Tag Archives: Fashion
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 Two days out-of-date.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?
My little sister came to stay last week.
She’s starting university – reading law, for her sins – and this was our last hurrah before she becomes bound to her books. Cocktails were
downed by the dozen sipped. Gossip was shared. And she remains, without question, my one true soulmate.
The best kid in the world.
Always beautiful, the past two years have imparted a maturity, a womanly assurance – nascent and delicate, though it is still – to amplify her existing beauty.
It has taken me by surprise.
In my sister, I behold a sprog with pigtails and a droopy diaper – the little girl, forever decorated in Wotsit dust, to whom I would read bedtime stories and sing to sleep as she squeezed my hair – and yet, to the world, she is a woman. The legs have grown. The braces have come off. The shutters from my eyes, too – and look, see what we’re dealing with.
A younger, prettier Elle Macpherson.*
Sassy and intelligent, she’s the kind of girl who could wear every piece from the new Balmain diffusion line, Pierre Balmain – whose lookbook is pictured here – without risk of them wearing her.
In leaving for university, my sister reaches another milestone on the road to adulthood.
It is difficult to let her go – my instinct, as the eldest sibling, is to protect and continue to hold her close – but I couldn’t be more proud of all that she is becoming and know that the next three years will be amongst the happiest of her life.
Good luck, little lobster, I love you.
* Such are the perils of having a sister ten years younger. For the record, I’m a shorter, rounder Dawn French… ;0)
The constant house guest. That stubborn bubble of fat on your inner thigh. Boris Johnson.
Some things simply will not go away.
Despite doing all within my power – from mainlining vitamin C to furtively leaning over and coughing on Napoleon whilst he sleeps – this flu is determined not to bid adieu.
I get it, really, I do.
A wise-cracking Yorkshire girl, I like to make people laugh. I will indulge conversation on topics diverse as the historical development of the Eurozone to the X Factor. I’m a good listener. If that’s your bag, my companionship is not too shabby.
The flu is lapping it up.
I have taken to a new hobby – having, as I do, little more for entertainment than the occasional thrill of a sneeze – to stave away the delirium that comes with being kept bedbound. It’s fun. You’d like it.*
With the central heating whacked to its farthermost setting, I sit in bed – propped amongst discarded tissues and Strepsils – and browse the internet, where I daydream over wintry, cosy clothes. Jumpers. Scarves. Long Johns. The tin foil section on Tesco.com.
Anything to keep the warmth in, frankly.
I have revisited these Burberry Prorsum coats more than most. There’s something of the Nancy Mitford heroine to them: I imagine draping myself grandly and – with a large, theatrical flourish of their tails – hamming my part as the sickened martyr.
Well, come on… I could act that better than Boris does being Mayor.
* You won’t. No one, with a life, would.