Dear Daphne,
Halloween planning has begun and the mums’ WhatsApp is feral. One parent wants “no cheap sweets,” another wants a sugar-free table, and someone suggested a ticketing system for trick-or-treat. Can I stage a tasteful digital walk-out — or do I bring a fog machine and lean in?
Ruth, Tang Hall.
Dear Ruth,
The Mums’ WhatsApp isn’t a chat — it’s a battleground with emojis. A sugar-free table? A ticket system? Darling, it’s Halloween, not Wimbledon. Trick-or-treating is supposed to be messy: kids in bin-bag capes, sticky fingers clutching Haribo, and the occasional smashed pumpkin. Anyone trying to turn it into a wellness retreat needs locking in the stocks outside York Minster.
As for you, don’t waste your dramatic exit on a walk-out. Stay put, mute the notifications, and watch the chaos play out like live theatre — only this performance doesn’t cost you £30 a ticket. And the fog machine? Absolutely yes. If you’re going to irritate people, do it with flair. Go full haunted house, hand out the cheapest sweets you can find, and let the children decide for themselves. After all, anyone who thinks a Mars Bar is beneath their darling offspring has much bigger problems than sugar.
Daphne
Dear Daphne,
My daughter’s just started at York Uni and is already acting like she’s above us. She came home for Sunday dinner, turned her nose up at a roast, and asked if we had “anything vegan.” How do I stop her coming back thinking she’s the Queen of Heslington Hall?
Joan, Fulford.
Dear Joan,
Ah, the classic first-term transformation. Two weeks into campus life and suddenly your daughter has discovered she’s far too enlightened for a roast dinner. Don’t panic — this isn’t a permanent personality transplant, it’s what happens when perfectly normal teenagers are exposed to a few lectures, a vegan café, and the heady thrill of independence. University has a way of turning them, briefly, into eco-warriors, philosophers, or, in your case, Her Royal Highness of Heslington Hall.
The important thing here is not to panic and, above all, not to pander. Do not rush out and buy Linda McCartney sausages just because she’s had a couple of meat-free meals with her new friends. Carry on serving the roast as usual. If she wants vegan, let her help herself to the carrots and potatoes — that’s her choice. Because trust me, after a few weeks of living on beans on toast, dry pasta, and Pot Noodles, she’ll come crawling back for Yorkshire puddings and roasties.
Let her play at being superior for now; reality will soon take the shine off. Nothing brings a fresher down to earth faster than discovering that laundry doesn’t wash itself and overdraft letters don’t disappear if you ignore them. Give it time — she’ll stop looking down her nose at your Sunday roast and start turning up at your door desperate for a proper meal, clean sheets, and some common sense.
Daphne
Dear Daphne,
My boyfriend never puts his phone down. We’ll be having dinner and he’s scrolling TikTok, or worse — checking football scores mid-conversation. When I ask him to stop, he says I’m “overreacting.” Am I being clingy?
Ella, Heslington.
Dear Ella,
You’re not clingy. You’re dating a man whose idea of romance is chewing noisily while scrolling TikTok like it’s the Dead Sea Scrolls. Newsflash: being in a relationship means occasionally making eye contact with the human across the table, not just Arsenal’s injury updates.
So, what’s the plan? Option one: be direct. Ban phones at the dinner table. If he sulks, let him gaze lovingly into the glow of his screen while you enjoy your meal in blissful silence. Romantic, isn’t it? Option two: play him at his own game. Next time you’re out, glue yourself to your phone, laugh at memes that don’t exist, and when he finally twigs, say: “Oh, sorry darling, I’m just chatting to someone who actually listens.”
If that doesn’t snap him out of it, then congratulations — he’s given you the clearest answer of all. He’s not just rude, he’s prioritising pixels over you. And frankly, you deserve better company than a man who treats dinner like a Wi-Fi hotspot.
Daphne
Dear Daphne,
I live in a house share and one flatmate keeps “borrowing” my stuff — my shampoo, my milk, even my mascara. She always denies it, but I know it’s her. How do I confront her without turning the whole flat into World War Three?
Lucy, Hull Road.
Dear Lucy,
First of all, let’s call it what it is: stealing. Shampoo doesn’t walk out of the bottle by itself, and milk doesn’t vanish unless someone’s pouring it into their tea. If your flatmate smells suspiciously like your conditioner, the case is closed.
You’ve got two options. The diplomatic route: sit her down, tell her you’ve noticed things going missing, and ask her to stop. Awkward? Yes. Necessary? Also yes. People rarely change bad habits without being called out on them.
Or, if you’d prefer to keep it light, make it clear with humour: slap big “DO NOT TOUCH” labels on your stuff, or write your name across the milk in permanent marker. That way, when she helps herself, everyone in the kitchen knows whose latte she’s nicked.
The important thing is not to let it slide — otherwise you’ll be paying double for toiletries while she swans around smelling fabulous on your budget. Say something now and save yourself the resentment (and the mascara).
Daphne
Dear Daphne,
I’ve just started at York Uni and was excited for a bit of independence, but my parents are driving me mad. They keep texting to check where I am, phoning if I don’t reply within the hour, and even turning up with “care packages” uninvited. Did I make a mistake not moving further away for uni?!
Megan, Haxby.
Dear Megan,
This is the curse of staying close to home — you haven’t just enrolled at uni, you’ve signed up for round-the-clock surveillance by mum and dad. Texts, calls, surprise visits… you’re not living the fresher’s dream, you’re on parole with soup deliveries.
Did you make a mistake not moving further away? Not really. Distance doesn’t guarantee freedom — plenty move 200 miles and still get daily “just checking in” FaceTimes. What you need, darling, are boundaries. Stop replying instantly. If they ring mid-lecture, let them stew. When they show up with yet another “care package,” don’t roll out the red carpet. Keep it short — a quick thank you, then send them on their way.
Remember, they mean well. “Care package” is just code for “we don’t trust you not to starve or burn the flat down.” But independence isn’t about postcode — it’s about confidence. Delay the calls, reply hours later, and stop entertaining every visit. They’ll soon realise you’re not available 24/7.
You’re not a bad daughter for wanting space — you’re a normal student carving out your own life. Once they see you can survive a week without their Tupperware, they’ll relax. Independence isn’t about moving further away, it’s about learning to silence your mother with style.
Daphne
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