enough to be safely in frame.Screens in front of us showed the live output. The autocue flickered into life.I read the next line in my head before she said it out loud.“I’m here in a studio audience of teenage mums, including one of the youngest expectant mums to announce her news live on TV.”The realisation landed slowly, we hadn’t actually been briefed. I felt the heat rise instantly to my face—that familiar, uncontrollable flush—while I tried, as subtly as possible, to edge myself back out of shot.It wasn’t the topic. It was the image that flashed into my mind—my grandparents, sitting at home, watching in silence, trying to work out exactly what kind of “surprise” this was supposed to be.I don’t remember what the show was about after that.I just remember how quickly you can end up in the wrong place when you’re too willing to be chosen.When have you found yourself in the totally wrong place and did you have the courage to leave? This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

Fiona was my best friend between the ages of seven and eleven, when I, a year older, hit the rocky road of senior school and we sadly drifted apart. Something I later learned would happen many times throughout life. It was not a failure of a friendship but rather the way the soul searches out what it needs (and sometimes very much does not): lessons in a different kind of love.Fiona was what I would call a gentle soul. We lived in and out of each other’s houses during those years, separated only by a small road that connected our two cul-de-sacs. I could run to hers in under a minute and roller blade in under 20!The houses were very similar. We lived on an estate where they were propped up like a Monopoly board, all identical and as many crammed into a small square as possible - but, I always thought Fiona’s house was very posh.They had glass French doors connecting the lounge and dining room and a garden that wrapped around the house because it was on a corner plot. They were also one of the only houses that had double glazing in the form of lead diamonds across the windows. In the 90s this was a surefire way of telling the outside world, and your neighbours, that you were stylish and rich.The wonderful thing about those first intense friendships is the chance to step into another world. To understand that all the little quirks your parents have, the ones that feel completely normal to you, aren’t the norm at all.Fiona lived, in my opinion, very differently from us, although looking back those differences were actually very small. She would always have tanned skin and mosquito-bitten legs because they holidayed every year in a French villa. I thought this sounded extremely flash compared to our UK-based holiday camps.Both her parents worked full-time. Her dad was an MD of a huge company and her mum — I don’t know exactly what she did, but I always assumed it was something very important and serious.This meant that Fiona was what you would call a latchkey kid.In the 90s it wasn’t overly common for both parents to work full-time. My mum was a stay-at-home mum; her first step back into work was part-time at the local Woolworths during hours that wouldn’t affect the full-time job she already had at home. Because of this, I never once came home to an empty house.A latchkey kid, however, would use their own key and spend the first couple of hours after school alone at home. I thought this was incredibly exciting.I remember going back to one friend’s house after school and watching in absolute awe as they whipped up dinner for us - an entire bowl of raw cake batter. Another friend made a huge plastic bowl of pasta and drained half a bottle of mayonnaise over it as the sauce. I was then handed a spoon and we both ate from the same bowl.This level of self-sufficiency was both impressive and enviable.Fiona would often make a Pot Noodle for tea, it was always the green chicken and mushroom flavour with a glass of cold water sitting next to it so she could dip her fork in to keep it cool between bites and therefore eat the noodles quicker.I suppose being thrown into that level of independence early allows genius ideas like this to form.We had many similarities too - maybe this is the basis of a perfect friendship: the ideal balance of difference and sameness.We both had swings in our gardens. Ours was green metal with metal handles and Fiona’s was red plastic with blue rope holding the seat.The joy of Fiona’s swing was that we could take turns sitting on it while the other twisted the ropes round and round before letting go, the swing spinning violently in the opposite direction until the ropes had unwound and you were left dizzy and disorientated.I remember once sitting on the swing with my head lowered to get the maximum number of twists, each turn creeping the rope closer to my head. Unfortunately, when the rope began to unwind it managed to pull my very long hair into its momentum, and I became temporarily part of the swing.I looked up to see Fiona’s mum walking towards me with an enormous pair of shearing scissors to cut me free. A vivid memory.Luckily, with a lot of care and precision, my hair and I were detached from the rope with minimal damage.We also both loved animals. She had a tortoise and later a guinea pig. Her sister had a hamster which we once got out of its red plastic home and promptly lost underneath the kitchen cabinets. Her mum came home from work and had to dismantle the lower cabinets and plinth to find the missing hamster before her sister found out.Exactly the sort of activity you hope to be greeted with after a long day at work.I recall she was very angry.Fiona was also very close to her grandma, who would often come along on days out, as was I with mine. My grandparents knew Fiona well and she even came on holiday with us.I was terribly carsick in my grandad’s car on the way there, but we still managed to practise our entry to the talent show ‘Mr Postman’, the Carpenters edition which we performed in matching outfits.Looking back now, I realise that first best friends are a kind of rehearsal for the rest of life.You learn how to share a world with someone who didn’t grow up inside your own. You learn that other families eat differently, holiday differently, live differently. You learn independence by watching someone else practise it first.And then, quietly, without any real drama, you learn that friendships can end too.Not with a bang, but with a change of schools, new surroundings, new people and the slow fading of a house just across the road.But for a few years, Fiona was my whole world.And I still can’t look at a Pot Noodle without thinking about the fork in the glass of water.Who was your first best friend?I’d love to hear about them. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

Three weeks before my birthday, the Family Circle book of birthday cakes would come out. I’d spend hours pouring over the pages to decide on that year’s masterpiece for my mum to recreate - a Barbie surrounded by a huge blue sponge cake dress, a whale with a carefully moulded marzipan tail, a hedgehog with hundreds of perfectly placed chocolate buttons. And later, a huge penis filled with marshmallow — although I think that one was my mum’s creation rather than anything sanctioned by Family Circle.Early birthday parties were at home. My friends and I would sit excitedly in the lounge while my mum dusted off a yellow cassette tape and placed it into the hi-fi. A man with a thick moustache and dark brown curly hair (I cant remember his name but i think it started with Bob) would then instruct us through a series of party games, using an overly enthusiastic 80’s presenter tone.After that, we’d head into the dining room for a buffet of Wotsits and sandwiches, before cake. Plastic party bags filled with Woolworths pick n mix party bag treats were handed out, and I’d go to bed happy in the knowledge I was edging closer to double figures.It was always a journey towards the next digit that held so much promise.Before I was 18, I wanted to be 18. On nights out I’d approach All Bar One swinging my keys and talking urgently on my Nokia, because both signalled “adult”, obviously. I would stand in the doorway before leaving the house and my mum would say, you look lovely, and I’d reply, but do I look 18? In fact, my entire outfit would be chosen on that premise.Before I was 24, I wanted to be 24. This ambition actually started at around the age of five, briefly paused for 18, and then resumed with full conviction. Twenty-four, to me, felt like the perfect age.When I passed 24, I decided I had until 28 to have my career up and running and life in order. When I passed 28, I decided I had until 32 to have a family and make up for the lack of order in my life. When I was 37 and pregnant, I didn’t want to be 40.And now I’m in my 40s and I find myself longing for a Barbie birthday cake and a bouncer outside All Bar One to ask me for ID.Maybe birthdays were never about the age itself, but that movement towards the imagined life ahead.So where do I go from 40?A few weeks ago, I was out on my scooter — yes, an adult stand on scooter — in my slightly less expensive brand of dry robe and woolly hat, when someone said, “I’m glad you’re embracing the give-no-f***s era.”I like the idea of that. Except I don’t think it’s true. I don’t think I care less. I think I just care about different things.For example, I care when something hurts, because I worry I’ve entered the this could be serious era. In fact the last time I went to the doctor, I walked up to the desk to check in and the receptionist leaned over to my youngest and asked, “And what’s your name?”“I’m Dylan and I’m four years old,” he said with great authority, “and this is Mummy and she’s 42 years old.”The entire waiting room erupted. Even one of the secretaries came out from the back to join in the hilarity. I laughed too, through a very reddened face — although I’m not entirely sure why, once you reach a certain age, it’s something to be hushed or joked about. Until, of course, you reach the point where you proudly tell everyone you’re eighty-something and still up and running.Despite the doctor check going well, I’ve recently gone through the painstaking process of writing a will — which feels like an unexpected topic for someone celebrating another year of life. However, I feel a small thought of mortality creeps in somewhere around the point where one packet of candles is no longer enough.Not fear exactly — just a thought.So, where do I go from here? I think I’ve realised I don’t want to go anywhere, I want to just enjoy every single moment. What was the best birthday cake you ever had? This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

