Arabella Byrne

6 days ago | dailymail.co.uk | Arabella Byrne

Two months after my youngest daughter, Constance, was born, I reached a low ebb. Still recovering from a C-section and exhausted by juggling a baby with her six-year-old sister Alexandra, I began to feel desperate. Particularly when Constance became a nap-refusenik, too. It was during a moment of profound sleep-deprived weakness that I found myself turning to the internet for help.

1 week ago | spectator.co.uk | Arabella Byrne

New mothers everywhere, rejoice, for the NHS has your back. And your sanity, apparently. Data released last week shows that 64,000 women accessed specialist perinatal mental health services last year, a rise in demand of 10 per cent compared to 2023.

1 week ago | spectator.co.uk | Arabella Byrne

Many years ago, long before Covid and when Donald Trump was still a property magnate-cum-reality TV star, I crossed the pond to study for my PhD at Penn. Not Penn State, which everyone seems to have heard of because of some obscure sex scandal; not Princeton, basking in its Michelle Obama afterglow; but Penn. It’s in the Ivy League, before you crinkle your nose: it has Gothic Revival buildings, frat houses, jocks, and Americans talk endlessly about how old it is.

1 month ago | thespectator.com | Mary Wakefield |Arabella Byrne |Raheem Kassam |Aidan Hartley

I don’t like cats. I don’t like their reptilian stealth, or the way their heads are set low and poke out from their bodies. I don’t like the constant showing off of their puckered bums, or their disregard for the normal rules of mammal eye contact. There are roughly 74 million cats in the United States and until recently I found it inexplicable. Why would anyone choose to love and nurture a psycho that dismembers songbirds, often torturing them first in a casual, playful way?

1 month ago | thespectator.com | Billy McMorris |Arabella Byrne |Kate Weinberg |Lara Prendergast

Alexandria, VirginiaBack in February, the first grader sustained a scrape that left a tiny red dot on her leg. She requested a soft cast and a medevac chopper. She settled for a dollar-store bandage. She shouldn’t have: it turns out she was quietly bleeding to death from the inside. She would have continued to deteriorate had we not been alarmed by a toilet clog the week after she fell. The Band-Aid was invented in 1920 by one Earle Dickson, a New Jersey cotton buyer with a clumsy wife.