Yesterday I found the holy grail: a shop selling boots which fit my legs. Every winter I go through the same thing: trawling the high street, cramming myself into boots that zip up to the ankle and no further… it’s demoralising and depressing. But at Wow Retro (yeah, I know) the shelves are lined with eighties boots, the sort of boot I love and that you can buy nowhere: wide, buckety calf (sadly I think they’re supposed to slouch and bag around the ankle: mine cling like limpets), softly rounded but pointy toe, chunky 1.5”-2” heel. And they’re all under £45. I realise they were most likely bought in charity shops for a fiver, but as a working lady sadly I do not have the time to search every Oxfam in southern England. But the Fatted Calf (TM Steve) on Mercer Street has the perfect boots.
Last night I dreamed Jeff Buckley came over to my house to do a gig. The sleeping mind cares not that Buckley Jr. is dead, only that he is hott. In the dream Jeff wasn’t very impressed that the show I’d booked for him was taking place in my living room and would be watched by under a dozen people.
Wednesday, September 29, 2004
Monday, September 20, 2004
First day of my new job, and it’s pretty scary! I walked to work though, which took under half an hour, and although I nearly got blown off Waterloo Bridge and arrived looking like Little Richard, at least I get my daily exercise. I entered the building and told the security guards I was starting work today. One asked ‘How long for?’ While his interest in my long-term career plans was touching, the question came as quite a surprise. ‘A year or two?’ I replied. ‘Oh, sorry, I thought you were a temp.’ Great. Note to self: wear power suit tomorrow.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Clothing dilemmas
Still trying to find vaguely professional garments that don’t make me look like a counter clerk at Barclays’ bank. Over the years I have learned that short, curvy women do not look good in trouser suits. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that short women do not look good in trouser suits, full stop. We either look like little boys or circus dwarves. I have never in all my shopping years come across a trouser suit that makes me look good and feel good: any place that does a ‘petites’ range seems to think that women under 5’ 5" just don’t give a shit about what they wear and are so damn grateful for clothing that does not drag on the ground when they walk that they will gladly buy 100% polyester trousers which give you thrush as soon as you put them on and produce enough static to see you home on a dark night.
Guilty of this are Topshop and Dorothy Perkins: Topshop petites section consists of the aforementioned poly trousers, invariably black and boot-cut, boring cotton tops, and one style of jeans. Meanwhile, taller gals get to run riot with fifteen styles of jean and a salmagundi of fashionable slacks. It’s enough to make you consider having that surgery where they break your legs, insert something to make them longer, then put them back together and you’re taller (and possibly crippled) afterwards. Sigh.
Still trying to find vaguely professional garments that don’t make me look like a counter clerk at Barclays’ bank. Over the years I have learned that short, curvy women do not look good in trouser suits. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that short women do not look good in trouser suits, full stop. We either look like little boys or circus dwarves. I have never in all my shopping years come across a trouser suit that makes me look good and feel good: any place that does a ‘petites’ range seems to think that women under 5’ 5" just don’t give a shit about what they wear and are so damn grateful for clothing that does not drag on the ground when they walk that they will gladly buy 100% polyester trousers which give you thrush as soon as you put them on and produce enough static to see you home on a dark night.
Guilty of this are Topshop and Dorothy Perkins: Topshop petites section consists of the aforementioned poly trousers, invariably black and boot-cut, boring cotton tops, and one style of jeans. Meanwhile, taller gals get to run riot with fifteen styles of jean and a salmagundi of fashionable slacks. It’s enough to make you consider having that surgery where they break your legs, insert something to make them longer, then put them back together and you’re taller (and possibly crippled) afterwards. Sigh.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Clothing dilemmas
Still trying to find vaguely professional garments that don’t make me look like a counter clerk at Barclays’ bank. Over the years I have learned that short, curvy women do not look good in trouser suits. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that short women do not look good in trouser suits, full stop. We either look like little boys or circus dwarves. I have never in all my shopping years come across a trouser suit that makes me look good and feel good: any place that does a ‘petites’ range seems to think that women under 5’ 5" just don’t give a shit about what they wear and are so damn grateful for clothing that does not drag on the ground when they walk that they will gladly buy 100% polyester trousers which give you thrush as soon as you put them on and produce enough static to see you home on a dark night.
Guilty of this are Topshop and Dorothy Perkins: Topshop petites section consists of the aforementioned poly trousers, invariably black and boot-cut, boring cotton tops, and one style of jeans. Meanwhile, taller gals get to run riot with fifteen styles of jean and a salmagundi of fashionable slacks. It’s enough to make you consider having that surgery where they break your legs, insert something to make them longer, then put them back together and you’re taller (and possibly crippled) afterwards. Sigh.
Still trying to find vaguely professional garments that don’t make me look like a counter clerk at Barclays’ bank. Over the years I have learned that short, curvy women do not look good in trouser suits. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that short women do not look good in trouser suits, full stop. We either look like little boys or circus dwarves. I have never in all my shopping years come across a trouser suit that makes me look good and feel good: any place that does a ‘petites’ range seems to think that women under 5’ 5" just don’t give a shit about what they wear and are so damn grateful for clothing that does not drag on the ground when they walk that they will gladly buy 100% polyester trousers which give you thrush as soon as you put them on and produce enough static to see you home on a dark night.
Guilty of this are Topshop and Dorothy Perkins: Topshop petites section consists of the aforementioned poly trousers, invariably black and boot-cut, boring cotton tops, and one style of jeans. Meanwhile, taller gals get to run riot with fifteen styles of jean and a salmagundi of fashionable slacks. It’s enough to make you consider having that surgery where they break your legs, insert something to make them longer, then put them back together and you’re taller (and possibly crippled) afterwards. Sigh.