My dad is a huge music lover. In our house it was more often music playing than the TV, and in my dad’s Mazda there was always a cassette tape on — unless the football results were being read out in that slow, monotone voice, or Simon Bates was delivering one of his devastating ‘Our Tune’ stories over the Romeo and Juliet love theme.If you grew up in the 90s you’ll know the feeling. Hearing that music produced the same sinking dread as the Casualty theme tune — the signal that all the good Saturday night television was over.Throughout my childhood I remember sitting in the car with my dad while he blasted his favourite songs on repeat.One year we took a disastrous family holiday to Wales. It was a particularly hot summer and before we set off on the four-hour drive my mum placed a bottle of full-fat milk in the boot so my brother — who had been breastfed longer than most humans — could also try cow’s milk as an option.Unfortunately, the entire bottle leaked.By the time we crossed the border into Wales the milk had soaked into the carpet of the boot and had possibly entered some kind of early cheese phase. The smell was so strong the air felt thick enough to chew. I’m fairly certain I put on a few pounds just from breathing it in.My dad, determined to keep morale high and focus on the road, decided the best solution was to play Tina Turner’s Simply the Best on repeat.Even now, when I hear those opening beats, my stomach turns slightly.As did the milk.I’d like to say that was what made the holiday a disaster, but unfortunate and mildly comedic mishaps seemed to follow us on most family holidays.Other songs instantly transport me back to car journeys with my dad. George Harrison’s I Got My Mind Set on You reminds me of sitting in the car eating rollmops straight from the plastic tub after swimming. Here Comes the Hotstepper was playing the day he dropped me at a birthday party.Then there was his version of I’m Horny, where he confidently replaced the word “horny” with “honey”. To this day I’m still not sure whether he was sparing us the embarrassment or genuinely believed that Mousse T were singing about honey.When I was about eight our hi-fi in the lounge was upgraded — a major household purchase and one that would provide the soundtrack to much of my childhood.My dad proudly installed a towering three-deck sound system. It had a radio, two cassette tape players, and — most impressively — an interchangeable CD player that could hold five discs at once and switch between them automatically.It lived in its own unit in the living room alongside a growing CD collection. Two large speakers stretched across the room on impossibly thin wires and flanked the armchair beside the system, creating a sort of surround sound experience — provided you were sitting in that exact chair.This was the system that blasted out Dr Fox on Sunday evenings so we could listen to the final Top Ten. I vividly remember my brother and I swinging each other around the room to Cotton Eye Joe one year.It was through this system that the Lighthouse Family soundtracked slow Sunday mornings, family parties were powered by Rod Stewart, Tina Turner and Lionel Richie, and one particular Christmas dinner was accompanied by Enya singing about Caribbean Blue.I never quite understood the festive connection, but it somehow made the meal feel oddly middle class.Slade returned the following year.One morning I walked downstairs to find my dad marching around the kitchen to Amarillo — the Peter Kay version — pausing only briefly at the kettle to pour me a cup of tea before continuing his lap of the room.It was an excellent way to start the day.Luckily, I had left home before his obsession with Neil Diamond truly kicked in.One strange summer my dad struck up a friendship with our neighbours two doors down. For fifteen years they had largely kept themselves to themselves. But over the garden fence one afternoon my dad heard the unmistakable opening of Sweet Caroline.The music was coming from the house of the man we all referred to as “the Woolworths man” — a nickname I’ve never fully understood. What I did know was that if a ball rolled onto his immaculate front lawn I would immediately run and hide in our porch before his angry face appeared at the door.But on this occasion, when my dad started loudly singing along over the fence, no angry face appeared.Instead there was a beaming smile and the music was turned up louder.Soon the two of them were singing together in perfect, enthusiastic unison.After that the neighbours and my parents went to several concerts together. My mum was always slightly in awe that they brought shop-bought M&S sandwiches on the coach trips rather than homemade ones.She couldn’t quite believe that someone who lived only two doors down could be that posh.Music does that though. It brings people together. It creates memories and friendships and moments that somehow stay with you forever.And sometimes all it takes is the opening beat of a song to take you straight back to childhood — to long car journeys, terrible holiday smells, and a dad turning the volume up far too loud.Which is why, whenever I hear Simply the Best, I don’t really think of Tina Turner.I think of my dad.And honestly — he really is.Simply the best.What song instantly takes you back to childhood?I’d love to hear it in the comments. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

