Style vs. The City

But for Tuesday's update, it has now been 4 months since I last blogged.  For shame.

Starting a new job has resulted in a lot less time than I would like to scribble down random musings and inflict my views upon the world.  Boo.  I have, however, managed to collate a selection of recent thoughts regarding 'city style'.  And my lack, thereof.

Hurrah! 

"Year after year, twenty something women come to New York City in search of the two L's: Labels and Love." breathes Carrie Bradshaw's voice-over, as the camera-man homes in on a number of hatefully stylish, fresh-faced, skinny young things strutting about town.

Now NYC Manchester is not, but it's a city, and it's the one I fled to even before my early 20's.  And I can't help but reflect on the SATC lifestyle I had envisaged for myself with a questioning eye, aimed scrupulously towards Carrie Bradshaw's frankly outlandish claims.  Yes, I am aware she is fictional.

I would argue - quite strongly - that it is impossible to prioritise the mastery of labels and love whilst also trying to hold down a job and keep a relatively habitable abode in the city.   IMPOSSIBLE.

Allow me to elaborate.  Consider footwear; Carrie Bradshaw and her infernal designer trotters.  You'd be surprised just how many pairs of Manolos a heavy-footed Northern bird can work her way through per quarter.   Unless bankruptcy is this season's hot look, it's safe to say designer is out.  The cost of city living coupled with dismal inner-city wages dictate that the highest-end label I can hope to adorn is if F&F by Tesco bring out a Limited Collection.  This is despite spending most weekends trawling through town looking at clothes, trying on clothes, and on occasion, salivating unintentionally on clothes that I, most definitely, cannot afford.

And it's not just monetary issues stifling my wardrobe selection. A phrase that would previously have left me shuddering, 'comfort over fashion' is now my fail-safe shopping motto.  Much to the amusement of my peers, the most recent addition to my wardrobe is a waterproof.  This is for practicality purposes, people.  'You're wearing a mac and you're over the age of 15,' was the most flattering comment my fat-mate could muster.  She wasn't there last Thursday night as a torrential downpour struck Harbour City tram stop. The mac was.  One-nil to the mac for a solid display in the face of adverse weather conditions.  Unfortunately for me, teamed with the navy and white striped pants I'd been wearing to the office that day, the mac also ensured that I was channeling the style of a children's television presenter for the duration of my journey.  

Alas, my problems do not merely end at wardrobe selections. No no.  Hair is an issue of equal weighting.  Even a crop - a minimal cumbrance - which can be waxed to perfection inside ten minutes, is no match for the shrill Manchester gusts.  Throw in a lashing of drizzle before my back foot has even made it out of the front door and before I know it my cute little pixie crop is more Faris Badwan on an off day than the Emma Watson do I had plumped for.

Not as chic as I'd hoped.

And hair is not the only aspect of my appearance that struggles with city-living.  Walking to the office is hard on my face, too.  Before I leave the flat I swear my make-up is immaculate.  Step aside Cheryl, flawless is my middle name.  But by the time I've trudged across town to the office, said flawless finish is clinging on for dear life somewhere near the edge of my chin.

So on that note, I'll wrap it up.  I think it's fairly safe to conclude that even if, miraculously, I should prove myself to be a master of the labels, on account of the birds-nest/foundation-less combo that I reluctantly find myself sporting with such regularity, the 'love' aspect of Carrie's acclaimed city lifestyle will sadly remain bereft, trailing behind my face en route to the office.

F**k 2.4

"Nobody is forced to do [a] job and if they don't like it, they should do another one.”  The iconic Karl Lagerfeld’s careers advice hardly affords a nod to the current economic climate, but happening across this statement as a recently-unemployed graduate just a couple of months ago, I confess I felt a sort of affinity with Karl’s seemingly cavalier philosophy.

Whenever anybody asked me what I was doing at the time, my response was always met with ‘the face’.  The ‘never mind, I’m sure something will come up soon’ face.  Pained expressions and sympathetic tones in abundance.

That's alright for him to say.

I graduated from University in 2009 amid the height of the economic recession.  Before I had even sat my finals, I spent months applying for jobs regardless of industry, job title or level of responsibility.  Even with two years administrative experience (an advantage I held over most new graduates), I found the job market extremely hostile, with most applications remaining unanswered or rejected.  When eventually I was offered a modest sales support position commencing the day after my final exam, I didn’t hesitate to accept.  Shrouded in the reassuringly snug blanket of employment, I resolved to worry about the rest of my life when I got there.  The fact is that it was a full-time job with prospects.  And that’s what everybody wants, right?

