Post-Oscars, it's slim pickings on the film front. So in lieu of anything improving, I decided to opt instead for popcorny trash. Even in that genre, there's not much on offer, unless you fancy whatever new Jason Statham vehicle is approaching at speed. So, The Eagle it was. It's been a good while since Gladiator mopped up both at the box office and at the Oscars, so it's clearly time for someone to have another crack at the sword 'n' sandals side of things.
You don't need much in the way of a script, just men grunting in a meaningful manner about 'honour' before smacking lots of chaps about the chops with a heavy-duty sword. Costumes: sack with a hole for your neck, plus a belt. Breastplate if you're lucky, lace-up sandals if you're a posh officer type. Then you need some Brit thesps who want to get paid enough to put their kids through school - it's this or another Alien film. Least with this one, you don't have to spend four months in Prague, doubling as an inhospitable planet, and getting covered in acidic gunk every day. A villain is necessary - preferably a Brit; they do camp menace so well! You'll also require a clutch of honourable slaves and plenty of slow-mo blood spraying around.
Looking good so far for The Eagle - your hero is a man looking to avenge his father's death. 'What made you want to come to Britain?' he's asked, early on. He chokes back the answer, 'I. fancied checking out some National Trust properties and shitter weather than I have at home', and opts for a meaningful glower. Perhaps he's wondering why people keep referring to it as 'Britain', when surely at the time it would've been known as 'England', 'Wales' and 'That big bit up the top where all the mad ginger bastards live'. Buff Hero Roman is played by a young man who is improbably named Channing Tatum. He looks like someone cross-bred Josh Hartnett with Jamie Rednapp. He has mastered the art of serious acting - in a kind of Joey Tribiani way. He spends most of the film squinting at the horizon and then frowning, or frowning, then squinting into the middle distance. Then talking some more about the honour of Rome and how much he ruddy loves being a soldier.
Sadly, after being really very brave, he ends up with a dodgy leg, which, much like being a Premiership footballer, means your career is knackered. Even if one of your minions has travelled hundreds of leagues to give you an engraved 'thanks for being so brave' consolation bangle. What's a guy to do? He clearly can't hang out with his unfeasibly chirpy uncle for the rest of his days (Donald Sutherland, taking the Oliver Reed role). Donald is carrying on where he left off after Pride and Prejudice: randomly turning up in 'England', boasting a full LA accent and teeth that could light up all of Northumberland and grinning broadly, no matter what bit of ropey expositionary dialogue he's been given to deliver.
Josh Rednapp needs a sidekick in order to break out, so goes to a Gladiator-style bust up in the local town and saves a slave. Bingo! Slave sidekick, who owes our hero his life. He's not black (Gladiator, Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves), but he's sort of foreign. Well, he's from the North. Somewhere. Jamie Bell, for it is he, doesn't seem that sure where he's supposed to call 'home' - his accent takes a tour of the Scottish Highlands, via Newcastle, with possibly a bit of slaving having been done in a garrison in Colchester. He's further hindered by being called 'Esca', which makes him sound like either a Spanish brand of panty liners, or a cleaning product that's had to be rebranded so it can be sold into the pan-European market. Welcome to the new name for Daz! Anyway, he speaks whatever lingo those north of Hadrian's Wall do, so despite the fact he only looks sixteen, and can't really do frowning unless he's got his mouth open at the same time, he's got the sidekick gig. Great, let's go and hunt for a McGuffin! I mean a totally meaningful bit of lost Roman military hardware.
The film then takes all the dullest bits from Lord of the Rings - lots of trotting about on horses, camping in the rain, sitting round the fire, just the two of you, being manly. They also do the classic Hobbit 'hiding under a riverbank to fox the bad guys' manoeuvre and one of them has a Gandalf-inspired white steed.