My mum had a recipe that, to me as a child, felt like the ultimate treat..Two thick slices of white farmhouse bread, topped with leftover shepherd’s pie, smothered in cheddar and grilled until the cheese bubbled and browned.It was then drowned in Worcestershire sauce and eaten on a lap tray while watching Coronation Street.Shepherd’s pie on toast. Absolute bliss.If you’d like to recreate it, the instructions are simple. Take two slices of thick white farmhouse loaf (it can only be this), pile it high with reheated, one-day-old homemade shepherd’s pie, generously cover with cheddar cheese and put under the grill until the cheese is bubbling and caught in several places. Remove from the grill, place on a plate with lashings of Worcestershire sauce and serve on a lap tray – preferably one decorated with an 80’s floral print or pictures of cats. Eat with a knife and fork whilst watching Coronation Street. Bliss.This was a recipe reserved for my parents usually on a Friday night. It was one of the most delicious things I never ate and I promised myself that when I was an adult I too would eat shepherd’s pie on toast every week, as well as Coco Pops for breakfast every morning – because why, when you become an adult, does breakfast have to become so dull?I’m sorry to report I do neither. I realised somewhere around the age of seven that my sweet tooth must have fallen out before my adult teeth came in, and I am not organised enough to make a weekly shepherd’s pie.Meals growing up were on a rotary basis – on reflection a very clever and sensible move by my mum, who made us a home cooked meal every day. Planning family meals is still something I have yet to conquer. Perhaps this is the solution that was there all along – a lesson revisited.Every Sunday we would have a roast dinner, eaten all together in the dining room. Usually chicken which my dad would carve whilst strategically positioned to look out the kitchen window – oddly the chicken whole had far more meat on it than after it had been carved! I would tuck my head under his carving arm, like a bird, waiting to be fed offcuts – all that was usually left was the parson’s nose – which, if you have ever had a roast dinner with me, you will know is my absolute favourite part of the bird. I’ve since learned it’s a delicacy in some cultures and is, in fact, the chicken’s arse.My sister and I would take it in turns to lay the table including placing a crystal cut wine glass out for my mum – and one for us each to pretend with. It was a classic Sunday tradition and would usually be served around two, which meant supper would be a light meal of ‘poppy eggs and soldiers’ – always runny yolks for a good old dip and always turning the egg shell over at the end and asking if anyone would like an egg before cracking the empty shell as a joke.Monday we would come home from school and take our plated-up leftover roast dinner out of the fridge and put it in the microwave, eagerly watching the clingfilm balloon into a huge plastic dome before bursting and collapsing back onto the food — lightly seasoning everything with what we now know were probably deadly toxins. Sometimes the gravy would already be on the plate in a jelly-like state and sometimes we made it from scratch – two heaped spoons of Bisto mixed with boiling water and occasionally drained through a sieve.Tuesdays would be leftover roast chicken (yes, still) in a white garlicky sauce with peppers and mushrooms served with rice – one of my favourites – or, if the chicken did not stretch until Tuesday, some sort of sausage dish. If lucky encased in a huge flowery Yorkshire pudding and if not so lucky slightly soft and anaemic looking in a stew.I presume Mum did the weekly shop on a Thursday because Wednesday relied heavily on the freezer. Breaded fish with waffles and baked beans. Thursday the freshly bought mince came out to make a Bolognese, lasagne or shepherd’s pie – hence the shepherd’s pie leftovers saved for my parents on a Friday. Uncle Ben’s sweet and sour sauce with extra pineapple served over chicken, with rice, peas and sweetcorn, would be what we ate. My mum never threw anything out, no waste at all. There would always be a leftover of sorts in the fridge and once I had started going out and drinking a breakfast of cold lasagne was my favourite.Saturday nights were a free for all where my mum and dad would order an Indian takeaway. I presume the regularity of ordering was the reason why one particular Saturday with friends over for my dad’s birthday, the restaurant had lined the bottom of the large cardboard box holding the takeaway pots with a collection of Page Three newspaper cuttings. Talking of takeaway pots, my mum was thrilled when they started using plastic ones and she could wash them up and stack them in one of the cupboards to never use again.My sister and I would order from the Chinese which meant a tub of egg fried rice for my sister and battered sausage and chips for me – because a Chinese takeaway always seemed to also be a fish and chip shop. My younger brother would probably still be breastfeeding.Dinners would usually be eaten on laps in the lounge. After school my sister and I would set up two trays that had legs either side and stood alone. We would sit on the floor with our backs to the floral couch and legs outstretched under the trays to watch Home and Away and Neighbours. Saturday nights would be a classic rundown of Saturday night telly and then Sundays back to the dining room.Those were the meals that shaped me — quite literally.Nothing has ever tasted quite as good as my mum’s cooking did back then.And I still maintain there is nothing better to put on toast than shepherd’s pie. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

At thirteen I was paid £4.95 to deliver 247 newspapers.Each one earned me two pence.This was not the glamorous kind of paper round where you delivered the Sunday papers from the local newsagent and were rewarded with Christmas tips from loyal Daily Mail readers.No.This was the freebie paper.Every other week, 247 copies would be dumped in our garage on top of the chest freezer — which, by the way, is only useful if you need to store a lot of frozen food or dispose of a body.Stacks and stacks of papers would sit there until I had the motivation to perform this thankless task — often with my mum in tow helping, and eventually taking over completely. This, I’m not proud of.As you can imagine, the weight of 247 newspapers is extremely heavy and, although I was provided with a luminous orange plastic bag that sat perfectly against the back of my knees — taking me out every other step — I quickly realised I needed another method of transportation.To begin with, my mum followed me in her car with a back-up supply of papers to reload the orange bag, in a sort of kerb-crawling manner. It was both impractical and possibly illegal.It was at this point that my mum had one of her ingenious ideas.My nan had a pull-along shopping trolley.When my sister and I stayed with her as kids, we would slip into her daily routine of walking down the huge hill she lived on to Safeways to pick up The Sun for my grandad, along with a loaf of bread and some milk, before walking back up the enormous hill home. I enjoyed keeping her company while my sister would race ahead pulling the trolley behind her.It was one of those boxy, waist-height trolleys in purple check material, pulled along on two wheels with a stand to keep it upright when loading shopping.It is only used by people who also collect a pension or can ride a bus for free.So here I was, in that all-important coming-of-age early-teen stage, pulling my nan’s shopping trolley around the village delivering the local freebie paper — which I later learned was only really read by our immediate neighbour, Tony.On reflection, delivering one next door and the remaining 246 to the local skip would have been a far easier job — and one I later learned was the method used by anyone else who nominated themselves for this particular paper round, carving off the pen marks down the edge that indicated whose round was whose.The joy I felt when that small square brown envelope dropped through the letterbox.I would count out the pound coins and loose change before cramming it into my pocket for a Friday night well spent at the park.My friend Jenaire and I would pool our coins together so we had enough for ten Marlboro Lights and a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 — our favourite flavour being Strawberry and Kiwi.I always felt slightly like an imposter at the park. I used to think they were very generous to let me join the group, which was mainly made up of kids from the year above. The boys wore spliffy jeans — low-slung denim embroidered with a boy smoking a spliff — and the girls wore an array of sovereign rings on both hands, sometimes even hanging from chains around their necks.I had neither of these fashion statements.Despite the reputation of groups of teenagers hanging around parks, we really were harmless. Jenaire, my trusted ally, was one of the most kind-hearted, gentle souls. If I’m honest, I think Jenaire and I earned our place in the group through association with much cooler older siblings and the ultimate key of approval — cigarettes and alcohol.Ironically, the hours and hours of my life I lost doing that paper round were probably doubled by what I used the money for.The paper round lasted less than a year, but I desperately tried to start the habit of smoking for many years after.I just couldn’t get on board.The last time I tried was only a few years ago when a friend brought over some Vogue super-slimline cigarettes — très chic.I took one drag and instantly vomited.Not très chic.£4.95 well spent.What did you spend your first pay check on? This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