Monday, September 06, 2004
Fab snippets overheard (and donated… thank you, Kyle)
‘Every single one of my friends who’s said that has got pregnant within a year!’ (Said what, for the love of God?! I don’t want to accidentally say ‘it’!)
‘Ever since I started taking the hormones, I’ve been randy as a man!’ (Ageing dowager at the Chelsea Arts Club)
‘The best thing about working with blind people was that you could do this [Rik Mayall-esque v-signs and face-pulling] to their faces and they didn’t know.’ (I’m sure this wasn’t ‘the best thing’, but it would certainly be pretty funny.)
ARGOS YOU FUCKING SUCK. My closest branch of Argos, in their pikey wisdom, have decide that rather than have any catalogues a person can, you know, take away with them, and peruse at their leisure, ideally with a cup of tea, while lounging on a sofa and watching rubbish telly with one eye, it would be far better to laminate every available catalogue and chain it to a podium. Well no thank you, Argos. I did want to buy a dust buster-type thingy, but now I’ll take my business elsewhere. (Robert Dyas, probably. So there.)
In other news, I narrowly avoided giving myself a hernia changing the water cooler bottle. There was no one around to ask for help, so I weighed things up: undoing the work of my osteopath Vs dehydration-induced headache? The need to drink won out.
Great thing of the day: Therese sent me a birthday package! It is full of vintage 70s pillow cases and beautiful vintage Diane von Furstenberg scarves, sun dresses and Carmex, fashion magazines, a milk frother, a beautiful diamante choker/necklace, triple-choc Kit Kats, a polka dot blouse and other delights… Wish I could hibernate for a week!
‘Every single one of my friends who’s said that has got pregnant within a year!’ (Said what, for the love of God?! I don’t want to accidentally say ‘it’!)
‘Ever since I started taking the hormones, I’ve been randy as a man!’ (Ageing dowager at the Chelsea Arts Club)
‘The best thing about working with blind people was that you could do this [Rik Mayall-esque v-signs and face-pulling] to their faces and they didn’t know.’ (I’m sure this wasn’t ‘the best thing’, but it would certainly be pretty funny.)
ARGOS YOU FUCKING SUCK. My closest branch of Argos, in their pikey wisdom, have decide that rather than have any catalogues a person can, you know, take away with them, and peruse at their leisure, ideally with a cup of tea, while lounging on a sofa and watching rubbish telly with one eye, it would be far better to laminate every available catalogue and chain it to a podium. Well no thank you, Argos. I did want to buy a dust buster-type thingy, but now I’ll take my business elsewhere. (Robert Dyas, probably. So there.)
In other news, I narrowly avoided giving myself a hernia changing the water cooler bottle. There was no one around to ask for help, so I weighed things up: undoing the work of my osteopath Vs dehydration-induced headache? The need to drink won out.
Great thing of the day: Therese sent me a birthday package! It is full of vintage 70s pillow cases and beautiful vintage Diane von Furstenberg scarves, sun dresses and Carmex, fashion magazines, a milk frother, a beautiful diamante choker/necklace, triple-choc Kit Kats, a polka dot blouse and other delights… Wish I could hibernate for a week!
Thursday, September 02, 2004
I am working on a book which contains the words ‘after a final bout of defecation…’. Someone please kill me.
An honest idiot
Today I found £40 in the street. There were two people walking ahead of me, but as the man had crossed the road and was walking away, I followed the woman. At this point I will add that I was not thinking: had I been thinking I would not have offered a total stranger money which was BLATANTLY not hers. I am a fucking idiot. She took the money, and was very pleased to see it (yeah, cos it was like a little gift!), and as soon as the words ‘Did you just drop some money?’ left my mouth I knew I’d got the wrong person, and the money was the man’s, and not hers. She hesitated, and smiled, and said, ‘Yes, I think I may have.’ Right then I should have said ‘Maybe I dropped it’ and run away, but no, I am an idiot so I handed over £40 which I could have used to help the people of Sudan/pay off some of my credit card/buy clothing/get groceries.
Am so mad at myself. And it’s dumb, because I haven’t lost any money. But I feel worse: feel like I’ve found money, and then given it to a total stranger. Like I said, fucking idiot. I’m already kicking myself, but feel free to wait your turn. Ach.
And all that jizz about karma isn't making me feel any better, let me tell you.
An honest idiot
Today I found £40 in the street. There were two people walking ahead of me, but as the man had crossed the road and was walking away, I followed the woman. At this point I will add that I was not thinking: had I been thinking I would not have offered a total stranger money which was BLATANTLY not hers. I am a fucking idiot. She took the money, and was very pleased to see it (yeah, cos it was like a little gift!), and as soon as the words ‘Did you just drop some money?’ left my mouth I knew I’d got the wrong person, and the money was the man’s, and not hers. She hesitated, and smiled, and said, ‘Yes, I think I may have.’ Right then I should have said ‘Maybe I dropped it’ and run away, but no, I am an idiot so I handed over £40 which I could have used to help the people of Sudan/pay off some of my credit card/buy clothing/get groceries.
Am so mad at myself. And it’s dumb, because I haven’t lost any money. But I feel worse: feel like I’ve found money, and then given it to a total stranger. Like I said, fucking idiot. I’m already kicking myself, but feel free to wait your turn. Ach.
And all that jizz about karma isn't making me feel any better, let me tell you.
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