Daz Pantyliner looks like he might pull a fast one when the pair get captured by Mohican-topped 'seal people', who, whilst savage (they're all coated in a fine layer of dried mud and accessorised with bone necklaces), at least seem to have mastered sleeves, which no-one else has. Though Josh has a lovely pair of very thick knitted cream socks, whilst Daz, as his name suggests, sports impressively clean long johns/jodhpurs throughout. 'I thought I'd lost you', croaks Josh, when Daz does an English Patient and returns from a seemingly doomed help-gathering mission, with a bunch of previously-presumed-dead-twenty-years-ago Roman centurions. They've come straight from playing dwarves in Lord of the Rings, and are led by Mark Strong, buried under a stringy beard/hair combo and trying to fit in with the natives by sporting an American accent, like all the other Romans.
There is another big punch-up and Josh 'n' Daz return to impress a bunch of stuffy, white-haired, hammam-togaed blokes (all pitching for the Derek Jacobi role) with their big, shiny gold eagle. 'What next?' enquires Daz, standing shoulder to shoulder with Josh, now, of course a slave no more, and beaming like a maniac. 'You decide', twinkles Josh, raising the ghastly prospect of a sequel - possibly a new genre of 'Ro-bros' (Roman Bromance). They just stop short of giving each other a high five. Or a 'High V', as I suppose it would be, if one were to make a late bid for authenticity.
Wednesday 30 March 2011
Thursday 24 March 2011
Brain Training
As I now spend a great deal of my time on trains - in the last month I've been down to London twice, down to Sittingbourne for the weekend and to Glasgow three times (an hour each way on the train) - I experiment with different ways of amusing myself. It's at least four and a half hours each way to London; the first three hours tend to zip by OK, whilst the final hour and a half tends to drag. You're tired; your legs are cramping up through inaction; your shoulder (in my case) is getting stiff because you can't sit up straight; you've exhausted Grazia, with its weekly proclamations that Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise are about to split up, that Brangelina have been having more furious rows and are about to split up and that Jennifer Aniston is on the point of nervous collapse because she still hasn't found a new husband and had a baby. After about four years of reporting these three stories on an endless weekly loop, not one of them has yet come to pass, but still Grazia continues to present them as 'fact' and we continue to flick through each week thinking 'Ooh, what's happened THIS time?'
Once I've finished flicking through my mag, I've got the choice of catching up on the various blogs I read - depending on whether I can face doing battle with the intermittent wi-fi or not; and whether I've managed to snaffle one of the office iPads for my trip. Yes, having been a proud Luddite for most of my adult life - the last thing I really wanted was an iPod Nano, which is now languishing in a drawer somewhere - I am definitely lusting after an iPad. You can (nearly) touch type on them (I'm doing it now, veracity fans!) and they are pleasingly shiny. They look properly like the future. And of course the new one is thinner and lighter, which are always magic words to us women, endlessly obsessed with our weight as we are.
I try to avoid doing anything as mundane as actually working on it - I cling on to the idea that when I'm in transit, it's the same as it was twenty years ago and I'm out of contact, unreachable, allowed to indulge myself. Essentially on a bit of a holiday. That goes for food too - one must resist the urge to scoff one's M&S Simply Food picnic within half an hour of getting on board, as on school trips of old. Your appetite may completely disappear on a long journey, as you have little to no idea what the hell the time is, but food is a method of entertaining yourself. Yes, that includes eating a yoghurt - pudding must be delayed to fill the last half hour of an evening trip.
I found myself entangled in a giggle of hens on a train the other week (is that the collective noun for a hen party? A shriek of hens, perhaps?) who were very definitely not playing by the rules, food-wise. They got on at Newcastle at about 11.00am and spent the first fifteen minutes flapping around, trying to ascertain where they were supposed to be sitting. 'Is that number 62?', 'Aye', 'Where's number 63? Is that it there?', 'Aye', 'Are you sitting on number 64?' 'Aye', 'Where's that then?' IT'S PROBABLY NEXT TO IT OR IN FRONT OF IT. JUST SIT ANYWHERE, THERE ARE LOADS OF BLOODY SEATS. Needless to say, the three empty seats surrounding me didn't last long.
