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Full Coverage: To #Ad or Not #Ad?

This week, Full Coverge hosts, Harry and Lindsey, discuss all the issues with sponsorship and advertising in the beauty influencer industry as well as the drama that keeps blowing up in the YouTube community. As always, there’s heaps of New News, exciting product reviews and we fill you in on our current favourite products in Highlights of the Week.

New News
Colourpop No Filter Concealer – $6


Ciaté London Glitter Flip Metallic Glitter Lip – £17 / $19

Highlights of the Week
Sephora Collection Bright Future Gel Serum Concealer – $14

L’Oreal Revitalift Triple PowerTM Deep-Acting Moisturizer
Drugstores/Online – $24.99

Rouge Volupté Tint-in-Balm – $34 – £28.00

Full Coverage is a podcast for beauty addicts, by beauty addicts. Join pro make-up artist, Harriet Hadfield and author, Lindsey Kelk as they discuss everything happening in the world of beauty.

Harriet Hadfield is a professional make-up artist, best known for her blog and YouTube channel, and Lindsey Kelk is an internationally bestselling author, pro-wrestling enthusiast and amateur cat wrangler.

Join the Full Coverage conversation!

All products are supplied free of charge by brands/PR agency for review unless otherwise stated.





I Couldn’t Help But Wonder… do I want a baby?

Oh, baby.

Since I was about sixteen, seventeen, I have been aware of the biological clock. Mine, yours, the girl sat across from me in German class – I’m from a very small village where these isn’t much to do and some people had an alarm set very, very early. Of course, I’ve never been much of an early riser, so when I couldn’t hear so much as a tick-tock, let alone a clanging cacophony of bells, I just assumed mine was set a little bit later. When I was little, I never played with baby dolls*, I never felt a strong urge to babysit and when people started getting sprogged up, my strongest emotion usually ran to fear of breaking them. And between you and me, I was also maybe kind of a little bit bored shitless of watching them do nothing, trying not to miss my friends and well, yeah, intense jealousy. Because I AM THE BABY.

See? I'm the baby.

See? I’m the baby.

Anyway, my twenties went on, I met my boyfriend, we moved in, we bought a house, we got a car, we adopted a cat and we both kept getting older. But still no baby alarm. By the time I was twenty-seven and he turned thirty, I came to the conclusion that my alarm must be broken. I just wasn’t a baby person. It wasn’t like I didn’t know what unconditional love was, like I said, I had a cat but there was zero maternal instinct. I did not want to pass my genes on to another human being, I wanted to buy handbags and go on nice holidays during term time. I wanted to be selfish, put on a face mask on a Thursday if I felt like it, paint my nails and get lots of sleep. Not a single part of me wanted a baby.

By and by, things with the BF got worse and by worse, I mean tedious, and eventually, we broke up. With my relationship blinkers stripped away, I started to see all kinds of things in the world that I hadn’t known I wanted before. Adventure, passion, travel, red hair, shoes that cost half a month’s rent. I was far more ambitious than I had known, considerably less bitchy and between you and I, I had the raging horn. It’s amazing what can happen to a gal when she gets out of the wrong relationship and on to the right man. So I took my opportunities where I found them, moved to New York, dated lots of different kinds of chaps, bought the shoes, coloured my hair, did what I dare, wore men’s shirts, short skirts, the whole Shania shebang. And man, I felt like a woman. But I still didn’t feel like I wanted a baby.

I'm not saying I don't understand unconditional love...

Does this count?

Today, I’m 32, going on 33 (or 16 going on 17, if you ask my mum) and I’m conflicted. I still can’t hand on heart say I definitely want kids. That said, I can’t hand on heart say I definitely don’t. This, my friends, puts me in a bit of a pickle. On the one hand, my biological clock might not be ticking but old father time keeps on marching on and as everyone and their mother, including my own, keeps telling me, getting pregnant is not going to get easier as I get older. Of course, it’s 2013 and there is a myriad of options available to me that weren’t around even a decade ago – I could freeze my eggs, I could get hormone tests to see how fertile I am, I could get knocked up by my gay best friend and pretend to be Madonna in that film. You know the one. But on the other, more sensible and financially viable hand, I know none of those things are right for me. Or my gay best friend. The idea of someone giving me a baby, waving their jazz hands and shouting ‘TA-DA’ scares me shitless. And yes, I know everyone out there with a baby will tell me that I will change my mind and that I will want to heave a living being out of my vagina one day but I also know there is another group of women who are thinking, ‘Eep, this freaks me out too. WHAT ARE WE TO DO, LINDSEY?’ Sadly, I only have a blog and my own Muppet, not answers.