For a while everything was fine, and the joyous monthly appointment universally recognised as pay day reliably delivered.  But as time rumbled monotonously on, I began to find myself wondering about certain aspirations.  Specifically, the aspirations I had possessed as a child, a teenager, and as a young woman.   The blanket that had once felt so reassuring now just felt suffocating, as I became increasingly aware of stirrings of something bearing an alarming resemblance to disappointment.   

Unfulfilled, uninspired and unconvinced that there shouldn’t be more to life, naturally I decided to give up my job, relocate to the city, and start again.  All sensibility out the window, I waved goodbye to my box factory (literally) job, and headed off in pursuit of a fresh start.

But it ain't easy, and it certainly ain't pretty.  The more I think about it, the more it seems to me that from the age of about 14, we’re almost corn-fed an ideal.  We’re ushered into careers advice seminars, interview ‘workshops’, and lest we forget the dreaded P.S.E days, which would feature regularly throughout high school, offering guidance on how to bound comfortably through the assault course of hoops laid out for us; university, career, house, marriage and children.  Preferably in that order.

2.4

I’m not suggesting we should all throw caution to the wind in the name of some terribly lightweight romantic notion of following our dreams.  I think that most of us can safely acknowledge that that simply isn’t how life works.  There are only so many Adele's in the world, and if you ain't got it now you're never gonna, sister.  One of the most inspiring women I know lives for her family.  She’s worked the same job for over three decades, Monday to Friday, nine until five.  And that suits her just fine thank-you, because her success story is the family that she has devoted her life to building, and that she is proud to call her own.

I just can’t help feeling as though the unwritten framework is rather too clinical to recognise that people develop and respond to different motivating factors in life, whether that be money, family, stability, creativity, or something else entirely. 

My point is this: if you care enough about achieving something, and it’s financially viable to try (no matter how many months beans on toast feature as the tea-time staple), then don’t you owe it to yourself to at least give it a go? What’s wrong with wanting a coveted career and being prepared to work for it, sometimes for very little in the way of recompense, and sometimes for none at all?  If it means that in five years, ten years, or even twenty years I’ll be doing something that I believe is truly worthwhile and that inspires me to produce the best work I can, surely that’s worth more than sacrificing precious time to a half-hearted 9-5 slog in the name of exalting others’ expectations.  No?

There is absolutely nothing sexy about girls that are into football.  I realised this at approximately 9.47pm yesterday as I threw my hands into the air, muttered a handful of expletives, and stormed out of Ewood Park.  I admit it, I welled.

We've all been subjected to the images of unfeasibly attractive Latino women, posing provocatively in front of camera wearing a Brazil shirt and little else.  But the reality is that football for girls just ain't pretty.

I am a fan of a, shall we say, 'modest' Premier League club, currently battling at the foot of the table on the cusp of relegation.  It's not fun.  In fact most weeks I sit frozen, staring bleakly at the pitch, wound up like a spring coil and hoping against hope that this time, perhaps just once, we won't f**k it up.  Inevitably, I end up disappointed.  Last night was no different.  To all intents and purposes, my perpetually struggling team was gifted a golden opportunity to take 3 points from a significantly weakened bigger club.  Naturally, however, we fought to near-death and then gave it all away at the end. 

Now, I'm aware of that age-old theory that girls go to the football to look at the boys' legs.  And I'll admit that, though not the critics choice, I do hold a pretty substantial candle for Andy Carroll.  Alarmingly, I think it's the hair.  But last night, as I looked on in despair at his 90th-minute shot sailing over the line, I experienced absolutely no sentiment for his legs.  In fact, I can confirm that given the opportunity, I would have relished delivering a swift blow to the bollocks.  Instead, I vented my frustration via the medium of discourse, specifically, 'do one Carroll you long-haired f**king gypo.'  Eloquence, thy name is Laura.