Sleepovers are an integral part of growing up. They are also, in some ways, an integral part of being a grown-up — but that’s a different narrative and one for another time.The term sleepover started being thrown around at about ten. (Nowadays they seem to happen much younger, which I find slightly strange.) It felt like the first initiation. The first time you had the freedom not to go to bed and to use the judgement of a ten-year-old to assess when you were tired.I’ll be honest — I wasn’t a huge fan.I liked being in my own home, with my family, where I could watch Baywatch, Blind Date and Gladiators uninterrupted. I liked lying amongst my 342 teddies and knowing that at around 2am my dad would swap places with me and I’d wake up in the king-size bed next to my mum.At ten, the main objective of a sleepover seemed to be seeing who could stay awake the longest and then drifting through the next day in a cloud of heady nausea.Of course, there were parts I loved.One night at my house, a group of us carefully selected a VHS recording of Dirty Dancing so we could fast-forward to the dancing scenes and attempt to copy the moves. Anyone who has seen me on a dance floor will understand this was not a failsafe way to learn.In fact, years later, in a small nightclub in Muswell Hill, I attempted the lift with one of my best friends. I took several steps back, gathered momentum and went for it. Unfortunately, he also took several steps back — probably to chat to a girl — and I leapt straight into the abyss. The next day I lay in pyjama shorts with two carefully placed packets of frozen peas balanced on my knees, unable to pull on trousers over the swollen mess my legs had become.The other kind of sleepover I didn’t mind was at my friend Fiona’s house, where we would listen to her one cassette tape of Jive Bunny and always arrange it during Children in Need so we could stay up and watch it on her tiny TV balanced on a shelf above her bed.The type I dreaded was when someone chose a horror film from Blockbuster.I loved a trip to Blockbuster with my dad and sister, but we never ventured into the horror section. I vividly remember the cover of Hellraiser - a face covered in needles and would give it a wide berth even when just walking past. But there was another cover, one far worse and one that still haunts me to this day.. long brown fingers and sharpened nails belonging to a clown named IT. A friend chose that one for her thirteenth birthday.I gave my mum strict instructions on drop off to explain I had an ear infection that meant I couldn’t watch the TV and would need to be collected by 8pm.I still had nightmares for years just thinking about that cover. My imagination has always been far worse than any film.Most sleepovers involved sleeping bags crammed onto the living room floor, creeping around for snacks, inevitably laughing, then diving back under covers as an exhausted parent’s footsteps descended the stairs to tell us to be quiet.I never liked being told off. An unfortunate early sign of people-pleasing, perhaps. Even then, I wanted to be the easy going, agreeable one.The other side of that meant I would always try to stay awake until the last few, despite loving sleep more than almost anything. It became a quiet battle with my eyelids. I’d offer the occasional “yeah” just to prove I was still there. Still in the room.I think sleepovers are where I first learned that leaving early could feel like failure.No one says it. But you feel it. The pride in being the last one standing. The quiet shame of being the first to go home.Looking back, they were probably my first experience of overriding myself.Staying when I wanted to leave.Laughing when I was exhausted.Pretending horror films didn’t bother me while planning my exit.And yet, even then, I knew what I liked.I liked my own bed and I loved sleep.It’s taken me a long time to realise that none of that makes me unsociable. It just makes me… me.These days, I still occasionally stay too long, it’s an ingrained habit that’s tough to shake.But I’m learning that it’s ok to leave when I’m ready.And always give me my own bed. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

I failed my first driving test at 17. Three major faults: two red lights and driving in the wrong lane. Strangely, I don’t remember a single red light—maybe that’s the problem. On the plus side, no minors. At the time, I was about to move to work at Butlins in Minehead, so we decided to postpone the test until I was living there—a town with one roundabout, one set of lights, and mostly one-way streets. Perfect for preparing anyone for the open road.The weekend of my test, my Dad came to visit so we could practice. True to form, he took me to Porlock Hill for hill starts. For anyone familiar with the area: yes, it’s one of the steepest in the country, with a tight hairpin bend. I survived the prep work and despite very shaky knees, I managed to pass the test. We celebrated with a pub lunch at the Hairy Dog on the High Street, and then he surprised me by taking me to a tiny used car lot. He’d spotted a little white boxy Citroen AX and decided it would suit me. My dad then waved me off to go back home with his nerves shot and I left with a driving licence and my very own car—a small white miracle.Driving into the staff car park at Butlins felt surreal. I called my friend Laura on my Nokia to see if she wanted a spin before our shift. She bounded out, hopped in, and we set off. The Citroen was a quirky beast—a choke that needed to be pulled out to get it started, a sticky accelerator on the motorway which needed a careful reach down and hand pull to release—but it had a CD player and I had the double greatest hits album by Britney Spears. Not the boy-racer soundtrack from back home, but perfect for our small seaside town adventure.Minehead had one road to Taunton and one road into oblivion, we obviously took the latter. We drove single-file along a country lane, blasting Britney, feeling ridiculously pleased with ourselves - until it came time to turn back. “I don’t know how to turn around,” I admitted. Neither did Laura. Every possible turning point ended in panic as we drove past. Eventually, she phoned our manager, Billy, who calmly coached us over the phone. I stand by it: a three-point turn on a narrow country road is no mean feat.A few more adventures followed. A drive to London, driving only to the hard shoulder. A trip to the NEC in Birmingham, where I completely underestimated the challenge of finding my car among 20,000 spaces, after making no note of where I had parked.A few months after the arrival of the AX the head redcoat asked if she could borrow my car to drive a few of them to a local funfair, I was working so couldn’t go. If I’m really honest I didn’t really want to lend my beautiful little car out but I was quite intimidated by her so agreed and handed over the keys without question. You’ll be pleased to know all was fine and keys were safely returned.However, shortly came “the 20p incident.” Every Friday, I drove back to Southampton to see my then-boyfriend. Auto-pilot engaged: fill the tank, check mirrors, jelly babies for the journey and drive off. That week, I stopped at the usual petrol station to fill the tank and… barely a dribble. The tank was already full. What I didn’t realise is when my car had been returned it had thoughtfully been topped up with petrol. All I could squeeze in was 20ps worth of fuel. There was only one thing for it and that was to march into the garage and hand over the 20p with absolute confidence. The staff, frozen behind the till, eventually took it. I noticed a minimum spend sign put up shortly after.Those weekly drives to Southampton were a comedy of errors. Inevitably, I got lost, once stuck in someone’s driveway who very kindly guided me out in their dressing gown, and more often than not calling my then boyfriend Chris in tears to come and rescue me.Looking back, I’ve never had a great sense of direction, literal or metaphorical. Many wrong roads in life including quite a few in that little Citroen AX – all have shaped me. But for all its quirks and misadventures, that little car was my first taste of freedom, fear, and the thrill of the open road. And I wouldn’t trade a single mile. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

