I’m sat here on the rug in my tiny Hackney flat with the biggest, stupidest grin on my face. Legs crossed, bare feet wiggling against the floor, because I’ve been too excited to sit still. Natalie is literally right next to me, cross-legged too, oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder, laughing so hard she’s nearly snorted her flat white. The room smells like cherry vape fog and cold oat milk and pure, unfiltered chaos. Today is a big one. Today I finally get to properly introduce you to the woman who has been holding this whole mad little empire together behind the scenes for ages. My assistant. My best mate. My absolute ride-or-die. The only person who can call me a melt to my face and still get away with it. This is Natalie. And she now has her very own range of posters and prints in the shop. Some of them hand-signed by her. Every single penny of profit from every single sale goes straight to her. No cuts, no platform fees eating it up, nothing. You buy a Natalie print? You’re directly putting money in her pocket. I’m so fucking proud of her I could burst.
It took me ages to convince her, she always thought and said openly that she’s not beautiful enough to model. And I always disagreed, I begged her to try it and now she has. And think she has come up quite well.
Let me take you back to how this all started, because none of this would exist without her.
I met Natalie a few years ago when I was still properly finding my feet in the journalism world. I was fresh out of the headhunting grind, living off Red Bull and sheer stubbornness in this same tiny flat, writing my first viral threads and trying to figure out what the hell I was doing. One random night I was in a big lefty journo group chat and this girl just jumped in with the most savage, funny, zero-filter take I’d ever read. I replied. She replied. We ended up voice-noting until 4 a.m. about toxic men, emotional labour, council-estate life, and why half the men in media were absolute melts. By the end of that call I knew I’d found my person.
She’s proper Essex, same as me. Thick accent that gets thicker when she’s excited or had two pints. Zero filter. The kind of friend who will tell you your take is “bare problematic” and then immediately help you turn it into a banger thread. She’s the one who sat on this exact rug with me when we both tried dating apps at the same time and came out the other side traumatised but laughing until we cried. She’s the one who went undercover to meet Mike first when I was too intimidated to do it myself. She’s the one who voice-notes me at 3 a.m. when I’m spiralling about a piece and somehow always knows exactly what to say to make me cackle instead of cry.
Natalie isn’t just my assistant. She’s my best friend. My Coven co-pilot. The glue that holds this whole chaotic operation together. She helps me with research, she edits my late-night rants when they’re too feral to publish, she organises my messy Notion database, she keeps me fed when I forget to eat because I’m deep in a writing spiral. She’s the one who reminds me to breathe when the outrage gets too loud. She’s the one who makes me laugh when I’m ready to throw my laptop out the window.
So when we started doing the modelling side of things, me cross-legged on the rug in my oversized hoodies, bare feet with bright blue nails popping everywhere, messy bun, cheeky Essex grin, Natalie was right there with me. She’d sit on the other side of the room taking the photos, making me laugh so hard Bradley (our photographer genius) would have to tell us both to behave. She’d take the shots, help me choose the best ones, and then we’d sit here eating takeaway and arguing over which filter made my blue toes look the most chaotic.
We did the shoots together. Proper fun ones. No fancy studio, no perfect lighting, just us in our actual flats being our actual chaotic selves. Natalie in her own oversized hoodies, her own bare feet with her own deep red nail polish that pops against the rug, her hair down or in a ponytail, that massive genuine laugh that lights up the whole room. Some shots are soft and cosy, her sitting on the floor with a flat white, looking thoughtful and warm. Some are proper cheeky, her pulling faces, legs stretched out, giving the camera that “what you looking at, Hun?” energy. A few are a bit more intimate, the kind that make you feel like you’re peeking into her real life.
And now those shots are live in the shop as her very own poster range.
Some of them are signed by her. Proper hand-signed, limited runs. Every single print you buy from Natalie’s section, every poster, every art print, 100% of the profit goes straight to her. You are directly supporting one of the hardest-working, funniest, most loyal women I know. You’re not lining my pockets. You’re not lining anyone else’s. You’re helping Natalie pay her rent, keep the flat whites flowing, and keep being the absolute legend she is.
That’s the whole point of this little business. It was never about me making bank. It was about creating a tiny space where real women, me, Natalie, and the few other girls brave enough to put their unfiltered selves out there, could make some money from being exactly who we are. No pretending. No fake perfection. No corporate bullshit. Just us, in our hoodies, on our rugs, with our chipped nail polish and our big mouths and our big hearts.
Natalie deserves every single bit of this.
She’s been there through the late nights when I was crying over a bad break-up. She’s been there when I was spiralling about whether anyone would actually read my threads. She’s been there when I was too scared to message Mike myself and she went in first like the absolute soldier she is. She’s edited pieces at 4 a.m. just because I needed them to land right. She’s the one who tells me when something I’ve written is brilliant and when it’s absolute bollocks. She’s family.
So when we sat here a few weeks ago and decided it was time for her to have her own range, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. We did the shoots. Bradley worked his magic behind the camera. We laughed until we cried choosing the final shots. And now they’re here for you to buy.
Every poster of Natalie is a little window into her world. The same cosy, real, no-filter energy you get from mine, but with her own vibe, that warm, funny, zero-bullshit Essex energy that makes you feel like you’ve known her your whole life. Whether you want her looking thoughtful on the rug, pulling a proper cheeky face, or just being her soft, genuine self in an oversized hoodie with bare feet and that massive laugh, there’s something for everyone.
And when you buy one, you’re not just getting a beautiful print for your wall. You’re telling Natalie that her work, her energy, her friendship, and her contribution to this mad little Coven matters. You’re putting money directly in her pocket so she can keep doing what she loves and keep being the incredible woman she is.
I’m so proud of her I could cry.
So go on, Hun.
Scroll through Natalie’s range. Have a proper look. Fall in love with whichever version of her speaks to you most. Grab one for your wall, or as a gift for your best mate, or just because you want to support one of the best women I know.
Natalie, this one’s for you, mate. You deserve every single bit of this. Thank you for being my person. Thank you for holding me up when I’m falling apart. Thank you for making this whole chaotic journey so much more fun.
The shop is officially a little bit bigger and a whole lot better now that you’re in it properly.
Welcome to the poster club, babes.
Now everyone go and make my best friend’s day by grabbing one of her prints.
I’ll be over here on the rug with her, vaping, laughing, and feeling properly made up that we’re doing this together.
Emma.