The fact that they were all in red plaited wigs, or had their hair plaited and had T-shirts with sparkly slogans on them alerted me to the fact that they were going on a hen do to London to see The Wizard of Oz. Well, that and the paper plates printed with Wizard of Oz pictures that they produced to eat 'lunch' off at 11.30am. I felt distinctly lacking when I ate my lunch out of boring old Tupperware two hours later.
So, other people are another source of amusement, or torturous annoyance, depending on what they're talking about. (The Scottish lad, who, with his friends, spent two hours of one trip bellowing, 'RIDDLE ME THAT!' and then guffawing every time he said something nearly made me murderous). On Tuesday night, I was treated to a pair of hairdressers sitting behind me, who were clearly off to some kind of hair show. I became wearyingly familiar with the knowledge that one of them was intending to do something fancy with one model's hair, but couldn't know exactly what she was going to do, because she 'didn't know how long her hair was'. She must've said it 7 times to her friend. I was going to hazard a guess that the model's hair was shoulder length. It usually is. And if you need more of it, then you probably have loads of extensions with you, being a hairdresser an' all.
I was intrigued on one trip by a man who got on at York and sat next to me. He had no means of entertainment. None! No iPod. No newspaper (you're hard pressed not to be even in possession of a Metro these days). No book. Not even a phone to check text messages on. He stayed on till Durham, just gazing into space and fiddling with a sugar packet. It was a bit odd; you can pretend it's not weird sitting next to a total stranger for two hours when you're both engaged in something. But when one of you's just sitting there, it makes the other person either really self-conscious (especially as I kept looking over his head at the sunset over the other side of the carriage, which was very beautiful, but must've looked as though I was just staring at him), or really intrigued. Or both. Why is he going to Durham, I wondered. Why does he not have a coat, or any luggage (it was evening, and all he had was a kind of satchelly man-bag)? What does he do? What's he thinking about? Being English, of course, I didn't try to engage him in conversation. I just wished I could, to satisfy my own curiosity. If we were American, we'd have been yakking away within minutes and exchanged our entire life stories by the time he got off.
There's a guy I pass on my walk into work nearly every day - he wears a uniform of indigo jeans, Converse shoes and a dark blue jacket. He is tall, with dark hair. He looks kind of like someone I know, or used to know (I still can't pinpoint who it is). We pass each other. We don't smile or acknowledge each other at all. We'll never speak (well, unless I trip over a paving stone and ram into him and have to say sorry; or fall over and perhaps he'll help me up again). If my life were a Richard Curtis film, that's what would happen. There'd be a big string section playing in the background, so that I'd know This Is the Man For Me, and we'd laugh about how much time we'd wasted, passing each other every day, not speaking and thus not being together. Maybe if I ever find myself sitting opposite him on a train, I'll speak to him.
'Are you stalking me?' is what I'll ask him.
Once I've finished flicking through my mag, I've got the choice of catching up on the various blogs I read - depending on whether I can face doing battle with the intermittent wi-fi or not; and whether I've managed to snaffle one of the office iPads for my trip. Yes, having been a proud Luddite for most of my adult life - the last thing I really wanted was an iPod Nano, which is now languishing in a drawer somewhere - I am definitely lusting after an iPad. You can (nearly) touch type on them (I'm doing it now, veracity fans!) and they are pleasingly shiny. They look properly like the future. And of course the new one is thinner and lighter, which are always magic words to us women, endlessly obsessed with our weight as we are.
I try to avoid doing anything as mundane as actually working on it - I cling on to the idea that when I'm in transit, it's the same as it was twenty years ago and I'm out of contact, unreachable, allowed to indulge myself. Essentially on a bit of a holiday. That goes for food too - one must resist the urge to scoff one's M&S Simply Food picnic within half an hour of getting on board, as on school trips of old. Your appetite may completely disappear on a long journey, as you have little to no idea what the hell the time is, but food is a method of entertaining yourself. Yes, that includes eating a yoghurt - pudding must be delayed to fill the last half hour of an evening trip.
