There is a particular moment that happens on the beach when you stop caring. Not about everything — just about being watched. About whether you look dignified. About whether your behaviour matches some unspoken idea of how a woman of your age is supposed to conduct herself in public. The moment usually happens somewhere between the second wave and the third. When the water is cold enough to be shocking and the sun is warm enough to be worth it and the whole thing is so purely

I want to make a case for doing absolutely nothing — and doing it on purpose, unapologetically, with a warm towel and a glass of something cold and absolutely nowhere else to be. I am talking about the spa day. Not as a reward. Not as a treat you have to earn by being sufficiently productive or sufficiently selfless for a sufficiently long period of time. As a regular, legitimate, completely guilt-free act of self-love. I notice that women of my generation — women who grew up

I have a confession. I have never once finished a workout and thought: that was the highlight of my day. I have, however, finished a rollerskating session with friends and laughed so hard I could barely breathe. I have played tennis on a warm summer evening and felt so completely, utterly present that I forgot everything — every worry, every to-do, every thought that had been circling my mind all week — for a full, glorious hour. I have come home from a spa day feeling like a