The local chip shop on a Friday night always has a queue. This is one queue I hope never disappears. I love queue-watching at a chippy early doors, around 6pm, before the pubs are kicking out and the vibe changes — a dad on the chip run with excited kids in tow, a tradesman, a small group of boys in hoodies and puffer jackets, and a knackered mum who’s escaped solo (that part is sometimes played by me).There’s an air of excitement: people lit by the neon glow of the menu signage, the yellow batter of fish and sausages shining inside the glass case with its silver frame. It’s a community spot, shared by all regardless of class or culture — if you want a proper fish and chip supper, you go to the local chippy. Especially if you live in smaller or more remote towns and villages where the option of Uber Eats is still something of a mystery.A Friday feeling. A bit of nostalgia. A ritual that has all the parts a ritual should have: smell, patience, and warmth.I also think it’s imperative to eat this particular cuisine out of the paper it comes wrapped in, and where possible, with your hands. I don’t believe you can truly recreate a fish and chip supper at home, although my dad used to give it a good try while my mum panicked over a pan of boiling oil. However, he did have one big advantage — he grew up in a fish and chip shop. Not only that, he was actually born out the back of one.My Gran and Grandad had a shop in Leicester. They ran this very special meeting ground, unfortunately interrupted when my dad decided to make his arrival on earth at the most inappropriate moment: ‘frying time’ — the point of the day when the fryers were ramped up and the teatime rush was imminent.My Grandad Colin, a tall, handsome Scot who would tell me stories of limbs being sawn off in the war due to infection while carefully turning sausages on the BBQ, had what you might call a toughened soul. His porridge was made with water and a pinch-of-salt mentality. Once, while mending the roof, he fell and told no one for nearly six months. One day my dad pulled back his handmade jumper to reveal an arm so black and swollen the sleeve could barely stretch over it. Only then, after much persuasion, did he get it seen to.So when I say he told my Gran to head out the back to give birth because frying time was non-negotiable, I hope you’ll understand.Even though I wasn’t around to witness the glory days of my Gran and Grandad’s fish and chip shop, I did eat fish and chips with them on many occasions — some more memorable than others.They always had dogs. For most of my childhood there were two poodles, Elsa and Dacey, whose hair was cut with absolute precision by my Grandad into perfect pom-poms on their heads, legs, and tails. In turn, my Gran would cut my Grandad’s hair into an equally exact bright white pom-pom. Alongside the poodles was my dog, Roma — a ‘Lassie’ dog. The most beautiful, gentle beast, who never left my side when I was around.We’d take all three dogs on long beach walks, rambling through the New Forest before hitting Calshot Beach, where we’d stop to eat fish and chips — the sharpness of vinegar cutting through the moreish salt mix, with an occasional crunch of sand.The other time fish and chips featured heavily was when I went away with them in their tiny caravan. It was always the smallest on the pitch. My auntie would arrive with her incredible Winnebago-style, flashy white number, while Gran and Grandads could only fit one double bed (converted from the table) and a tiny pull-down bunk, which I climbed into. I was the youngest, so my sister stayed in the Winnebago, and I stayed with my grandparents.The lack of room and no plumbing meant there was a separate porta-loo in a tall, narrow tent outside. I also don’t recall a sink, only a blue bucket that would be filled at the communal taps and carried back. First, the blue bucket, would be used to rinse me down, then after dinner to wash the cutlery and plates in — including the dog bowls. Buckets really are the most universal piece of equipment.One very cold night, snuggled into my Tom and Jerry sleeping bag, I lay listening as the wind howled outside. The caravan rocked slightly as rain hit it sideways. I closed my eyes tightly, holding my breath to minimise any movement that might be the final catalyst to tip the whole thing over.Then I heard the gentle trickling of water. But not outside — inside. I stayed completely still until the sound reached a point that suggested this caravan is going down. I slowly opened one eye.There stood my Grandad, carefully weeing into the blue ‘washing up’ bucket.That evening we ordered fish and chips and it was from that day on, as my Gran carefully placed down the freshly washed cutlery and plates that I vowed to only eat fish and chips with my hands and straight from the paper. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

At the turn of the millennium, going out in Southampton meant you fit into one of a few boxes: Jumping Jaks, Icon, Diva or, if you were still at school, All Bar One on the high street. For a time, another bar opened huge, with a massive hot air balloon in the middle—and served cocktails that looked and tasted like milkshakes. At the other end of town, edging toward a cooler scene, Bedford Place was still firmly in the university grunge era. Ocean Village although sounds the business only had one thing going for it: the vintage slot machines, including a fortune-teller replica straight out of the movie BIG.I usually graced the dancefloor at Jumping Jaks where I would go for a drink on Thursday and then again on Friday and Saturday and Sunday we usually chilled on Monday. Which brings me nicely on to Craig David. Anyone you spoke to on a night out in Southampton during this era probably had a distant connection to either him or MC Neat (of a little bit of luck fame). Saturdays often also brought out all the Southampton footballers celebrating – their latest loss. It truly was a golden era for the city.Growing up in Southampton everyone listened to Power FM, the local radio station, which hosted a big summer event called Power in the Park. Which everybody in Southampton went to. One year, I went with my friend Julian, who insisted we get to the front of the crowd. Once caged in like sardines, I realized I desperately needed a wee. “Don’t worry,” Julian said. “Just pretend to faint, and they’ll pull you over the barrier.” It worked perfectly. As I was hauled over, Ant or Dec from Ant & Dec—performing Let’s Get Ready to Rumble—gave me a wink. I felt a little guilty that I hadn’t actually fainted from the sheer sight of them but from urgent necessity. Another time at Power in the Park when I was about 15 my boyfriend got hauled off in a police riot van for fighting and I was left to get home by myself. I believe the event stopped running a few years later. *Those who are generous enough to have read a few of my pieces will start to realise I took the long way round when it came to learning about good choices in partners.Shopping in Southampton meant Marlands for the “good” stuff and Bargate for the “bad”—unless you were going through a gothic phase. Then one day, a huge new shopping centre opened: Westfield. It had an entire floor dedicated to food outlets which made it feel like America had landed. I went on opening day with my younger brother. We entered one door, got swept along like the rapids at Romsey (local swimming baths you would go to for someones 12th birthday) and spat out the other end, exhilarated and disoriented.The high street itself was mostly good for HMV and Superdrug. The latter of which my best friend from college worked at and where I would restock my Rimmel lipsticks and ‘reddish brown’ hair dye.Once you had finished shopping you would meet up with someone outside of McDonalds. I have one vivid memory from when I was ten. After reading a newspaper article about cow welfare, I decided I was going to take a stand—change the world, one burger at a time. Armed with an A4 poster I had drawn and my carefully cut-out article, I stood outside McDonald’s, determined. My parents and older sister came along too to oversee the operation, however I stood outside of the window and they sat inside, keeping an eye on me while eating Big Macs (my mum probably a fillet-o-fish!). Eventually, with no tidal wave of support, I joined them inside for a happy meal to cheer me up.Every so often, even now, I feel homesick and I get an urge to ‘go home’ and I always picture Southampton except the reality is, the physicality of its gone. McDonald’s is gone, the nightclubs I frequented are derelict, replaced with new crowds and new buildings—but when I drive past, I can still see them as they were. Perhaps this is what getting older is about: the things that hold a special place in your heart never change. They stay exactly as you remember them, frozen in the moments when you were happiest. The faces we fall in love with, the streets where we grew up, the music we danced to—they live on unchanging, and I also guess that’s where you find home – within our head a special compartment of collected memories.Maybe writing about all of these memories is me coming home. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