I found myself entangled in a giggle of hens on a train the other week (is that the collective noun for a hen party? A shriek of hens, perhaps?) who were very definitely not playing by the rules, food-wise. They got on at Newcastle at about 11.00am and spent the first fifteen minutes flapping around, trying to ascertain where they were supposed to be sitting. 'Is that number 62?', 'Aye', 'Where's number 63? Is that it there?', 'Aye', 'Are you sitting on number 64?' 'Aye', 'Where's that then?' IT'S PROBABLY NEXT TO IT OR IN FRONT OF IT. JUST SIT ANYWHERE, THERE ARE LOADS OF BLOODY SEATS. Needless to say, the three empty seats surrounding me didn't last long.
The fact that they were all in red plaited wigs, or had their hair plaited and had T-shirts with sparkly slogans on them alerted me to the fact that they were going on a hen do to London to see The Wizard of Oz. Well, that and the paper plates printed with Wizard of Oz pictures that they produced to eat 'lunch' off at 11.30am. I felt distinctly lacking when I ate my lunch out of boring old Tupperware two hours later.
So, other people are another source of amusement, or torturous annoyance, depending on what they're talking about. (The Scottish lad, who, with his friends, spent two hours of one trip bellowing, 'RIDDLE ME THAT!' and then guffawing every time he said something nearly made me murderous). On Tuesday night, I was treated to a pair of hairdressers sitting behind me, who were clearly off to some kind of hair show. I became wearyingly familiar with the knowledge that one of them was intending to do something fancy with one model's hair, but couldn't know exactly what she was going to do, because she 'didn't know how long her hair was'. She must've said it 7 times to her friend. I was going to hazard a guess that the model's hair was shoulder length. It usually is. And if you need more of it, then you probably have loads of extensions with you, being a hairdresser an' all.
I was intrigued on one trip by a man who got on at York and sat next to me. He had no means of entertainment. None! No iPod. No newspaper (you're hard pressed not to be even in possession of a Metro these days). No book. Not even a phone to check text messages on. He stayed on till Durham, just gazing into space and fiddling with a sugar packet. It was a bit odd; you can pretend it's not weird sitting next to a total stranger for two hours when you're both engaged in something. But when one of you's just sitting there, it makes the other person either really self-conscious (especially as I kept looking over his head at the sunset over the other side of the carriage, which was very beautiful, but must've looked as though I was just staring at him), or really intrigued. Or both. Why is he going to Durham, I wondered. Why does he not have a coat, or any luggage (it was evening, and all he had was a kind of satchelly man-bag)? What does he do? What's he thinking about? Being English, of course, I didn't try to engage him in conversation. I just wished I could, to satisfy my own curiosity. If we were American, we'd have been yakking away within minutes and exchanged our entire life stories by the time he got off.
There's a guy I pass on my walk into work nearly every day - he wears a uniform of indigo jeans, Converse shoes and a dark blue jacket. He is tall, with dark hair. He looks kind of like someone I know, or used to know (I still can't pinpoint who it is). We pass each other. We don't smile or acknowledge each other at all. We'll never speak (well, unless I trip over a paving stone and ram into him and have to say sorry; or fall over and perhaps he'll help me up again). If my life were a Richard Curtis film, that's what would happen. There'd be a big string section playing in the background, so that I'd know This Is the Man For Me, and we'd laugh about how much time we'd wasted, passing each other every day, not speaking and thus not being together. Maybe if I ever find myself sitting opposite him on a train, I'll speak to him.
'Are you stalking me?' is what I'll ask him.
Thursday 17 March 2011
Chin-chin-cheroo
I have just afforded all my colleagues an almighty laugh by revealing my plans for tonight. 'Yes', I announced, 'I'm doing something really brilliant tonight.' Their interest duly piqued, I revealed, 'I'm going to get my chin hair lasered.' They erupted with laughter in a fashion which, were I a stand-up comedian, would have been truly gratifying and ensured that that gag made it through all 120 shows on my 120-date nationwide tour.
As it was, though, I just felt pleased that I'd afforded them such an enormous laugh (I hadn't expected them to find it that funny) and made them feel better about whatever plans they had for an unremarkable Thursday evening.
As it was, though, I just felt pleased that I'd afforded them such an enormous laugh (I hadn't expected them to find it that funny) and made them feel better about whatever plans they had for an unremarkable Thursday evening.