My mum always told me that before she got pregnant with me, she woke up one morning and wanted a baby so badly, it was all she could think about until she was knocked up. Lucky Pa, YOU’RE WELCOME. Obviously this could be a) smoke being blown up my vain arse or b) a reaction to my older brother being just that, a brother, and not the baby girl my mother thought she had given birth to for the first two hours of his life but assuming it’s true, it’s something I can’t even begin to relate to and I can’t ignore that nagging feeling that something is wrong with me.

Sometimes, in my more maudlin moments or when I’ve been watching so much telly that Beaches has inevitably appeared on a random channel, I get little flashes of a future where I’m buttoning up the coat of an adorable little girl on the steps of a gorgeous Park Slope brownstone in which I do not currently live, waving while a gorgeous Park Slope husband who I am not currently married to takes her off to school. While I go back to bed. And on occasion, when things are going well with my Gentleman Caller, it occurs to me that our kids would be beautiful and clever and competitive, precocious little shits destined to spend many, many hours in therapy but also to win every spelling bee for miles around. But then he usually opens his mouth and says something about a strategy board game that he must get out of bed to finish and then life has killed the dream I dreamed.

I took this one to the pub. She was totally cool with it.

I took this one to the pub. She was totally cool with it.

So I don’t know. Right now, I suppose I have to say, I’m not ready. But once upon a time I would have told you I hated dogs and now, you should see my face when confronted with a puppy. And I know there are literally thousands out there screaming ‘a baby isn’t a puppy!’ and I know! You’re right!

It’s much harder to get hold of a puppy than it is to have a baby.

*for the record, I did have a baby doll called ‘First Love’ but after I’d dressed it, undressed it and made it pee once the thrill was sort of gone. So I went back to putting my Barbie dolls in worryingly distressing scenarios, like the time Ken’s condom broke and she didn’t know if she was pregnant or not. Funny story, that was also the time I had to explain what a condom was to my next door-but-one neighbour. I said it was a balloon for your willy but not as much fun as a proper balloon and I stand by that description.
How I knew that, however, is a mystery to all of us.

About A Book


I owe you a very, very big thank you. Actually,  I owe you all a drink and some of you Percy Pigs and mini scotch eggs because ABOUT A GIRL CAME OUT AND IT’S DOING SO WELL AND YOU WERE ALL AWESOME AND LAST WEEK WAS THE BEST WEEK EVER.
And breathe.

Any book launch that beings with a super fun launch party that dissolves into debauched karaoke and ends in a cocktail lesson, hungover book banter brunch and amazing signing is OK with me. And that’s without even taking into consideration the awesome signings in Manchester and Sheffield! Which we must! Because they were dead good! And a nice lady gave me some rock! Seriously, if I were to go into detail as to exactly why it was so very, very wonderful, I would never get around to finishing I Heart Christmas and I don’t think you’d be into that AT ALL…

It was so brilliant to be able to meet so many of you, chat, eat Percy Pigs while looking serious but dancing a jig inside, discuss boys and books and all the different variations of gin. I spend an awful lot of time behind this computer, not talking to anyone, imagining no one is ever going to read this book but me, my agent and maybe two people at the publisher so when there are dark days – and if you follow me on Twitter (@lindseykelk) you’ll know that there are – remembering all the amazing things that you guys said will help. Because sometimes, it feels like it’s just me and this awful deadline and one hundred thousand words that have to be dragged out of my brain for no reason other than to punish me but then I meet you (or you, or you) and you say something like ‘your book inspired me to go traveling’ or ‘I read I Heart New York and thought, I deserve a nice handbag so I bought one’ or ‘I love your books because they make me laugh’ and I literally dissolve into a puddle of mush. Well, not literally but what I’m trying to say is, no matter how big a deal you might think it is for you to meet me, it’s a FAR bigger deal for me to meet you. Without you, there wouldn’t be any books. Without you, I’d still be that slightly off girl in the office with weird tattoos who wears shorts all year round. Without you, I wouldn’t be me.

So thank you.

Please do post any pictures on Facebook or Twitter or Instagam with the hashtag #AboutAGirl, I would LOVE to collect them all especially from any of the signings, brunch or Kelktails. Especially if they have the hot bartender or a cockwomble in them. Long story. In exchange, here are some of my outtakes from the last couple of weeks. Enjoy!

Here I am, protecting the book from pirates at Disneyland. Honest.