It was the moment the police officer asked where my passport was — and I could instantly find it buried beneath a large pile of dirty washing — that I knew I would be okay.Three hours earlier, I’d received a frantic call from one of my housemates: we’d been burgled. I was at work, doing some admin at my desk when the call came through, mind you, this was where my housemates also worked. In fact, everyone I lived with in London worked there, alongside a cast of jobbing actors, dancers, and wandering souls. (But that’s a story for another day.)I jumped on the number 43 bus, which conveniently stopped right outside my front door — a real blessing back in the pre-Uber days for a night bus home. When I arrived, two police officers were waiting. We moved from room to room — Dave’s, Danny’s — making a list of everything stolen: passports, credit cards, and a rather peculiar collection of porn DVDs. One of which was left behind. To save dignity, I won’t name the title or which housemate owned it.When we reached my tiny box room, the female officer peered in and, with surprising sincerity, said, “I’m sorry, but they are complete b******s.” I don’t know if that’s official police terminology, but I appreciated the honesty.I looked inside, bracing for the worst. But there, exactly as I’d left it, was my room — untouched. In a bid to save face, I played along as we ticked off items on the list that were right where they should be: a laptop under my duvet, a handbag behind a plant pot, and yes, my passport under a heap of dirty laundry.In my defence, I’d just returned from a girls’ trip to Miami which you could also describe as messy and hadn’t quite unpacked. So my room was spared — maybe the burglars thought it had already been ransacked. I took this as a small personal victory for messy living.Although you can now see enough of my bedroom floor to walk across it rather than jump between patches of carpet, I still can’t seem to shake the fact that my brain is, on a good day, an absolute shambles. The constant stream of information isn’t just overstimulating — it comes in such relentless waves that I never get the chance to think things through and file them away properly. Instead, everything just sort of floats around up there, being shoved aside by useless trivia and 90s song lyrics that, for some reason, my brain has decided are top priority.Right at the bottom of that pile, by the way: passwords. Honestly, if I ever get hacked, I’ll just be relieved that someone finally knew which pet name and special character combination I went with. I’ve been locked out of PayPal for three years.Sometimes I wake up determined to become one of those organised people. I sit down with a notepad and start detailing my life — making lists, resetting passwords, and inevitably shopping on Vinted under the noble pretence of “finally building a capsule wardrobe.” It usually ends in frustration, tears, and a debilitating headache.I’m sure there are self-help books and influencers who could tell me how to declutter my mind. And, to be fair, I’ve found a few things that help: no phone, yoga, walking outside, and more recently, sauna and cold plunges. Finding ways to live with it — rather than fight it — has allowed all the messiness, creativity, and chaos in my brain to have its own kind of place.Maybe if everything in my head were neatly filed away, I wouldn’t find myself laughing out loud on the street at some random incident from my memory bank — or waking at 3 a.m. to analyse an embarrassing mishap from years ago. (Okay, I could do without the 3 a.m. self-chats.)Maybe the chaos stirs up not just annoying hang-ups but also funny anecdotes and odd memories that bring flashes of total joy at completely unpredictable times. And maybe when one chaotic mind meets another, you don’t even need words to connect — you just get each other and laugh.It’s also worth noting that living in this state of disarray has its perks: I’ve never once been asked to join the PTA (no matter how desperate they are), or to organise a party, or to produce a spreadsheet for anything. I was once asked to take minutes in one of my early jobs, and after twenty minutes of daydreaming I snapped back into focus just in time to write down the only thing I’d heard: “Have you written any–f*****g–thing down?” It got a laugh — luckily my boss had a good sense of humour, and maybe that laugh was exactly what we all needed.So perhaps, just like the passport, it’s amidst chaos that we find what we really need. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

Hello — and welcome to Visiting from Venus.This is the audio version of this week’s essay, read by me.I hope you enjoy itOne of the most delicious things in life is a slice of fresh white farmhouse bread with a thick layer of real butter and a good grinding of black pepper. The pepper is best if it’s fairly coarse, although I have lost a filling to an oversized piece before, totally worth it.When I was growing up, there was a definite shift towards margarine. Adults kept talking about high blood pressure or cholesterol, and their solution was to replace real butter with margarine — a highly processed alternative full of trans fats. I actually don’t remember ever having real butter in our fridge. The closest we came was when my dad proudly brought home Lurpak, which is like butter just anaemic.My first real memory of butter was at a college party. I’d probably drunk far too much Liebfraumilch and ended up at a friend’s boyfriend’s parents’ house. They were out. It was a pretty cool house, if I remember rightly — a cottage out in the forest with surfboards leaning against the living-room wall and a mash of totally unrelated furniture throughout. I, naturally, found myself in the kitchen. Where else does one go at a house party?All I remember is a glass butter dish and a white, floury farmhouse loaf on a battered wooden breadboard, next to a breadknife with an equally battered wooden handle. Feeling slightly hungry, I sawed a chunk off the end, lifted the glass lid, and spread on a thick helping of creamy yellow heaven — the kind that spreads easily because it hasn’t been refrigerated. Mother of Mary. Why would anyone in their right mind replace this divine substance with margarine? Dogs certainly wouldn’t. Dogs know better. Dogs will eat butter; dogs will not eat margarine.I sat on the sideboard and ate the entire loaf accompanied by the entire slab of butter. I’d like to take this moment to apologise to the parents, whom I have no memory of ever meeting, but as a teenager at a house party in an unknown house the boundaries of etiquette are… blurred. If my children ever host a house party when I’m not there, I will not be happy. A) because of this fact, and B) because of, well, FOMO.I say that was my earliest memory of butter, but actually, as a kid, we used to go on holiday to low-budget holiday camps with buffet-style mealtimes. You collected your plates and cleared them onto big metal trolleys afterward — a bit like school, or Ikea, or, I imagine, prison. The toast in the mornings was served lukewarm in a metal rack, usually three brown slices and three white, chewy and quite floppy. Alongside it were a few tiny foil squares of butter. My mum would put so much butter on her toast you could see tooth marks — partly because of the thickness, partly because it’s hard to melt on cold toast. That, to me, is a holiday treat.While we’re on the subject of restaurants — why don’t they serve complimentary bread and butter anymore? It used to be my favourite part of the meal. For a while, oils and vinegars were fashionable, and I went through a phase of preferring that because it felt very upmarket. But the real jackpot was warm bread served with flavoured butter — whipped fresh butter with herbs or salt or garlic. I’m guessing its disappearance has something to do with appetite suppression and therefore spending more money, or maybe it went out of fashion when low/no-carb diets arrived to ruin everything.When I first moved to London, I saved up to take my mum to Jamie Oliver’s first restaurant. They served mixed breads with flavoured butter. After being re-loaded at least once, we ordered second helpings from the menu. If complimentary bread is meant to suppress appetite, this is irrefutable proof that it does not — especially when eaten with copious amounts of wine.I’ve actually been reading a book called Butter. It’s been translated from Japanese and follows a food writer who ends up in prison for killing several rich boyfriends. (This does not give away the plot, oddly.) At one point she describes the utter joy of hot steamed rice with butter. I have now started adding butter to rice. I have not started killing rich boyfriends — although I haven’t reached the part where she describes how to do that yet.I do have friends whose kids will happily eat plain pasta and butter as a fully sanctioned dinner. Apparently it’s common in Italy, especially in the north, and if anyone knows about good eating habits, it’s Italians.There you have it books have been written about it, songs have been sung titled it and TV chef James Martin might as well bathe in it.So, next time someone says dogs are stupid, ask them if they eat margarine. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

