Happy New Year, one and all.
After a Christmas spent eating everything not bolted down – do people still get gout? – I’m ready to roll off the sofa and commence the new year
looking like a before picture for Weight Watchers with a contented tummy and good cheer.
What of Christmas?
Among the many presents beneath our tree on Christmas morning – I must have been a good girl last year, or simply better at covering my tracks – there sat a box from Smythson. Inside? Navy leather and paper, a beautiful diary.
With the year yet to be written, I’ve begun to tattoo the pages with plans and fun things to do – along with the more regular, ‘Collect dry cleaning’, ‘Buy milk’ and, every six weeks, ‘Get muff waxed’.
There are resolutions, too:
1. Snog/Shag Spencer from Made in Chelsea. Let’s start easy. Oh, come on, are you telling me Spencer isn’t easy?
2. Buy a Vespa.
3. Often, it seems like every person and every opportunity will gladly say “No” to me – yet I, a veteran people pleaser, have not found a way to use the word without anxiety or guilt. This will sound the bullshit of middle-shelf therapy but, in finally befriending “No”, I hope to assert and better protect my needs.
4. Wear my new Chinti and Parker star sweater to stave away the January Blues.
5. Think less, do more. Except on this blog.
The snooze button will be hit on these resolutions by early February but, until then, Mr Matthews should consider himself…
Laid in Chelsea.*
* Whatever the year, my usual service of crap jokes will be maintained.
Sometimes, whilst schlepping home on the tube, I drift into daydream and fantasise of a life more perfect. A life in which, relievedly, I’m not rattling around the underworld of our ‘Great Wen’ with my nose pressed into the armpit of a middle-aged banker.
It plays something like this…
Reality: Walk. Bird craps on me.
Daydream: The Ledbury.
Reality: M&S ready meal. Two days out-of-date.
Daydream: Julia Restoin-Roitfeld. BFF.
Reality: Kevin from Accounts.
Daydream: Reed Krakoff. Pre-fall 2012.
Reality: Primark’s ugly sister, Peacock.
As the tannoy confirms our arrival into Victoria station, I’ll return – to the gaze of the banker, surveying me in much the way a wolf would rib-eye steak – and realise that, actually, Reed Krakoff would be wasted on a crowd like this.
Tell me, do you have a daydream life?
It’s 21 days until Christmas.
As the season of good cheer and mince pies draws nearer, my modus operandi is to postpone preparations until the last minute. That’d usually be Christmas Eve, whereupon I blitzkrieg the local all-night garage – scooping armfuls of condoms, car air fresheners (which never smell ‘fresh’, why is that?) and colossal bags of Haribo sweets to gift to loved ones.
Who, given this, I mustn’t love at all.
In wanting never again to see my sister’s bemused face – as she unwraps a Ginsters pastie on Christmas morning – my new watchwords are ‘organised’ and ‘out of sodding character’. The turkey is on order. The tree, too – soon to have parcels from Mulberry, Gieves & Hawkes, and Diptyque sitting prettily beneath it.
The cause of this volte-face?
I’ve been wearing Chanel’s Le Vernis in ‘Graphite’ these past weeks – a hybrid of metallic grey and green – and it’s making me feel festive. For those of you who haven’t already, it’s not too late to beg, borrow or eBay a bottle. Best? Should my good intentions disappear on first sniff of Christmas eggnog, it will make me the most stylish person in the all-night garage come December 24.
Silver linings, and all that.
There are changes in my personal life – for better or worse, let’s see – and, as a consequence, there’ll either be (1) many more or (2) many less updates on this little blog of mine.
Unlike some, I’ve never been the kind of girl to dream about getting married.
I didn’t fashion wedding dresses for my Barbie dolls from white toilet paper. I would roll my eyes whenever Cinderella et al. found their prince. Tiffany was the name of a badly-permed singer. What’s more, the only part of a wedding ever to appeal came with three tiers and copious amounts of sugar icing.
As an adult – a term used somewhat jocosely here – I am not quite Carrie Bradshaw.
I haven’t yet broken into an angry bushfire of hives whilst trying on wedding frocks or chiffon-based anaphylactic shock – but, who am I kidding, that’s because I’ve not so much as ventured within a ten-mile radius of a bridal shop since becoming engaged. That makes me worse than Ms. Bradshaw, huh?
So, what’s the problem?
I would love to sing from the rooftops of this blog about cake toppers and garters, but the circus of a wedding – and the attention it will bring – is daunting. I blame the parents. When they divorced, it threw a grenade into the centre of our family, leaving behind shrapnel pieces of cynicism for this ‘happy ever after’ stuff.
Like the lyrics to this song, when it comes to Napoleon: ‘I’m his girl’. For nearly ten years, he’s been my boy.
We will marry – perhaps the two of us, in jeans – and I’ll figure this out. Until then, it would be good to hear your experiences of the transition between girlfriend, next diamond-clad fiancée, to wife. Or simply your thoughts on this newly-signed Brooklyn band, Friends.
So hipster it hurts, aren’t they?