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Thursday 30 September 2010

So when did I turn into my mother .......

I remember the day I turned into my mother. The day when I walked in crazy and walked out sensible. The day when I sacrificed fashion for comfort and spontaneity for reality.

It was around 5 years ago. On a Thursday morning. I was all dolled up for Ladies Day at Ascot. Fuschia pink Whistles dress, matching Philip Treacey creation plastered to perfectly coiffeured bob and ah! Now here's the sensible bit. The shoes. Of course, the obvious choice is the fuschia pink diamante strappy sandals. But the thought of tottering around the London Underground and various other methods of transport in 8 inch heels was quite horrifying. Aside from the fact I can't walk in the damn things as all that connects your foot to the inner sole is 2 thin pieces of suede, the additional thought of being stood all day in said shoes was even more horrifying. The balls of my feet would be burning before lunch! And then I'd have to take them off and stagger around barefoot like one of those drunken slappers after a night on the half price Bacardi Breezers outside some god-awful Plymouth nightclub called Ritzys.

I could wear the Birkenstocks and take the sandals. But that would mean extra baggage. They won't fit into the matching fuschia Lulu Guinness clutch. And the only other bag to hand is a Tesco's Bag For Life. Hardly appropriate. Even if it matched. Plus I'd look like something recently released into the community. However, somewhere in the bottom of the wardrobe, I know there are a pair of low heeled pink sandals that might just solve the problem. Fortunately they match. And sadly I choose to wear them over the gorgeous mules.

I've vivid memories of venturing to Mr Stringfellow's nightly emporium many years ago (before it was a strip club!) wearing very little but some carefully arranged bits of string and the highest heels despite the fact it was usually the middle of winter. No jacket required! And now, well I have to consider the venue - will I be on my feet for any length of time, will I have to spend time outside whilst in transit and therefore what would be appropriate weather attire. And more importantly, how will I get home? Last train? Taxi? Can I afford a taxi? Years ago, getting home was just a mere possibility. In an ideal world, I'd be rather hoping I didn't. All that mattered was I was going out and I was going to have fun. Hell, I could always get a night bus. Or hitch-hike.

So in end, I opted for the comfy sandals and put the hardly-worn strappy mules back in their box and headed off to Ascot. Mindful not to forget a cardigan, a train timetable, some cash for a taxi, glasses, phone, a packet of Rennie, a small bottle of water (in case of dehydration should the train breakdown) and an umbrella. Just in case.

About time Tesco started making colour co-ordinated Bags for Life!

So when did I turn into my mother .......

I remember the day I turned into my mother. The day when I walked in crazy and walked out sensible. The day when I sacrificed fashion for comfort and spontaneity for reality.

It was around 5 years ago. On a Thursday morning. I was all dolled up for Ladies Day at Ascot. Fuschia pink Whistles dress, matching Philip Treacey creation plastered to perfectly coiffeured bob and ah! Now here's the sensible bit. The shoes. Of course, the obvious choice is the fuschia pink diamante strappy sandals. But the thought of tottering around the London Underground and various other methods of transport in 8 inch heels was quite horrifying. Aside from the fact I can't walk in the damn things as all that connects your foot to the inner sole is 2 thin pieces of suede, the additional thought of being stood all day in said shoes was even more horrifying. The balls of my feet would be burning before lunch! And then I'd have to take them off and stagger around barefoot like one of those drunken slappers after a night on the half price Bacardi Breezers outside some god-awful Plymouth nightclub called Ritzys.

I could wear the Birkenstocks and take the sandals. But that would mean extra baggage. They won't fit into the matching fuschia Lulu Guinness clutch. And the only other bag to hand is a Tesco's Bag For Life. Hardly appropriate. Even if it matched. Plus I'd look like something recently released into the community. However, somewhere in the bottom of the wardrobe, I know there are a pair of low heeled pink sandals that might just solve the problem. Fortunately they match. And sadly I choose to wear them over the gorgeous mules.

I've vivid memories of venturing to Mr Stringfellow's nightly emporium many years ago (before it was a strip club!) wearing very little but some carefully arranged bits of string and the highest heels despite the fact it was usually the middle of winter. No jacket required! And now, well I have to consider the venue - will I be on my feet for any length of time, will I have to spend time outside whilst in transit and therefore what would be appropriate weather attire. And more importantly, how will I get home? Last train? Taxi? Can I afford a taxi? Years ago, getting home was just a mere possibility. In an ideal world, I'd be rather hoping I didn't. All that mattered was I was going out and I was going to have fun. Hell, I could always get a night bus. Or hitch-hike.

So in end, I opted for the comfy sandals and put the hardly-worn strappy mules back in their box and headed off to Ascot. Mindful not to forget a cardigan, a train timetable, some cash for a taxi, glasses, phone, a packet of Rennie, a small bottle of water (in case of dehydration should the train breakdown) and an umbrella. Just in case.