Wednesday 16 March 2011
Current Crushes
As it's a rather grey evening up here in the frozen North (eight degrees colder than London, my Google weather thing informs me), I thought I'd warm myself by producing the current List of Men I'd Like to Marry. That should warm the cockles of my chilled heart no end!
So, in no particular order, this week's selection box includes:
1/ Chris Addison. Despite the fact that he's now on a Direct Line ad (oh Chris, how could you?) he is still a very consistent crush object. I went to my friend Dan's Karaoke Circus (at which comedians and non-famous types alike get to sing popular songs accompanied by a live band, and sometimes a full orchestra), at which Mr Addison is a regular. He does an excellent Jarvis Cocker, if you're interested. This was just prior to me leaving London for The Great Move North. Chris Addison passed quite close by me at one point, which led one of my friends to mutter, 'Don't let him SEE YOU. What if he finds you IRRESISTIBLE when you're just about to move to the other end of the country? It would be a TRAGEDY'. We were both very much ignoring the fact he's happily married. Let's face it, very few of the List of Men I'd Like to Marry are in any way available. Let's also leave aside the fact that if I had had occasion to speak to him, I would also have shot myself in the foot by saying something embarrassing or stupid.
2/ Mark Watson. Ditto on the happily married front. My assumption he's a thoroughly nice man was borne out by the fact that not only did he blog about the book I sent him recently, but he also EMAILED ME TO THANK ME FOR IT. This made my year. Manners really do maketh the man. Mr Watson, I salute you.
3/ Tim Key (yes, it's comedians week here at Purple Towers). I met him today. He is lovely and has eyes that are a rather beautiful hazel colour. He was sporting a cardigan, which as we all know, is my favourite sartorial item. He has sorted out free tickets for his gig in Glasgow on Sunday. I sent him away with a home-made flapjack (sadly, not by me) and a huge stack of books, the subtext of which was clearly, 'I would make you an excellent wife.' You never know, it might work.
4/ Guy Garvey. Now fancied by me and three of my colleagues after we went to the Elbow gig at the SECC last night. He is very funny. He looks like he'd give you a fantastic hug. His songs are bloody lovely. He also stopped in the middle of the gig to prepare cocktails for the band, complete with proper cocktail shaker, and fairy lights. You've got to love a man who hasn't (by his own admission) been on a stage since September 2009, and yet decides to make a cocktail in the middle of a huge gig in front of thousands of people. I also think One Day Like This is my favourite song ever - I'm a massive sucker for a string section and a rousing chorus, and it has a very cheering sentiment.
Well, I now have to run off for a date with Cheerful James, so the list only runs to four Men I'd Like to Marry, but that's fine, I think. My cockles are suitably warmed and I hope yours are too. Especially if you're a single lady - it's always good to have a crush on the go, especially with a promise of Spring round the corner.
So, in no particular order, this week's selection box includes:
1/ Chris Addison. Despite the fact that he's now on a Direct Line ad (oh Chris, how could you?) he is still a very consistent crush object. I went to my friend Dan's Karaoke Circus (at which comedians and non-famous types alike get to sing popular songs accompanied by a live band, and sometimes a full orchestra), at which Mr Addison is a regular. He does an excellent Jarvis Cocker, if you're interested. This was just prior to me leaving London for The Great Move North. Chris Addison passed quite close by me at one point, which led one of my friends to mutter, 'Don't let him SEE YOU. What if he finds you IRRESISTIBLE when you're just about to move to the other end of the country? It would be a TRAGEDY'. We were both very much ignoring the fact he's happily married. Let's face it, very few of the List of Men I'd Like to Marry are in any way available. Let's also leave aside the fact that if I had had occasion to speak to him, I would also have shot myself in the foot by saying something embarrassing or stupid.
2/ Mark Watson. Ditto on the happily married front. My assumption he's a thoroughly nice man was borne out by the fact that not only did he blog about the book I sent him recently, but he also EMAILED ME TO THANK ME FOR IT. This made my year. Manners really do maketh the man. Mr Watson, I salute you.