My point is that I don't follow football to be cool, or so that I can chat to boys nonchalantly about the offside rule.  I don't follow football because I fancy the players or because I aspire to have Wayne and Colleen's lifestyle.  I follow football because Blackburn Rovers are part of my childhood, adolescence and (disconcertingly) expanding adulthood.  I follow them because, like my parents and grandparents, and their parents and grandparents, and their... you get the picture - that team represents my home.  It's probably not cool, and it definitely isn't sexy, but God I love my club.

Fat Mates (pt. 2)

This holiday weekend, my fat-mate and I have indulged.  We have feasted, troughed and crammed-into and around our mouths any form of edible matter within reach, and as a result, I will be rolling to bed tonight.

It started on Friday evening.  We had guests staying, so rather than whip up a culinary masterpiece, we took to Manchester’s Northern Quarter and introduced our friends to a fine eatery knows as Dough.  The clue really is in the name.  Washed down with a couple of sugar-crammed cocktails, and a number of Jagerbombs thrown in for the final flourish, Saturday brought with it the standard junk-food onslaught commonly employed following an alcohol-fuelled evening.  Coupled with the fact that Saturday soon became an apparent party-day, it would be wise not to dwell on the likely number of calories consumed.  We enjoyed a steady onset I grant you, but when the beer comes out at 12pm, followed by crisps, dips and more Jagerbombs before tea, you know the calorie counter is under full strain.

And so came Sunday; Easter Sunday, no less.  Today, we have mastered the art of continuous grazing.  Literally from the moment we arose, tired and thick-headed, to this very hour, 11:17pm - I have done nothing but prepare food, eat food or think about the next foodstuff that I can get my hands on and shove in the general direction of my face.  

Unwisely, we chose to do this whilst slumped unattractively in front of the entire Season 4 of Sex and the City, Carrie Bradshaw parading before us in an array of delightful crop-top and hot-pants combos; an array which did a fine job of reminding us that our own crop-top and hot-pant days are over.  Chinese food, crisps, Haribo and Easter-eggs(pl.) behind me, in a moment of madness, I opted to follow-up my tortuous SATC marathon with a good old flick through Elle magazine.  After eating so much that the trip from the living room to my bedroom seemed unlikely without the need for considerable brow-mopping and a danger of chaffing, a publication which proudly declares itself Britain’s best-loved fashion magazine, probably wasn't the most astute choice.  Settling on an interview with Emily Blunt, a lovely girl-next-door type English-rose, I had foolishly assumed safety.  And then there it was.  “It’s clear from her tiny frame that she might spend more time on the treadmill than she suggests.”  Pfft.

We all know that nobody can eat what they want and continue to slip gracefully into anything and look great.  I’m never going to be Carrie Bradshaw – size 6 just isn’t on the cards for me.  But I know that with due care and attention I could be thinner and, sorry sisters, but I think it would make me happier.  Yes, anywhere with an abundance of complex carbs is a happy place for me, but cancel out the number of hours spent agonising about weight, the things that I can and cannot wear and whether or not my arms look big in this, and my life would be a happier place.  A realisation only reinforced by my recent alarming discovery that this season's must-have is the 'Bralet'.

Carrie Bradshaw, eat your heart out.

So tonight, I face the final curtain.  My fat-mate doesn't know yet but I am finally admitting defeat and embarking upon a diet.  Armed with my trusty Elle magazine and an article aptly named 'The Real Reason You're Not Losing Weight', I am setting out with renewed determination, impending gym membership, and a mental picture of Emily Blunt.

Lettuce with a side of nothing, please. Sob.

Fat-mates

Last Thursday marked exactly one month since we moved into the new flat, and so I find myself with little excuse for the idol telly-watching, chocolate-scoffing and wine-guzzling (oh yes, I'm back there again), that routinely comes with the 'holiday-period' following a move.

Since you ask, the move went delightfully well.  The two bedrooms are ample sized, and have been fitted out in a manner which appropriately conveys the singular personalities of their respective occupants.  My flat-mate's pink and green floral boudoir channels on-trend girly chic, and mine looks like a library.  We've met somewhere in the middle for the kitchen/living room, have swept-up and furnished the balcony with pot plants, and established where the fit boys live in the block opposite.  In fact, in these penniless, work-governed weeks, lounging on the balcony with sunglasses on, peering inconspicuously into the flats opposite and judging their occupants has become an established weekly bonding ritual for my flat-mate and I.  As we retire to our rooms on a Sunday night, Monday morning looming threateningly before us, we could almost call-out, 'same again next week?', and expect to find each other there, 9am next Saturday morning, sunglasses on.