Here I am, protecting the book from pirates at Disneyland. Honest.

Pub day! Booze! Flowers! I like being me on pub day.

Pub day! Booze! Flowers! I like being me on pub day.

Yes I stole this from the launch party, yes I took it to karaoke, no I don't feel bad about it.

Yes I stole this from the launch party, yes I took it to karaoke, no I don’t feel bad about it.

I got this at Twitter and I can't even begin to tell you how excited NERD KELK got when they handed it over...

I got this at Twitter and I can’t even begin to tell you how excited NERD KELK got when they handed it over…

This is the bottom of an attractive man on Great Titchfield Street. Well played, London.

This is the bottom of an attractive man on Great Titchfield Street. Well played, London.

And in case my head had got too big, this man was sat in my chair at WH Smiths Stratford, ready to bring me back down to earth with a disapproving grimace. Not a fan.

And in case my head had got too big, this man was sat in my chair at WH Smiths Stratford, ready to bring me back down to earth with a disapproving grimace. Not a fan.

I Couldn’t Help But Wonder… How many of us are having great sex with people we’re ashamed to introduce to our friends?

For those who don’t already know, I’m answering Carrie’s questions from every episode of Sex and the City (or at least most of them) to see how things have changed for a single thirty-something writer in New York City, ten years after the show ended…


On the show, Carrie’s secret sex question was spurred on by Big’s seeming reluctance to  introduce her to his friends and make her a part of his life, a fear reinforced by a chance encounter with an old friend who was hiding away his bonk buddy in a sketchy Chinese restaurant that he knew (or believed) none of his friends would ever frequent.

Firstly, can I just say, that man was a massive twat. He wasn’t anything special, right? And the cheese shop lady seemed lovely and she had access to unlimited quantities of cheese! That’s better than a man! Typical bloody Manhattan. A dodgy bloke who couldn’t tip a six on the scale won’t ‘settle’ for anything less than an eight in a woman. And they always get away with it! The bit of this episode that really pisses me off is that in reality, the cheese lady probably would have put up with it, carried on seeing him as and when he wanted until he either a) got bored and just stopped calling, b) got bored and dumped her for someone else or, worst case scenario c) got bored, winter turned up and dates were thin on the ground and he eventually made her his girlfriend. This is the worst case scenario because he’s set so much precedent for treating the girl like shit, it sets the tone for the entire relationship. This happens. Every day.

Patron saint of douchebags, Don Draper.

Patron saint of douchebags, Don Draper.

About two years ago, a newly single male friend of mine, 36, good job, all of his own hair but not terribly blessed in the boat race department (I’m sorry but it’s important that you have all the facts) started dating. We shall call him Byron because he would like that. Several of my girlfriends always add the qualifier ‘creepy’ before his name because he can be a little bit creepy. It’s harsh but I get it. Anyway, it was his first time diving into the New York dating pool and even though he was reluctant at first, within a couple of weeks, Byron was like a pig in shit. Mostly, he met his dates online but there was one, a girl he’d met at an old job and then seduced when she visited the city for a short holiday with her mother on her birthday who told him mid-assignation that he was a terrible man. You won’t be surprised to hear he was delighted by this assessment and never saw her again. Two or three months later, our mutual female friend asked how he was doing. His is reply? ‘I’m drowning in pussy.’

Altogether now: Ewwwwwww.

This went on for a few months until our gang sort of kind of became aware that he was seeing a girl we all knew and, again, brutal honesty, no one really liked. She was pretty inoffensive in general, a bit bland and overly enthusiastic but she had a reputation for being a touch cray and had pursued one of my best friend’s exes literally days after they broke up. Sisters before misters rule decreed, we would never be besties. So anyway, she moved through the group at a rate of knots and finally settled her sights on Byron. With full awareness and a thorough report of her craziness from my friend’s ex, he decided that because she was pretty and blonde and twelve years younger than him, he’d have a go on it anyway. This went on for months. He was still sleeping around, dating all over the city but once a week or so, he’d make arrangements to sleep with this girl. We were getting after work drinks one night when Byron asked if I would go to a party with him the next night. Full of cocktails and obnoxiousness, I asked why he wasn’t taking his girlfriend but instead of explaining, he laughed, said this party was going to be full of writers and smart people and there was no way he would take her to something like that. And then downed the rest of his pint and explained he had to run because she would be at his apartment at nine-thirty and he was going to be late.