3/ Tim Key (yes, it's comedians week here at Purple Towers). I met him today. He is lovely and has eyes that are a rather beautiful hazel colour. He was sporting a cardigan, which as we all know, is my favourite sartorial item. He has sorted out free tickets for his gig in Glasgow on Sunday. I sent him away with a home-made flapjack (sadly, not by me) and a huge stack of books, the subtext of which was clearly, 'I would make you an excellent wife.' You never know, it might work.
4/ Guy Garvey. Now fancied by me and three of my colleagues after we went to the Elbow gig at the SECC last night. He is very funny. He looks like he'd give you a fantastic hug. His songs are bloody lovely. He also stopped in the middle of the gig to prepare cocktails for the band, complete with proper cocktail shaker, and fairy lights. You've got to love a man who hasn't (by his own admission) been on a stage since September 2009, and yet decides to make a cocktail in the middle of a huge gig in front of thousands of people. I also think One Day Like This is my favourite song ever - I'm a massive sucker for a string section and a rousing chorus, and it has a very cheering sentiment.
Well, I now have to run off for a date with Cheerful James, so the list only runs to four Men I'd Like to Marry, but that's fine, I think. My cockles are suitably warmed and I hope yours are too. Especially if you're a single lady - it's always good to have a crush on the go, especially with a promise of Spring round the corner.
Wednesday 9 March 2011
Jean genie
When it comes to matters of fashionable attire, I'm less 'surfing the zeitgeist' and more 'paddling around in the shallows of the zeitgeist, trying to avoid getting the bottom of my trousers damp'. I am not an 'early adopter'. I am a 'let everyone else try it and then I might give it a go'-er. Plus, I know when things don't suit me. All those long, swishy skirts, teamed with voluminous peasant blouses (belt optional) of a few summers ago? No. I didn't need to look like I was out on the prairies, dressed in someone's curtains. Plus, if you have anything approaching boobs, those tops were lethal: instant monobosom.
I've avoided the re-emergence of leggings for age-related reasons. I don't think you should wear clothes/fashions that you remember from the first time round. I spent much of my early 20s in badly-fitting lycra (they always seemed to split at the crotch, not because I was indulging in Russell Brand-esque sexyposing, but because I bought them for about £3.99 a pair at whatever the New Look equivalent was in those days).
So yes, fashion and I have, at best, a tenuous relationship. I look at women's magazines and think, 'hmm, hemlines are rising/falling again. This has little to no bearing on what I shall be wearing over the next 'season'. Although that 15 year-old in the photo looks amazing in that outfit, it costs more than I earn in a month, and I do not have legs that are giraffe-length and levels of confidence that would render me punchable in the real world.' As anyone who's watched The September Issue will know, fashion and reality have little to nothing to do with each other. I am, however, desperate to be Grace Coddington in ten years' time. That woman is awesome.
However, I do have a knack with fashion, and that's if I decide to try something that is 'in fashion' then sure as Anna Wintour wears shades no matter how dark it is, I shall instantly kill whatever trend I've tried out.
And so it comes to pass that just as all the fashion folk are welcoming in the return of flares (the world's least-flattering jean style, surely?), I have just bought my first pair of skinny jeans! Yup, wave goodbye to a sizeable part of your wardrobe, because I finally decided that I'd road-test the 'boots over jeans' look, and thus I needed jeans that weren't going to require much wellie-like 'folding' in order to shove them into the boots. I went to Uniqlo (no point spending a fortune on something that's going out of fashion so very soon). I am now the proud possessor of a pair of surprisingly comfy skinny trews, to add to my 'jeans wardrobe'.
I'm as surprised as anyone by the emergence of this 'jeans wardrobe', and in fact my burgeoning addiction to buying trousers made of denim. A few years back, I was the freak who didn't own a single pair of jeans. I was always turned out like Miss Jean Brodie, because I didn't believe jeans suited me, and was happily overdressed at all times. Oh yes, I was quite the lady.