Another thing I have noted with interest since moving into this new residence is that most people in this day and age have little contact with geese.  I, however, can't seem to detach myself from the tempestuous fowl.  I had envisaged awakening for the first morning in my new bed to be an almost heavenly encounter.  We had been looking forward to the move for so long that my mind had occupied otherwise redundant hours by conjuring an image akin to the opening scene of Cinderella - I would wake to the happy chirrups of birdsong, basking in rays of sunlight streaming through the window, before my woodland friends merrily made a start on the chores. Instead I was woken abruptly on a grey Manchester morning to the brash tones of Canadian geese just outside the window.

So we've been here a grand total of 32 days, and other than spying on fit boys, wishing sudden death upon the geese, and drinking £2.99 Aldi wine, we have focussed most of our attention on eating.  Such is the joy of selecting an equally food-friendly flatmate. Or fat-mate.

  

A new flat, new job and lack of internet have prevented me from posting recently. Though i do hope to get back to inflicting my opinions onto others before long, it's possible to read a piece on the recent Kony2012 craze that I put together for my new company's blog here, should you feel so compelled.

That's Real Talk

Quite enjoyed reading this recent blog post by Radio 1 DJ and fellow Blackburner, Adam Catterall.

Parched

It is just over three weeks since I blogged to announce the commencement of my dry month, and I’m proud to confirm that as yet I have upheld my vow to stay sober.

I have to admit that as I embarked upon this challenge, fuelled by a particularly vicious hangover and an excess of incumbent junk food, I was unsure I’d make it myself (I am aware there is still just over a week to incur failure).  If I’m honest it’s probably only my own sheer pig-headedness that’s seen me through.  The fact that I had told people about the challenge I’d set myself (received sometimes with surprise, but more often with contempt (‘gay!’) or scepticism), I think has had the most significant contribution toward my success than anything.  I had made the decision that I would refrain from alcohol for a month and by Jove, refrain from alcohol I would do.  Even when a weary barmaid handed me a JD and coke (coincidently my drink of choice), when in fact I had ordered an innocent Diet Coke nearing 4am - ho yes, hard-core is my middle name - I promptly slid the glass back across the bar and asked for the order to be amended.  It took more than three attempts to communicate the error, and when she finally deciphered that the drink contained alcohol and I would like this element to be removed, she looked at me as though I’d sprouted a third boob.  

You may as well know that when I drink, I am a talker.  Shocking, eh?  Before I started this challenge, I used to find myself worrying immensely the morning after I had been drinking.  I would wake suddenly – as you do after a heavy night – and my first thought would be ‘right, what happened’.  I would proceed to spend the entire morning remembering everything I could from the period during which I had consumed alcohol, frantically recalling what I had been saying, what others had said, how had they acted, how had I acted, what had been my companions' facial expressions in response to the things I’d been saying.  Then I would gather my recollections into a hotbed for embarrassment and get in, wallowing in my own misfortune and imagining that everybody else would be texting and BBM-ing their disdain at my frankly unsavoury behaviour.  I’m starting to think that this may have been an overreaction.

Over the past few weeks I have been involved in a few nights out, often finding myself in scenarios where to drink would actually have been more commonplace and acceptable than to not.  On each occasion, I have found myself alone in sobriety.  Of course other people have been drinking, and I have  observed the subtle heightening of volume in their dialogue, their slowed reactions, and their loosened inhibitions, most finely demonstrated via the medium of ‘dare’ at around 2.30am (‘Laura, do you want to play dare?’ My friend propositioned, proceeding to point at an unfortunate fellow in no way subtly. ‘Go and snog that man over there.  The one with the hair.’ ‘Errr, not tonight thanks’).  Yes, my friends and family members have been drunk, they have talked rubbish, and they have chatted up unsuspecting victims in the name of keeping face, but I haven’t once judged them or scoffed at their behaviour with contempt.  I’d say in the most part I’ve been a little jealous.

Sometimes it’s fun to be tipsy. No-one is immune to the effects of alcohol, and we’ve all done silly things under the influence.  I’m not saying go wild.  If you find yourself awakening just short of the front door with your bra around your waist you’ve probably gone a little overboard.  But sometimes having a drink can be relaxing, confidence-boosting, and above all, fun.

