11 thoughts I have while stalking other girls on Instagram

I am a grown-ass woman. I have a job, car, degree and next year I will be enrolled in my company’s pension scheme *shudder*. But I still spend far more of my time than I should allowing myself to be made to feel rubbish by social media.

For someone who spends around 80% of their non-work life in their pyjamas watching Netflix or reading crime thrillers, it can be exhausting to be constantly bombarded with images of perfectly-contoured size-6 girls sipping on cocktails, munching delicately on avocado on toast or working out at the gym in less clothing than I’d have a bath in.

I don’t think I’m alone, so I have compiled a list of what I REALLY think when I’m stalking other girls on Instagram:

  1. Why am I so much grosser than literally 100% of the girls on here? Where are their spots, their rogue belly hair, their cankles, the tuft at the back of their head that sticks up like a troll and will not succumb to gel nor spray of any description? Why are they so smooth? Do I have a condition? Should I book an appointment with my GP? Am I dying? Should I write a will?
  2. How do people have enough friends so that one can snap a quirky Instagram pic and there are still at least two people left in the picture?
  3. How do these bitches pay their rent AND buy all of these cute outfits and luxury makeup products?
  4. Are they actually leasing out the most flattering rays of the Sun? Because I definitely don’t have that glow in any of the 49 pictures I have taken whilst staring directly, eye-wateringly, into the light through my window in an attempt to get a half-decent Facebook profile pic.
  5. I wish my favourite food was more attractive than sausages, mashed potato and beans so I could take cute #InstaFood snaps too.
  6. Why do they get all this free stuff? Should I just pack it all in and become a beauty blogger? How hard can it be to write seven paragraphs about a tube of lipstick? Ah, actually, okay. Fair play.
  7. Why can they pose like that looking all sexy and fine when I would just look abso-fucking-lutely ridiculous?
  8. Why are all their rooms and furniture white? Do they all live in the same asylum? Where are their empty crisp packets, their bedding that should have been washed 10 days ago, their empty contact lens packets, their SOUL.
  9. I wonder how freaked out they would be to know that someone they have never met and have no idea exists has spent so long scrolling back through all of their pictures. Please don’t ever disclose page stats, Instagram. Pls.
  10. Good Lord, do this girl’s parents know what kind of smut she is posting on the interweb? I have a good mind to…wait this girl is 15? Have I just looked at a 15-year-old girl’s boobs? Oh, God, now I’ve panicked and ‘Hearted’ it by accident. I’ve Hearted a 15-year-old girl’s boobs. I’m being tracked by the FBI as we speak. I won’t hack it in prison.
  11. Why do their cats pose nicely and mine won’t even look at the camera. God damn it, Milly, all I have ever done is love you and feed you tuna.




When Julian’s tomato plant told him that his wife was having an affair, it was a bit of a surprise.

For a start, they’d just been on a glorious cruise to the Mediterranean, where they’d spent two weeks eating shrimp and making frantic love to the sound of the ocean. They’d met a cracking couple from Ashton-Under-Lyne – Peter and Sue they were called, proper smashing pair – and exchanged email addresses. They were planning to meet up at the Cheshire Oaks Retail Outlet not this Saturday but the one after. Everything was sorted. The revelation couldn’t have come at a worse time.

“I’ve seen them,” the tomato plant leered down Julian’s neck. “You know. At it. Doing sex stuff.”

“No, no, no,” Julian said, shaking his head. “Alison’s been distant recently but she’s just stressed out with work.”

“Why would I lie, Julian?” the tomato plant said smugly. “Ask yourself that.” Then it kind of retreated silently on itself back into the wall so it got the last word.


Later that evening, as Alison lovingly served out hand-made steak and kidney pie at the dining table, Julian took a long, hard stare at her.

Her temples had begun to grey, her hips a little wider than when they had married, but she was still a solid 7.5 out of 10 and he reckoned most of the guys at their book club would definitely give her one.

Alison had been a loyal wife for 28 years. She had made his breakfast every morning. She had put her career on hold to raise their four wonderful children – three of whom had gone to red brick universities, plus one who had recently dyed their hair purple, pierced their lip and was squawking about becoming an artist like an angry, spoiled grape. Alison had ironed his shirts and trousers, renewed the insurance on their shared Vauxhall Astra, and lied in court when he failed to correctly disclose his income for tax purposes.

But as much as he didn’t want to believe the tomato plant, the seed of doubt had been firmly planted in his mind.

“What are you gawping at?” Alison said, settling into the chair across from him. “You’re giving me the creeps.”

“How did you get those scratches, Alison?” Julian nodded at her arms. “They look nasty.”

“Rooting up the sugar snap peas,” Alison said casually. “Almost did my back in.”

“I bet you did,” Julian whispered tearfully. “I bet you did.”


The next day, when Alison had nipped to the post office, Julian went back into the greenhouse.

“Right, you,” he said, squaring up to the tomato plant. “Tell me what’s going on, right now. No details spared.”

“As you wish,” the tomato plant said.


Thus it transpired that Alison was knobbing one of their neighbours. Julian kicked her out of the house and then ate the tomato plant.