But then I got invited to spend a weekend sailing. It was apparent that a skirt and kitten heels wouldn't really be suited to this. So I did an emergency run to Gap, bought the first pair I saw that fitted round the waist and spent most of the weekend feeling... casual. Casual! Casual and really uncomfortable.
It took years to get past this - and all with one pair of jeans. Then I got given a pair of DESIGNER JEANS. Yes siree, they were officially amazin'. I looked great in them. I saw the light. I became hooked (although never at actual price - BrandAlley is your friend for designer denim; also, Liberty had the most amazing Christmas sale - I snaffled a pair of jeans that should've cost £185 full price for £20.) What with this and losing a few inches off my waist over the last few months, I've been deniming like a demon. I finally feel habilitated into normal society.
Sorry to everyone who's been, as they say, 'rocking the skinny jean' for the last few years, though, now that I'm killing it stone dead. But hang on to them, I'm sure they'll be back. If bloody flares are, skinny jeans definitely will be.
I've avoided the re-emergence of leggings for age-related reasons. I don't think you should wear clothes/fashions that you remember from the first time round. I spent much of my early 20s in badly-fitting lycra (they always seemed to split at the crotch, not because I was indulging in Russell Brand-esque sexyposing, but because I bought them for about £3.99 a pair at whatever the New Look equivalent was in those days).
So yes, fashion and I have, at best, a tenuous relationship. I look at women's magazines and think, 'hmm, hemlines are rising/falling again. This has little to no bearing on what I shall be wearing over the next 'season'. Although that 15 year-old in the photo looks amazing in that outfit, it costs more than I earn in a month, and I do not have legs that are giraffe-length and levels of confidence that would render me punchable in the real world.' As anyone who's watched The September Issue will know, fashion and reality have little to nothing to do with each other. I am, however, desperate to be Grace Coddington in ten years' time. That woman is awesome.
However, I do have a knack with fashion, and that's if I decide to try something that is 'in fashion' then sure as Anna Wintour wears shades no matter how dark it is, I shall instantly kill whatever trend I've tried out.
And so it comes to pass that just as all the fashion folk are welcoming in the return of flares (the world's least-flattering jean style, surely?), I have just bought my first pair of skinny jeans! Yup, wave goodbye to a sizeable part of your wardrobe, because I finally decided that I'd road-test the 'boots over jeans' look, and thus I needed jeans that weren't going to require much wellie-like 'folding' in order to shove them into the boots. I went to Uniqlo (no point spending a fortune on something that's going out of fashion so very soon). I am now the proud possessor of a pair of surprisingly comfy skinny trews, to add to my 'jeans wardrobe'.
I'm as surprised as anyone by the emergence of this 'jeans wardrobe', and in fact my burgeoning addiction to buying trousers made of denim. A few years back, I was the freak who didn't own a single pair of jeans. I was always turned out like Miss Jean Brodie, because I didn't believe jeans suited me, and was happily overdressed at all times. Oh yes, I was quite the lady.
But then I got invited to spend a weekend sailing. It was apparent that a skirt and kitten heels wouldn't really be suited to this. So I did an emergency run to Gap, bought the first pair I saw that fitted round the waist and spent most of the weekend feeling... casual. Casual! Casual and really uncomfortable.
It took years to get past this - and all with one pair of jeans. Then I got given a pair of DESIGNER JEANS. Yes siree, they were officially amazin'. I looked great in them. I saw the light. I became hooked (although never at actual price - BrandAlley is your friend for designer denim; also, Liberty had the most amazing Christmas sale - I snaffled a pair of jeans that should've cost £185 full price for £20.) What with this and losing a few inches off my waist over the last few months, I've been deniming like a demon. I finally feel habilitated into normal society.
Sorry to everyone who's been, as they say, 'rocking the skinny jean' for the last few years, though, now that I'm killing it stone dead. But hang on to them, I'm sure they'll be back. If bloody flares are, skinny jeans definitely will be.
Quote of the day - Ash Wednesday
My office, today -
Colleague A: Is anyone giving anything up for Lent?
Colleague B: Hope?
Colleague A: Is anyone giving anything up for Lent?
Colleague B: Hope?
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