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.
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| 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.
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