It was only when I went to the bathroom and noticed the entire wall covered in Sellotaped cut-outs of old word searches that I realised his love of words far surpassed mine.At the time, I was going through a rather fun phase of dating stand-up comedians — most of whom lived up to their reputation of being hilarious onstage and utterly depressed off it, apart from a few. One of whom I married; another is now nailing it in Hollywood. Let’s face it, we all know which one’s done best.The latter — and I should clarify — was more a handful of encounters than an actually dating. It ended abruptly after he turned up with half a kebab down his front and left shortly after I named my top five cheeses. I suppose Stilton isn’t for everyone. It’s an acquired taste.Our first official meeting was equally… specific. I was greeted at a train station somewhere deep in East London by an overly enthusiastic man wearing a backpack, clutching both straps, who announced, “I’ve got the goods!”Momentarily concerned — and reminded of the time, aged thirteen, I met a boy outside McDonald’s whose idea of a date was me acting as lookout while he shoplifted the local pound shop — I was relieved to discover that the “goods” were, in fact, a Scrabble board. The only thing being robbed that night would be my dignity.I love words. I always have. My entire English Literature coursework was written in poetry form, despite that very much not being the assignment. Like my mum and her mum before her, words are the most playful art form we know. They keep me company on long commutes, at ungodly hours, and whenever I need a small jolt of happiness or creativity.But that night, they deserted me completely.Faced with an empty Scrabble board and an urgent desire to impress, I couldn’t assemble a single word. He, meanwhile, was a walking dictionary. A close friend texted the inevitable, So, how’s it going?I replied, F*****g awful. We’re playing Scrabble and I haven’t scored a single point.Her advice was swift: Just do three-letter words — cat, dog, pot… run!After what felt like an age, the words finally arrived — clearly on their own schedule. Three perfect tiles, placed with care, forming the word wine. I stood up triumphantly and went to the bar to order another large glass. He took the hint and quietly put the board away.It wasn’t until we got back to his flat that I realised quite how deep his devotion to the English language ran. I asked to use the bathroom — a reflex I have whenever I arrive anywhere — and stepped into a dimly lit, avocado-green shrine to puzzles. Every inch of wall was covered in old word searches, Sellotaped over what I can only assume was the original 1970s wallpaper. A towering stack of crossword books sat beside the toilet, which, judging by appearances, hadn’t been cleaned since that wallpaper first went up.Despite the questionable hygiene, the night itself was oddly lovely. We sat in battered armchairs on his roof, looking out over the London skyline, listening to the James Bond soundtrack. I think I stayed mostly out of convenience. It would have taken hours to get home from one end of London to the other, only to turn around and travel straight back again for work. Plus, I’m not sure the trains were even running by that point.The next morning, he refused to leave until he’d checked for new messages on his Facebook fan page. I found this faintly odd, but I suppose that’s the very definition of fake it till you make it.Just as we were finally heading out, he asked me a question that still haunts me: would I put carrots in a Bolognese?I said no.It was the wrong answer.Today, I firmly believe carrots do belong in a Bolognese — and every time I carefully slice one into the pot, I think back to that date, and to how sure I was of so many things I didn’t yet understand.He later came out publicly as gay, and I’m quietly sad he didn’t feel able to tell me at the time. He was brilliant — one of the good ones — and I think we might have been very good friends. Carrot, by the way, if placed correctly, could have scored me thirty-three points. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

It was only this morning, as I walked into the changing room at my gym and saw a woman hopping around on one foot, desperately trying to pull one leg of her jeans up, that I thought: surely, by now, we all know you should never, ever wear jeans if you’re going swimming.I don’t mean wide-leg, barrel, or flared ones, of course. I mean the classic ’90s not-quite-skinny, not-quite-straight jean — the sort that might have made an appearance in a Wrigley’s advert. You know the type.Because when you go swimming — unlike taking a shower or bath at home — something happens to the skin on your legs that makes it completely repel denim. And, much like when you get a ring stuck on your finger (take that as you will), the more you try to pull the damn thing on, the more resistance you meet. It becomes a private battle between you and the fabric, one you will inevitably lose.For some reason, getting dry after swimming is always tricky — unless, of course, you’re on holiday, heading straight for a lounger and letting the sun do all the work while you sip a cocktail. Otherwise, a towel alone is never enough.I was once discussing this with a friend who told me it was quite normal at his gym for men to stand completely naked while using one of the complimentary hairdryers to dry themselves. I still don’t know whether I was appalled or impressed. Either way, it confirmed what I already suspected: post-swim dignity is optional.You might have guessed I’ve had a few unfortunate encounters with swimming. I’m not great at it. I can manage breaststroke — head firmly above water, hair bone dry — or backstroke, which feels marginally more relaxed but comes with the risk of drifting into someone else’s feet.On the subject of hair, I only ever go swimming once mine has reached the stage where, even after removing a tight bun, it stays in place on its own. Never, ever have I gone swimming in a public pool with hair that doesn’t need washing. I truly don’t understand why anyone would willingly put themselves through that palaver otherwise.Then there’s the lane situation. I know I’m not good enough for the fast lane — that’s a firm no. The slow lane is infuriating. And the middle lane usually contains one person much faster and one much slower, resulting in awkward negotiations at either end of the pool conducted entirely through eye contact.Disclaimer: goggle wearers always have right of way — especially if they’re also wearing a swimming cap. Passing someone mid-length is excruciating, and if there’s any accidental skin-on-skin contact, you must leave immediately.Other things that make me want to abandon a swim entirely include: wet toilet floors, plasters, and that weird footbath on the way in that somehow manages to make your feet feel dirtier than before.I recently shared a lane with a man who, at first, seemed like a good match. We kept a respectable distance and swam at a similar pace. It all felt very civilised — until he climbed out of the pool wearing a thong and flippers. No joke. Safe to say, we were not a good swim-lane match after all.Maybe I’ve just had one too many unfortunate swimming incidents. The first time I ever went swimming on my own — to properly go swimming — the entire pool was evacuated due to a fire alarm. Several of us, including a group of teenage boys, were ushered outside, dripping wet, and handed foil blankets to stand in the car park. There was no fire, but I remember thinking: in the event of one, wouldn’t the middle of a massive pool of water be the safest place to be?Another memorable occasion was during school swimming lessons. I’ve always been a bit disorganised. After repeatedly forgetting my swimsuit, I started wearing it underneath my uniform. Unfortunately, this often meant I forgot my underwear for afterwards.Determined to fix the problem, I decided one morning to wear both — my swimsuit and my underwear — the latter on top, so I wouldn’t forget them. In my rush to get changed and into the pool, I forgot to take them off. It wasn’t until half the class was laughing and pointing that I realised I was swimming with my big white cotton pants proudly displayed over my swimsuit.Not ideal for a pubescent thirteen-year-old desperate to impress.And the thing is, standing in that changing room this morning, watching that woman wrestle with her jeans, I realised something comforting and bleak all at once: nothing has really changed. Swimming still strips you of competence, dignity, and any illusion that you’ve got your body under control.We may get older, wiser, and better dressed — but the pool remains the great equaliser. Damp, exposed, and quietly wondering if it’s acceptable to use the hairdryer on your legs. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

