’Ive never been the type to make spontaneous decisions. Ask anyone who knows me—they’ll tell you I overthink everything. But after the breakup, something changed. You know the kind of split where the silence in your flat feels louder than a thunderstorm? That was me. The echo of two wine glasses in the cupboard. The dent in the pillow where someone used to be. I was rattling around my own flat like a ghost in corduroy.
One Friday night, half-tipsy, half-depressed, I found myself scrolling through a site I hadn’t looked at in years—Smithers. Back in the day, I’d bookmarked their stuff for “when I own a proper place.” Never happened. Until now, apparently. Because right there in the middle of the screen was a neon sign, glowing
like something out of a Tarantino film. It just said “Foxy Lady.” Pink script. Bright as hell. Completely ridiculous.
I bought it.
Not because I needed a sign. Not because I’m a “Foxy Lady.” But because, for the first time in weeks, I wanted something. It felt bold. It felt alive. It was the total opposite of how I’d been living.
The Moment It Arrived
It came two days later, boxed like some secret treasure. I was half-expecting to regret it immediately, like those late-night Amazon orders you don’t even remember making. But when I plugged it in and watched that pink glow light up the wall—I laughed. Proper belly-laughed. It was like someone flicked the mood switch in my flat.
It didn’t solve my heartbreak. It didn’t clean my kitchen or fix my sleep. But it made the space mine again. It gave it character. Attitude. The neon hum was like company. And oddly enough, it started to lift me.
It Became a Talking Point
Friends came over and always commented on it. “What’s with the sign?” they’d ask. And I’d just shrug. “Needed a bit of Vegas in my life.”
Thing is, it changed more than the flat. It reminded me that I still had style. That I still gave a toss about design. That I wasn’t completely dead inside. That one stupid, glowing, Foxy Lady neon sign flicked the switch.
Neon Is More Than Decor
There’s something weirdly emotional about neon. Maybe it’s the nostalgia—makes you think of old diners, dodgy motels, or late-night cinemas. Or maybe it’s the vibe—bold, unapologetic, sexy even. It doesn’t try to blend in, and at that point in my life, neither did I.
I’ve since bought another one. A custom piece this time. One word: Resurrected. Not for religious reasons, but because, in a small way, that’s how it felt.
Where to Get Yours
I tell anyone who asks—get one from Smithers. They’re not cheap knockoffs. The light’s rich, the build is solid, and they’ve got some proper bonkers designs that make your space feel alive. And if you’ve just gone through some crap? Even better. Light up the dark—literally.