Honest to Jebus, I was lost for words. And do you know what the best part of this story is? Two years on and now they’re still together. His refusal to actually make her his girlfriend went on for over six months. We even had a shouting row about it over Thanksgiving dinner. A quick survey of my friends were torn, those who knew both parties were pretty much of the opinion that they deserved each other. Everyone else was split into two camps – there were the women who thought Byron was reprehensible and ought to be castrated (if only for the ‘drowning in pussy’ line) and then there were those who considered this girl a champion. She had hung in there and waited him out until he broke. I remember one time he was super hungover from a big night of being a filthy bastard with an online random and tried to cancel on her but instead, she came over with homemade apple pie to make him feel better. Seriously. Eventually, summer turned into autumn, autumn turned into winter and Byron couldn’t be bothered to go out dating anymore. And let’s face it, hand delivered, homemade baked goods that come with a willing blow job do help keep you warm through the long cold nights.

So... back to mine? You have the baked goods, right?

So… back to mine? You have the baked goods, right?

It’s a difficult situation. I’ve definitely dated people who I’ve kept on the sidelines of my life until I’ve been sure about them. My friends are my family and introducing any man to them is a huge step. Until I know I want him around, I don’t want them to scare him away or, even worse, love him so much they prefer him to me. Stop laughing, this happened to one of my friends. It was the worst. I suppose this is especially relevant to me this week because one of my very, very best and most important friends will be face to face with the Gentleman Caller in less than 24 hours. I’m petrified. So far he’s only met one of my friends and generally speaking, aside from the fact she came home while we were, um, indisposed and she had to shake his hand with his shirt off (He was inordinately proud. She was appalled. I wanted to die.) it went pretty well. They seemed to get along and it wasn’t weird. I’m always terrified of seeing myself reflected in these situations – admit it, you know you’re a slightly different person with your loved than you are with your friends and imagining foul mouthed BFF Lindsey co-existing with flicky hair, femme fatale Lindsey (HA!) gave me the fear. There was no need.

Total sexbomb

Total sexbomb

Ultimately, if a relationship is going to work and be healthy, all of your selves are going to have to come together. Once I’m sure I’m head over heels, I wanted to show my boyfriend off like a prize pony. Seriously, I wanted to shine him up and trot him all over New York while shouting ‘this is mine!’ at complete strangers. Love is strange. If the man you’re sleeping with doesn’t want to do the same with you, it’s probably not a good sign. My advice? Make like the cheese lady and move on.

I Couldn’t Help But Wonder… Is There a Secret Cold War Between Marrieds and Singles?

Hmm. Now this is a tough one. As a single woman, no matter how awkwardly embroiled in however many torrid affairs, pretty much anything you might say against ‘the marrieds’ will make you sound bitter and angry. And saying you’re not bitter or angry just makes it worse, it’s the sameas Monica telling the answering machine that she’s breezy – you can’t say you’re breezy! It negates the breeziness!

Anyway, I’m not bitter or angry. Honest. I’m terrified. As a child of divorce, I have a very healthy fear of tying the knot and until quite recently, it’s something I honestly never believed I would do. Not that I don’t think marriage is awesome – The idea that someone you love wakes up one day and is sat at work eating a sandwich and just suddenly, pow, he realises he can’t possibly live without you and wants to tell every other single person in the world that you’re his. I think that’s amazing. I also think it’s hard and, having seen the worst of divorce, I would want to get it right and have it be forever. I write romance novels. This is probably one of the reasons I’m not married. That and the fact that my recurringstress dream is me at the church, in a wedding dress, about to marry my ex. Except I haven’t done my hair or make up and I always pass out from a panic attack just before I’m about to walk downthe aisle. There’s a chance we shouldn’t have stayed together for seven years…

lindsey kelk wedding guest

Basically the best wedding and one of the best brides, ever.

But is it true that married people and single people are secretly at war? I won’t lie, there can be a tension. In my life, my married friends seem to fall into one of three camps – those desperately in love with their husbands and just happy to be wed, those who are relieved to have locked something down and no longer be dating and those who started out in the second camp and now spend an awful lot of time looking over the fence at their single friends and thinking that the grass is an awful lot greener over here. Of course, that’s natural. We’re all human, we all want what we don’t have and I would imagine, to my friends who juggle kids and a husband and family obligations and work, my life looks quite tempting. I live alone in a New York apartment, I travel all the time to exciting locations, I meet fascinating people and throw myself into ridiculous affairs and shoe purchases that are not options for them. But while lounging in my singleton sun lounger, I peep over the fence, usually hungover and nursing a Bloody Mary,  and see stability and commitment and support and love and sometimes, when I’m licking my romantic wounds, that looks awfully nice, no matter how many pairs of Louboutins, I’ve stockpiled.