When I was seventeen, I was offered my first full-time job as a Butlins Redcoat. A dream come true. My dad drove me down in January for the audition, where I joined a very long queue of hopefuls that eventually led into a vast venue through a red corridor: red carpet, red velvet drapes, red walls adorned with gold-framed photos of famous Redcoats of the past. This, I believed, would be my ticket onto the stage—because drama school was financially well out of reach.The audition was brutal. We held numbers in front of a camera, explained why we’d make a good Redcoat, learned a dance, spoke on a microphone on stage, then endured a series of one-to-one interviews. The room was packed with young hopefuls wearing white numbered stickers. In previous years, I was told, the London Hippodrome had been used to house the sheer volume. Butlins was a British institution, the grassroots of entertainment, and I wanted in.When the phone call came, I was ecstatic. I still had final college exams to complete, but when I asked if I could join straight after, they agreed.This wasn’t just a job; it was an entire lifestyle. It meant moving away from home and living onsite—like university, except they paid me (very little) and there were no essays. This was the university of life.My parents drove me to Minehead in early summer 2000 with one small bag of belongings, including a plate and a knife and fork from Woolworths. I was immediately directed to my accommodation at the very back of the campsite, where the original 1950s chalets still stood. We parked and walked through a maze of double-storey buildings until we found mine.The door flew open. A very tall girl with incredible boobs bounced on the spot and announced, “Hi, I’m Anecia. I’ll be your roommate, and I’m also the maddest person here!”I think this will work, I thought.We shared a three-room chalet with a tiny galley kitchen, which I later learned was extremely lucky—some people were given the kitchen as their bedroom, with only a curtain separating the bed from the shared utilities. No one cared. We were eighteen and this was freedom.The walls were basically cardboard. A small heater was mounted on the wall and smelt of burning dust when switched on. My room had a single bed and permanently closed green floral curtains. News quickly spread that a new Red had arrived. My parents were serenaded by Adam, who rollerbladed in and circled them while delivering an incredible Tom Jones number. Then a tap at the window: I pulled back the thick, damp (even in summer), musty curtain to find a small naked man holding a can opener and asking if I’d brought any baked beans.I hadn’t. But it turns out beans were a Redcoat staple, alongside Super Noodles and Angel Delight.My neighbour Mitch, a six-foot blond from Leicester, popped his head in to ask if I liked my “shed”—the entirely accurate term for our accommodation.I was overjoyed.I waved goodbye to my tearful parents, who in hindsight were probably quite concerned, though I was far too excited to notice. When I returned to my room, I was greeted by several ducks that had been ushered inside, and the sound of laughter from two male redcoats hiding around the corner.I lived in that shed for eighteen glorious months. Through cold, dark winters when the campsite only opened at weekends, giving us free rein of the place, to hot summers where everyone caught norovirus and sunbathed on the small strip of grass between the two rows of entertainment staff accommodation.I was too young to care about the damp (one girl’s entire shoe collection, stored under her bed, was mouldy by the end of summer), the metal-sprung single bed, or the fact that every meal had to be cooked in a sandwich toaster. I was rarely there anyway—most nights were spent drinking pints of Diesel in Jumping Jacks or the staff bar, and days hosting game shows, calling bingo, and standing on the freezing seafront welcoming new guests.My first shift was calling Bingo in the main hall, which doubled as a ballroom dancing venue. I was nervous—Bingo, I quickly learned, was serious business. I had the microphone, the room’s full attention, and just as I started to relax, I looked up to see three male Reds at the back of the hall simultaneously drop their trousers.And so the carnage began.Life as a Red was always going to be colourful.Halfway through my second year, a camera crew arrived to film a new ITV series called Redcoats, and we were moved into better accommodation. But until then, those cardboard walls held some of my happiest memories—and the people who would become some of my very best lifelong friends. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

I’ve spent most of my life believing the right lipstick might finally turn me into the person I thought I was meant to be.My lipstick journey has had many ups and downs. I actually started experimenting with lipstick without using lipstick at all—just a brown eyeliner and some Rimmel concealer. It was certainly a look and very much a thing in the 90s. I felt pretty confident in those early experimental days until my senior school tutor called me out in front of everyone and asked if I’d been sucking on a Mars bar.I have never forgiven him for that moment of public humiliation and, quite frankly, it would’ve been a kit kat chunky over a Mars bars.Still, it gave me the nudge to take my pocket money to Superdrug and confront the biggest question facing most 15-year-olds in the 90s: am I Heather Shimmer or Coffee Shimmer? Still reeling from the Mars bar association, I went with the purple undertones of Heather.Oh, how I loved that lipstick. The way it glistened in its dark brown casing, the smell, the lid crowned by the Rimmel logo. This was my gateway to being considered very cool—or so I hoped. Don’t get me wrong, lipstick is incredibly powerful. For centuries women have used it to signal power, rebellion, and patriotism. Unfortunately, Heather Shimmer did not grant me access to cool.This did not deter my love of lipstick. I grew up watching my mum carefully colour her lips bright red every single day. In fact, she would not answer the door unless she had applied it. Rollers in? Nightie on? Irrelevant. That door remained untouched until her lips were perfectly dressed. And boy, could she carry it off.I do love a red lip. A classic nod to femininity: sexy, empowering, attention-grabbing. It only seemed right that I should go down this route next. Red lips became a signature once I started clubbing—and they matched my first work uniform: a redcoat. A match made. I haven’t always been loyal to red, though.In my mid-twenties, I went on holiday with some girlfriends to Miami. We stayed in a small hotel on the beach, all sharing one bed to save money, before spending a week onboard a cruise ship where we knew one of the entertainment staff. Near Miami Beach was a MAC makeup store—this was before MAC popped up on every high street. This was revolutionary.We were met with rows and rows of the most incredible lip colours: reds, oranges, pinks, nudes, blacks, purples. Truly kids in a candy shop. MAC lipsticks, however, were expensive—a real splurge. But my best friend Amy and I both fell in love with a shade called Girl About Town: a bright, bold fuchsia pink with a blue base, almost neon. Combined with our South Beach tans, we decided we both needed one.The following week we boarded a Caribbean cruise, and each evening was an excuse to dress up and hit the bars. The lipstick was such a vibe it overshadowed any outfit, so we agreed to take turns wearing it each night.Midway through the week we attended the captain’s cocktails, Amy looking the business in Girl About Town. I caught the eye of a tall, dark, very handsome member of the entertainment team—someone we all know, professionally, to avoid at all costs. Naturally, I became completely committed to for want of a better term pulling him. Why was this not my lipstick night?It didn’t seem to matter. By the end of the evening we shared a kiss in the ship’s library (I’ve since learned this is the standard hiding spot for staff not allowed to be seen with guests). How romantic—the library. Insert your own pun here.On the final night, it was my turn to wear the lipstick. This would surely seal the deal. I layered it on: neon, creamy, glowing against bronzed skin, hair slicked back to give it my full attention. We visited every bar, even the staff bar, and he was nowhere to be seen (he was probably exchanging another book)—until, just as we were heading back, there he was.“I’m just finishing my shift,” he said. “I’ll call your cabin when I’m done.”Back in our tiny, windowless cabin—two bunk beds and no dignity—I lay completely still on the top bunk, fully dressed, heels on, determined not to move my head and smudge the sensational colour while waiting for the cabin phone to ring.It never did.Needless to say, the lipstick remained fully intact. We disembarked the next morning and that was that—my short lived love affair with him. Shortly after I learnt the lipstick shade was also discontinued.Nowadays my colour of choice from MAC is Lady Danger, the most beautiful vintage red-orange. When I eat, it covers my chin. When I talk, it’s on my teeth. It adorns the collars of most of my jackets and has painted many, many wine glasses.It also makes me feel like myself. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com