And that is why, comfortable in the knowledge that I can refrain from alcohol should I so choose, and refreshing though this break has been, I will be counting down until next Wednesday and declaring myself very much involved with alcohol for the foreseeable future.

8 days, 2 hours, and 13 minutes to go. 

Top Ten

Procrastination is no stranger of mine, so I decided to put my time-wasting prowess to some use and document the best of some pretty impressive skills.  Do check out my top ten forms of procrastination here. 

Ok so it's true that I'm hardly St. Valentine himself, but I have to admit that I just melted when this crafty proposal was brought to my attention this morning.  So much so that it definitely just upped the ante on my dating prerequisites; any prospective romantic partner must now have proficient animation skills and a well stocked Lego bucket.

A V. Dissatisfying Week

And so it's upon us.  These days it doesn't seem only to be one day of the calendar year that us singletons are banished indoors with a tub of Pick ‘n’ Mix and 'the Notebook'.  No no, apparently dissatisfied with the hostile takeover of one three-hundred-and-sixty-fifth of the single girl’s year, it now encroaches on the weekend before too, inviting sugary couples out in droves for specially tailored 'romantic cuisine'.  Please.  We’re all familiar with that classic SATC moment, with Carrie and Miranda awkwardly seated at the traditional table for two, dogged by a swarm of frankly discourteous pastel-coloured balloons and then mistaken for lovers, as if the only people allowed to exist on this hateful annual appointment are insufferably happy couples. *Shudder.* I am, of course, referring to V-day.

So below I have compiled a list of things I will be occupying myself with this week to distract myself from inhaling litres of Pralines & Cream ice cream, breaking my alcohol ban, and sobbing uncontrollably into my new Alice In Wonderland pillows (Urban Outfitters – amazing).

Perusal of the Daily Mail Online

I will be spending considerable hours reading the ‘celeb’ pages on Daily Mail Online to remind myself that it could always be worse.  I’m looking at you, Imogen Thomas.

Pretty Vacant

Creating a Playlist of Classic Female Power Anthems

...and playing repeatedly at a high volume.

*Sings loudly and out of tune* ALL THE SINGLE LADIES…

Online Shopping 

Around V-day I choose mostly to peruse in virtual isolation, rather than face ugly confrontation from the stacks of frankly offensive items passed off as V-day 'gift ideas' - heart shaped fried egg moulds, cherry scented bath beads, 'I LOVE Ewe' knitted socks - really.

Spending V-Day alone can be hard on a girl.  Just because I choose to be single (ahem), surely doesn't mean I must miss out on the female's finest annual excuse for extra gifts (however pointless they may prove).

I mean, should I have chosen to involve myself in a relationship, my other half would almost certainly shell out more than a month's rent on this modest Marc Jacobs tote, right?   Surely it's only fair that I gift myself a special little treat as a thanks for the impeccable company I have provided myself over the last 12 months...

'Sherlock' Marathon

Sherlock Holmes doesn't believe in love, thus securing himself the honourable position of perfect V-night companion.   

*Quotes* “I’ve always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof.”  Quite right, Holmes, couldn't agree more.

I can happily while away the hours nestled on the settee with everyone's favourite - comfortingly heartless - genius detective.

definitely the new sexy

And it doesn't hurt that the part of Sherlock Holmes is currently occupied by one of Britain's most eligible bachelors. *Swoon*.  

This Is War

Back in the day, as Adam and Eve frolicked in sin on the periphery of the Garden of Eden, freshly unhindered by the advice of God, Adam made a simple request of Eve - that she banish her leg hair.  She accepted, and this frankly preposterous request was granted.  

At least, that’s how I imagine it happened.  

I remember watching the CBBC classic, ‘Cavegirl’ at the tender age of about 12.  In one episode, the main character, a young woman sporting classic cave-age attire (a short leather shirt and fur crop-top), and imaginatively named Cavegirl, was sat drawing a sharp-edged rock along the length of her legs.  ‘What are you doing, Cavegirl?’ asked Stiks the Saucy, her male counterpart.  ‘Scraping my legs, of course!’ she replied.  

