Sometimes I get a real hankering for an item of clothing ever so slightly before it hits peak trendiness. This is not because my true calling is to be a trend forecaster. This is because the pages of fashion magazines and the tiny squares on Instagram have somehow lodged themselves in my tiny, suggestible brain. Much like Andi in the Devil Wears Prada, I end up wearing a blue jumper without necessarily realising why I was drawn to the blue jumper in the first place.
And so it is that this year I’m craving checks. Checks, a belted coat (this is undoubtedly solely because of Megan Markle. The woman gives good coat) and some lace-up boots. When I say checks, I’m not talking the Prince of Wales check of last year. I’m talking dark greens, reds and navys. Look, it’s basically tartan but in the least kilt-y, most classy way possible.
I never look, or feel, quite right in a dress. Some people (people who tend to have the lithe limbs of Gisele or who are French) can float about in them with nonchalance. I have to think carefully about cut, length and style before I even consider one. Even then, I feel like I’m dressing up in a costume. I’m a jeans girl. Dresses do not come naturally.
Sometimes, however, the occasion calls for it or it’s simply too hot to wear anything else. In theory, a dress should be the easiest thing in the world to chuck on and go. In reality, though, looking effortless takes a bit of effort. Or at least a bit of thought about what does and doesn’t suit you.
Well, well, well. Here we are. December the first has been and gone and I popped an advent calendar chocolate for breakfast this morning. It’s well and truly Chriiiiistmaaaas.
This means that you’ve probably been invited to a Christmas party or twain. And that means you have a legitimate excuse to go shopping because you have absolutely nothing to wear and you hate all of your clothes. Woohoo!
I’m loving the new series of Peep Show. When I’m feeling especially self-deprecating I sometimes say there’s a touch of the Mark Corrigan about me, although as you don’t know me personally and may therefore take that literally I won’t say it here. The first episode brought to light something I’ve been thinking a lot about recently. Mark might say he likes watching documentaries about William Morris with his new flatmate, but really he’s just a basic bitch. Jeremy put it scathingly brilliantly:
‘The problem for you is I’m your friend. I know you, Mark. I know you like to pretend that you’re this stuffed shirt who reads incredibly boring books about dead people killing each other with bayonets and typhoid, but I know the truth. I’ve watched Grand Designs with you. That smile when some eco-glass gets delayed on its way from Antwerp and the nice couple gets pushed over budget. That’s the real you. … You’re this pathetic human who likes Twirls and Downton and Bond and burgers, so don’t come the big guy with me because it won’t fucking wash.’