Wedding season is fast approaching, which means the quest for appropriate one-dress-fits-all has begun in earnest. I’ve ventured into several occasion-appropriate high street outfitters – with which there is nothing exactly wrong, but with which I usually fail to find very much right. Which has got me thinking (a la Carrie Bradshaw), why does ‘wedding’ cause me to abandon all of my usual – not L. K. Bennett-esque – taste? It’s as if on receipt of invitation, I morph into a hybrid of Princess Kate and some poor victim’s sister from the set of Midsomer Murders. I don’t do pastels or Ascot or sequinned stoles, so why on God’s earth am I suddenly fondling them appraisingly? (Not Ascot. I understand one can’t fondle Ascot)…
I’ve thought and thought as to why this taste-overhaul takes place and can only attribute it to the desire to look like a ‘grown up’ – an aesthetic which invariably escapes me IRL*
DISCLAIMER: THIS IS A POST ABOUT A PAIR OF SHOES AND HOW MUCH I WANT THEM. DO NOT PASS THIS POINT IF YOU’RE A BOY, A MAN, OR THE OPPOSITE OF A FOOT FETISHIST.
Ahem, where was I.
Oh yes. THESE:
These are literally making my life a misery, because since seeing them with my unfortunate eyes which are sadly attached to my feminine brain (DAMN YOU OPTICAL NERVE) I can’t un-see them and I reallyreally want them. Read More…
Introducing a new feature in which Phoebe extracts the darkest literary secrets of her victims… *shudder*
Do you read paperbacks or kindle?
Paperbacks obvs, and occasionally even a hardback if I’m feeling posh/get a wicked deal on bulk buying from TheBookPeople… which I probably shouldn’t mention because I think it might be naughty?
My favourite is when you take a book on holiday and the pages get all sun-bleached and crinkly from sea water. You can instagram the hell out of holiday literature but no-one wants to ‘like’ a picture of your kindle melting on a sand dune.
I never used to organise them until I got some grown-up shelves – affectionately known as ‘Expedit’ – which compelled me to do a ‘books as art’ thing and in turn, force visitors to acknowledge my superlative taste in reading fodder. I also saw Phoebe’s colour-coordinated OCD madness and ran home immediately to copy. Maintaining a rainbow can be a bitch though – it’s definitely a labour of love.
Yes, yes, I know. You’re a girl who eats burgers therefore you’re totally ‘normal’ and make a great girlfriend because you can go to MeatLiquor with your boyfriend and not spend the whole time pushing deep fried gherkins reluctantly about your plate but seriously… I don’t need your finger lickin’ food diary all-up on my google reader. Please find something else to blog about and wake up to the fact that YOU ARE NOT AN ANOMALY.
I hate to diss a sista but what (for the love of God!) is this modern day obsession with girls showcasing their carnivorous dark side like they’ve kickstarted a new phase of female evolution? Without wanting to hurl a honey-glazed rib in the workings of their cool campaign, I eat red meat too but manage to resist the urge to market myself as a burger-loving man fantasy, who wipes her greasy mouth on the sleeve of her Celine*. *I don’t own any Celine. It’s my fantasy within a fantasy.
Her words: “Who cares about clothes? Pah! I’m so much more interested in gorging on this hangar steak”
Her inner monologue: “Shit. Perhaps the torrent of tears I shed later will loosen the oil spill that just happened all over my Hermes”
Just like all of our lives are conscientiously edited to look like scenes from The Virgin Suicides (without the suicides), these blogs promote an image of fun-loving women who are more fun-loving than most because they’re accompanied by a big fat slab of medium-rare meat. Since when was an appetite an accessory and why is it sexy (!?) to opt for offal over insalate?
I, for one, am bored of looking at pictures of gorgeous girls salivating over plates piled with cow. I will gleefully go to Hawksmoor and Instagram the hell out of my meat feast but I will not subject my Facebook friends to pictures of my jaws clamped provocatively ’round a carcass.
Eating is fun and restaurants are hip and by all means keep telling me where to go get my iron-fix but please stop making me feel like chicken is for wimps. I quite like chicken and I DO worry about getting ketchup on my dungarees. That’s why I bib myself into oblivion, eat ’til I’m sated, then head home with béarnaise sauce in my hair. This is also why I’m not a food blogger, but I’m beginning to think i should be… #man-fantasy