Women’s hair removal has become as ingrained into Western society as brushing your teeth twice daily or slicking on a layer of deodorant in the morning; to question or disregard the act invokes a reaction of disgust and appal in those around us.  And so, shackled by the cultural norm which we ourselves have refined, we just get on with it.  So imagine the dismay of those with sensitive skin, who must ritually battle the omnipresent fuzz regardless of inflammation, itching, or unsightly in-grown hair.

A woman's unhindered, smooth legs waving nonchalantly.

In the past - during periods where there was no boyfriend to speak of, and when unlikely to be leaving the house - I have gifted my skin some respite, allowing the hair on my legs to grow wild and free.  That was until the last time when, as I casually watched t.v. at home, my feet up on the settee and my pyjama bottoms exposing a small amount of leg, my brother visibly recoiled proclaiming, ‘that is disgusting, Laura!’, his own coarse leg hair swaying brazenly below his shorts.

I have tried EVERYTHING.  Shaving, waxing, hair removal creams, epilating (ouch), and to no avail.  My pale complexion coupled with sensitive skin has meant that throughout my teenage years and early 20’s, I have been unable to expose my bare legs.  Ever.  Whilst more fortunate girls whipped on a summer dress and sandals, I was left sweltering in leggings and socks.  Which is why, at the ripe age of 23, I am declaring war.

Earlier this afternoon I had my first consultation for laser hair removal, and I cannot wait to get started.  It will take eight treatments, four weeks apart, and will banish 90% of hair.  Pricey it may be, but the promise that in eight short months I will be freed from the clutches of unwanted leg-hair, and at liberty to unleash a couple of smooth citizens upon the world is simply too great...  Where do I sign?!

A Happy Medium?

Over the last decade, the media industry has squeezed some serious mileage from the female form.  Promotion of an unachievable female ideal sparked by impossibly skinny catwalk models throughout the naughties, was enough to reduce adult women to strive for the waistline of a 7 year old girl, or as it's more commonly known, the size zero.  Cue scores of female celebrities who fell victim to eating disorders.  Nicole Richie, Mary-Kate Olsen, Alexa Chung (is she, isn’t she?), and Tara Reid have all successfully induced international shockwaves with their increasingly - fashionably - emaciated frames.

More recently, the skinny ideal has been subject to a backlash from the opposite extreme, with plus size models such as Emme Aronson and Nina Blakemore pitching more and more in favour of the Big is Beautiful campaign.

Still, however, the media fails to properly provide representation for the girls that are neither skin-clad skeletons, nor adorned with a wealth of curves.  Continually, speculation in the press is focussed around either one extreme or the other, when what really should be celebrated is a healthy body, plain and simple.

Only this week, everyone’s favourite tabloid ran a piece on Brazil’s new plus-size beauty pageant models, juxtaposed with an article critiquing the slender form of Keira Knightley’s back, as, it seems, the world's media continually fails to represent a healthy attitude towards body image. 

But now the ‘Thinner is the Winner’ campaign, and the pioneers of ‘Big Is Beautiful’, must step aside - there's a new obsession on the block.

We've all seen - and gasped audibly at - the recent pictures of Jodie Marsh.  But she seems only to be putting a famous face to a growing trend.  Ladies, I give you the female body builder:

Once a petit size 8, Rene Campbell is a self-confessed ‘Bigorexic’, who won’t rest until she hits 20 stone.  ‘It’s an art form,’ she declares, ‘I see 20-stone guys in the gym and think I want to be that big.’  She currently weighs 13.5 stone, works out for 2 hours, 5 days a week and consumes 4,200 calories a day.

So is Rene's bodybuilding a harmless regime, or an addiction?  A psychological obsession?  If so, does she represent another life gripped by the female population's fixation with body image?  And could bodybuilding be the next chapter in a never-ending story of the female form?

It seems to me that as women, we continually push the boundaries and focus on extremes.  As if anorexia, bulimia, or addiction to food wasn't enough to worry about, we're now threatening to add 'bigorexia' to the mix.  As Stella Newman points out in a recent article, females base their self-worth on appearance more than any other domain, leading to constant comparison of oneself with others.  Isn't it time, then, that we all just stop competing with one another and concentrate on being healthy?

If you don't mind, I think I'll stick to my recommended 2,000 cals per day, eat some fruit and veg and try to stick to 30 minutes exercise, 3 times a week.  If that puts me at a UK size 12 then by Jove a size 12 I will be. 



