This article is taken from the August-September 2023 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Right now we’re offering five issues for just £10.

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2023 is apparently the year of doing everything I was scared to do as a teenager. First the driving (which is going very nicely thank you), and now the most hated thing of all: I’ve got braces. 

My first go-round with orthodontics came when I was 12, and ended with me feeling so traumatised that even at 41, I think I’ve cried at every appointment so far. Although given that those appointments included a double extraction followed by surgery to remove a snapped root, I think I’ll let myself off. 

It took about eight weeks of hermitry for me to recover from toothageddon

“Be brave,” said my very sweet orthodontist as she stuck the brackets to my teeth while I silently wept. “Just think of everything Freddie went through.” This was very confusing and it took me a beat to remember that I was wearing a sweatshirt with queen printed on it — as in, yass rather than Freddie Mercury’s band. 

But it’s impossible to do running corrections while your jaw is being wired, so now for the purposes of all my future dental work, I’m role-playing as a committed Freddie fan. It’s less embarrassing than trying to row back after the fact. 

“What’s next after the teeth and the driving?” asked one of my friends. “Unprotected sex? Oh no you did that.” Teen pregnancy and adult braces might have been better the other way round, but at least I’m getting it all done now. 

Oversharing 

It took about eight weeks of hermitry for me to recover from toothageddon, and it was good to be back in London for dinner in honour of an extremely tall American who was visiting town. 

This was an extremely rare opportunity for transatlantic socialising, so obviously the Brits spent most of the meal talking about Huw Edwards. There is, it turns out, a profound national pride in the traditional British sex scandal, and this one had everything. 

“Never ask a woman her age, her weight or how much she paid for her Eras Tour tickets”

The unexpected peccadillo of the trusted broadcaster! The dignity punctured! The opportunity for extremely wild speculation over sharing plates! One unexpected boon of having a monarchy is that you can have a tabloid scandal about the man who anchored the Queen’s funeral. 

The same kind of conversation was happening on social media, and it must have been a huge strain for Edwards, who (a statement from his wife revealed) had been hospitalised for a mental health crisis. First rule of gossip: don’t do it where the subject can’t hear. 

* * *

One subject has ruled my WhatsApps this month: Taylor Swift tickets. Who’s got them, who wants them, who’s on a waitlist, who’s willing to do what to get them. “Never ask a woman her age, her weight or how much she paid for her Eras Tour tickets” said one meme that crossed my feeds multiple times. 

The whole process had the vibe of a perilous quest with multiple obstacles to navigate. First, you had to pre-register for the pre-sale; then the fortunates received a code for the actual sale; and then those blessed pilgrims were able to join another online queue to actually buy the tickets. 

I managed the first stage, but failed at the second. My friend the philosopher saved me: she’d banded together with a friend and ended up with a spare code, so we had a madcap few minutes of me sending her my credit card details and crossing my fingers. When it worked, I thanked her profusely. “I just love Taylor,” she said. “And I love it when other people love her.” 

It’s hard to overstate the attachment women have for Taylor. Fandom seems somehow both too mild and too hysterical a word: we know there’s something absurd about liking a popstar this much, but we also know that we’re united in our absurdity, and that makes our love all the stronger.

* * *

A Martin Scorsese quote from an interview with Deadline magazine went viral. “The whole world has opened up to me, but it’s too late. It’s too late,” the 80-year-old director says. “I’m old. I read stuff. I see things. I want to tell stories, and there’s no more time.”

Dressing up Sindy used to be one of my life’s great pleasures

This, I guess, is a fair summary of what being human is: just as soon as you think you’ve got a handle on the game, you realise your time is running out. And this happens again and again: a constant series of shocks as you realise you’re not immortal after all, until finally it’s true. 

But the best part of the Scorsese quote comes just before those words. In the transcript, Deadline records that he “laughs”, and that feels like the crucial part. Any schmuck can be scared of dying. The genius is in recognising just how absurd our situation is.

* * *

Slut-shaming Barbie

I’m excited for Scorsese’s Killers of the Flower Moon, but not as excited as I am for the Barbie movie. Even more exciting: as a bit of counterprogramming to the Barbie fever, I was sent on assignment to Sindy HQ in Exeter, the base of Pedigree Toys. 

My mum insists that there was no formal ban on Barbie in our house, just very strong encouragement to go with the less slutty, more British doll. So I was a Sindy girl, and the whole thing was a giddy nostalgia trip. 

I oohed at the ballerina Sindy with jointed hips, I aahed at the collectible model in a very chic trench, and I spent an unconscionable amount of my interview with the CEO playing with the 1980s vintage Sindy horse. 

But where I really lost my mind was at the tiny vintage outfits. Going to the toy shop and flicking through the racks of these was a weekend highlight. Dressing up Sindy used to be one of my life’s great pleasures. Now I’m a grown-up, of course, I have to be my own doll, and post the results on Instagram.