For the most part, there are no tensions with my married friends. Three of my very best friends are married and I can’t say it’s changed them in the slightest. They’re amazing and I love them.  The ones who have altered are the ones who maybe weren’t such great friends after all. As soon as the ring hit the finger, they became someone else. All of a sudden, they’re not the same girl whose hair I was holding back in the street after one too many happy hour cocktails, they’re smiling beatifically and telling me I’ll understand when I meet ‘him’. I’m not sure who ‘he’ is. I assume they mean my future husband but I can’t help but think they’re really picturing the jeweller at the engagement ring store.

Ooh, shiny. But not enough.

Ooh, shiny. But not enough.

The other married vs singles drama comes with women you don’t know, especially here in New York. Marriage is a cut-throat business here in the Big Apple and if you think the girls are bitches in the office, you’d better believe they will fuck you up in the pursuit of a husband. Kind of like The Devil Wears Prada but with diamond solitaires and summer houses in the Hamptons at stake.

I’ve always been a girl that gets along with boys. I love football and wrestling and dinosaurs. I make inappropriate jokes when I’m uncomfortable. I like to make people laugh – apparently, to the women of New York, this means I’m after their men. It’s quite a strange feeling to realise you’re being shut out by a woman just because you’re making her husband laugh. Anyone who knows me, knows I would never, ever cheat on anyone – sisters before misters, ladyface – but I remember one party at a friends house, a party where I was the only single girl in attendance and therefore feeling incredibly awkward and cracking joke after joke after joke, and yes, it was January and yes, it was cold outside but even with the boiling hot Brooklyn heating system, I was frozen to the core by the icy bitches in attendance. They literally shut me down every time I opened my mouth. So I ate my dinner, made my excuses and abandoned them for a bar in Williamsburg with my other friends. My single friends. And that’s when I realised, I had become That Girl. I had become a threat by virtue of the fact I didn’t have a boyfriend, I had nice hair and I’m funny. That hardly makes me an Angelina Jolie-esque home wrecker but still, they had silently decided I wasn’t welcome.

Life partner or dream home? YOU DECIDE!

Life partner or dream home? YOU DECIDE!

It would be a lie to say there aren’t single girls out there who just want to get married. They don’t care to whom but they do care what he makes, how quickly they can quit work and how soon they can pop out a kid. And if that’s what makes them happy in this world, then more power to them. Seems kind of cynical to me. I think these women are naïve to think just getting a ring on your finger makes everything better. Rings come off. Sometimes they stay off. Perhaps they know that, maybe that’s why they’re so afraid of having perfectly nice single women (with lovely hair) around their husbands. If the foundation isn’t stable, it isn’t hard to break.

I have this worrying recurring daydream where a guy proposes and instead of saying yes, I say ‘why?’. That’s not how it goes, is it? Sadly, I can’t imagine me ever saying yes unless it’s overwhelming, blinding, heart pounding, can’t imagine waking up a single second without him, desperate to repopulate the world with his awful tiny babies, devastating love. Maybe I’m the naïve one. Like I said, I write romance novels. But on the upside, I do still believe that exists. Beyonce said, if you liked it they you should have put a ring on it.  Like isn’t going to be enough for me.

I Couldn’t Help But Wonder…

A couple of things occurred to me today.

Firstly, next year, it will be ten years since Sex and the City left our small screens. Secondly, I have been called ‘the British Carrie Bradshaw’ almost as many times as I have pairs of designer shoes.

And so, I couldn’t help but wonder, in the decade that has passed since the girls left our lives (let’s pretend the movies never happened, ‘kay?) have we learned anything? About men? About our friends? About our shoes or ourselves? There’s only one way to find out…

Starting next week, I’m going to try to answer every one of Carrie’s questions, in chronological order, reflecting on my own life as a writer and shoe lover living in New York City and we shall see.

I’m excited about it… and yes, I know it’s horribly self-indulgent but I think it might be fun to live the WWCBD* way for a while.

In other news, there’s a Veronica Mars movie now and I’m so excited.

*What Would Carrie Bradshaw Do?

I Heart Paris US signing

The signing at The BookMark Shoppe in Brooklyn will now take place on August 23rd at 7.00pm. Because I’m stupid and can’t remember when I’ve booked flights to Canada. A shock to no-one, I’m sure.