She Said Dryly

It’s Monday morning and I’m shattered.  I’m shattered because this weekend I indulgently enjoyed two consecutive nights out, which have left me feeling  quite ready to admit that *deep breath* I can’t do it anymore.  A depressing realisation for anyone below the age of 30, I’m sure you’ll agree. 

Vats of Cosmopolitan on Friday night made for a hazy memory of the taxi ride home, and a potent blood : alcohol ratio only to be outdone by the following evening’s effort, as I ill-advisedly replenished with wine and Jagerbombs.  A written-off Sunday and a pile of work left for this morning was the disappointing result.

I had hoped for a constructive weekend of updating my blog or embarking upon one of my many impending assignments, but instead I found myself inanely catching flies in front of the telly, shoving anything with a fat content of over 25% in the general direction of my face, and drinking copious amounts of strong coffee.  Rather than getting out a pen and paper to spend the afternoon jotting down writing ideas or planning the week ahead, I found myself glued to the obligatory Sunday ‘Come Dine With Me’ marathon, captivated and unmoving, regardless of the fact that I had witnessed this particular competition – the one with Ernie from Wales – on at least four previous occasions.  Probably hung-over on a Sunday.

So after as much deliberation as I could muster amid yesterday’s lethargy, I have taken the decision to abstain from alcohol for the next month.  No Sir, not a single drop will pass my lips until the 29^th February.   And I must admit, as the coming weeks loom before me like a salt-flat stretch of the Sahara, I feel a little excited.  No longer will I be dogged by a head that feels as though it’s been overstuffed with cotton-wool, an unquenchable morning thirst, or the appetite of a small North African tribe.  I shall breeze through February carefree, unhindered by Facebook photo notifications, and – here’s hoping – a couple of pounds lighter.

Thirty days to go! 

Parched.

I love Mary-Kate & Ashley Olsen as much as the next 90’s kid. Two Of A Kind was pretty much the holy grail of Nick Jnr when I was a lass, and I’ve maintained a moderate interest in the sisters ever since.

There have been times when, much to my grievance, I have been forced to admit that consistent with popular opinion, MK has looked a little like a street urchin and Ashley has appeared, well... how can I say this?  A little odd.  But in over 20 years and an adolescence dominated by fame, who wouldn't have the odd slip up?  For the most part I have hailed their fashion choices and embraced each of their individual, slightly quirky styles. 

To summarise, I acknowledge that these girls know how to dress:

Beautiful, no? 

Now I like clothes, and shoes and bags, and naturally, it is the more high end items that catch my eye.  So I awaited the launch of the Olsen's new fashion line 'The Row' with bated breath, and immediately, this vintage-look beauty - 

- caught my attention.  The shape, the colour and the gold detailing channel vintage glamour at it's best and I have no doubt that this little number could transform an outfit.  With plently of space for night out essentials, and by 'essentials' I mean keys, phone, purse and a wealth of make-up that NEVER gets used (why do we do that?!), this bag is almost perfection.

But is perfection worth over two thousand pounds?  Yes, this bad boy carries a hefty $3,200 price tag.

It’s no secret that opting for high fashion is going to have a negative impact on your pocket.  Louboutin heels, Mark Jacobs bags, Burberry macs.  *sigh*.  I'm not the first, and I certainly won't be the last to trawl through Net-A-Porter wistfully eyeing the treasures before me and wishing I was a child prodigy with millions of dollars at my disposal.  But I'm not; and should a disposable £2,000 ever find it's way into my account, is this where it would go?  Doesn't it just seem like a tremendous waste?

Perhaps I'm just a jealous, prudent soul, who will spend her latter years buying clothes from 'the catalogue' January sale edition, and fishing knitwear out of bargain bins, all the while grumbling about the state of the economy. 

Whilst I sincerely hope that this fate does not await me, for now I'm happy to admit that a Toppers clutch parts me from enough of my hard-earned cash for my liking.  So thanks but no thanks MK & A, you can keep your leather perfection, I'm off for some finely crafted pleather.

“I don’t ever want to catch up with happy, I always want to pursue it.”

I pretty much love this statement.  Take a bow, George Clinton.

I was left physically and emotionally drained following the conclusion of Sherlock series 2 on Sunday night, and as such have taken to consoling myself with the continuous perusal of Benedict Cumberbatch on Google Images.

Cumberbitch 4 Life.

*Sigh*

LISTED

A few days ago, as I was leisurely whiling away the hours perusing Facebook, I was unexpectedly faced with a rather unsettling conundrum.  I was suddenly notably aware of my life plan, and the actuality that I don’t, in fact, have one.

The realisation was forced upon me when an old school friend made the announcement that he and his girlfriend were expecting their first child.  Suddenly I felt like the kid that just couldn’t master the egg and spoon race at sports day, clumsily navigating across the grass to a chorus of sympathetic encouragement from bored adults fed up of waiting for me to catch on. 

When I was at school, my friends and I used to talk about what age we were going accomplish certain milestones and expectations.  Marriage, children, dream jobs, meeting Hanson.

In my life list, initially marriage came at 24,  by which time, naturally, I would have snared my dream job and procured a modest, yet nonetheless comfortable, abode. This gives me 12 months max., and with no Prince Charming to speak of as yet, I think I’m due an appraisal.

When I asked a close friend recently whether she still kept a list, she responded with a concise and definitive plan through her twenties, culminating in a successful marriage, career and, of course, the obligatory 2.4 children. 

In addition to my friend’s alarming revelation, I attended the wedding of some friends for the first time at the end of last year.  Yes, my friends.  Getting married.  Pledging their lives to one another forever.  I can barely commit to a hairstyle in the long-term, let alone another person with all their habits and complications.

When I was young, 24 seemed so old.  24-year-olds were sorted, they had jobs, houses, friends, partners.  They are not kids or teenagers, they’re adults, and adults always have it together, right?

Wrong.  Well, it is in my case at least.

Twelve months ago, as I watched the clock strike 5pm, I took a familiar sigh of relief.  The fourth sigh of relief of its kind that week, actually.  For today was Thursday. 

Working a nine to five desk job that is neither fulfilling nor financially rewarding can really get on your bloody nerves, actually.  Post University, I had embarked upon the career ladder with gusto, bursting onto the scene brandishing my new title like top prize at the cattle fair.  For I was to be the NEW Sales Co-Ordinator of an up-and-coming Lancashire packaging business. Ho yes, no life-enhancing gap year for me.  I was to be the next Karren Brady, pioneering the business world like Natasha Giggs pioneered a whole new level of non-celebrity.

Except it was just really boring, and didn't even feign an attempt at making me happy.  I guess the question is, at what point do we decide to accept our lot in life?  Do we ever stop dreaming of better?  And is better really out there? 

We all have dreams and we all have a breaking point, so when an article written by Esther Freud entitled, ‘So Why Haven’t You Done It Yet,’ featured in my beloved Elle Magazine, naturally, I was inspired to turn my life on its head.  Asking questions like, ‘am I happy?’, and ‘what would I do if I could do anything?’ proved dangerous.  Before long I was handing in my notice and skipping into the sunset, a head full of dreams and a pocket full of hope.  Or, you know, about £20.

Preparing to go back to University to pursue a career in media (I am the next Chris Moyles, fyi), I quit my job and headed down south for a summer in the Big Smoke.  When disaster struck, and the course was deferred just two weeks before it was due to commence, I was forced into unemployment.

This was never in the plan.

The first time I had to fill in a form that required me to select my shiny new (un)employment status it took me 15 minutes.  I had worked tirelessly from the moment I was old enough to, throughout school and university, and I’d snared my first full-time job before I’d even sat my final exams.

My only hope now is that Esther Freud will compose an article entitled, ‘This Is Why You Hadn’t Done It Yet, Here’s What To Do Next…’

Until then, I’m muddling through.  Someone hand me some lined paper and a pen, I’ve got a list to make!

A bromance of epic proportions.

HNY

After the great oppulence and over-indulgence of Christmas, New Year generously offers the prospect of wiping the slate clean, ridding ourselves of the festive paunch and abstaining from prolonged binge eating and drinking for more than 24 hours.  Resolutions are formulated and hopes are high.

So naturally us Brits aim to welcome this wondrous opportunity to start afresh as utterly inebriated as possible.

I, myself, enjoyed a drunken haze as the clock struck 12, and as a result brought in the New Year with my head in my hands, a stiff knee and all the very best of intentions for 2012.

I’ll keep you posted.