About time Tesco started making colour co-ordinated Bags for Life!

Tuesday 28 September 2010

On yer bike!

I've never really embraced the joys of cycling. It's something else I've dabbled with over the years - like learning the guitar, aromatherapy and toy boys. But it's never quite worked for me. I think there's two reasons for this. One is that I've never been able to come to terms with the pain of perching on a hard bit of plastic and the aftermath that goes with it, and the other is that I actually want to live. But after another woeful journey on the Central Line, is it something I really should consider?

Take this morning, for instance. I got on the platform only to join the 20,000 other people who are stood staring open-mouthed at the digital display unit in despair. Of course it's yet another torturous journey. Squashed up against the rucksack of an unwashed student being slightly preferable to the armpit of the punk. And then we stop. No explanation. The Lord Almighty only knows why! The wrong kind of passenger on the line? Signal failure in Aberdeen. I've long given up taking notice of the muffled excuses of the driver.

It's after those arduous journeys that I long to be mistress of my own travel arrangements. Being above the ground in the fresh air, the wind in my cycle helmet and the smell of exhaust fumes can't possibly be worse than being involuntarily entered into that killer sauna competition. Trouble is, it doesn't end there. Negotiating the concourse at Liverpool street is just as dangerous as my emergence always co-incides with National Express emptying half of Hertfordshire into the station. Even if I manage to avoid a clash of foreheads, I'm usually tripped up by their well-hidden, pull-along suitcase.

So it with a sigh of relief that I stagger onto the pavement with most of my person intact, bar my big toe, only to be whisked off down Broadgate on some fluorescent clad, speed freak's handle bars! I mean do red lights not apply to cyclists?? That's swiftly followed by a swarm of them coming round the corner at breakneck speed. Is 'swarm' the correct term for a lot of cyclists, anyway? Should be a Deathtrap of Cyclists. Whatever it is, they're bloody everywhere, appearing out of nowhere everytime I try to cross the street. You know, maybe deep down I'm just jealous. Despite the impending and likely grizzly death, they always look fit and healthy, lithe and tanned. Out in the fresh air rather than holed up underground with 2 dozen sugar-enhanced 8 year olds on a school trip.

So what am I saying here (if you're still awake, I'll enlighten you). I hate commuting. It's expensive and full of other miserable buggers going to work! But I'm too scared to cycle. So I won't. And anyway, my dad said I can't. I'll continue an unhealthy, unfit, squished, poor commuter. Maybe someone will invent that jetpack in my lifetime. Anything's possible.

On yer bike!

I've never really embraced the joys of cycling. It's something else I've dabbled with over the years - like learning the guitar, aromatherapy and toy boys. But it's never quite worked for me. I think there's two reasons for this. One is that I've never been able to come to terms with the pain of perching on a hard bit of plastic and the aftermath that goes with it, and the other is that I actually want to live. But after another woeful journey on the Central Line, is it something I really should consider?

Take this morning, for instance. I got on the platform only to join the 20,000 other people who are stood staring open-mouthed at the digital display unit in despair. Of course it's yet another torturous journey. Squashed up against the rucksack of an unwashed student being slightly preferable to the armpit of the punk. And then we stop. No explanation. The Lord Almighty only knows why! The wrong kind of passenger on the line? Signal failure in Aberdeen. I've long given up taking notice of the muffled excuses of the driver.

It's after those arduous journeys that I long to be mistress of my own travel arrangements. Being above the ground in the fresh air, the wind in my cycle helmet and the smell of exhaust fumes can't possibly be worse than being involuntarily entered into that killer sauna competition. Trouble is, it doesn't end there. Negotiating the concourse at Liverpool street is just as dangerous as my emergence always co-incides with National Express emptying half of Hertfordshire into the station. Even if I manage to avoid a clash of foreheads, I'm usually tripped up by their well-hidden, pull-along suitcase.

So it with a sigh of relief that I stagger onto the pavement with most of my person intact, bar my big toe, only to be whisked off down Broadgate on some fluorescent clad, speed freak's handle bars! I mean do red lights not apply to cyclists?? That's swiftly followed by a swarm of them coming round the corner at breakneck speed. Is 'swarm' the correct term for a lot of cyclists, anyway? Should be a Deathtrap of Cyclists. Whatever it is, they're bloody everywhere, appearing out of nowhere everytime I try to cross the street. You know, maybe deep down I'm just jealous. Despite the impending and likely grizzly death, they always look fit and healthy, lithe and tanned. Out in the fresh air rather than holed up underground with 2 dozen sugar-enhanced 8 year olds on a school trip.

So what am I saying here (if you're still awake, I'll enlighten you). I hate commuting. It's expensive and full of other miserable buggers going to work! But I'm too scared to cycle. So I won't. And anyway, my dad said I can't. I'll continue an unhealthy, unfit, squished, poor commuter. Maybe someone will invent that jetpack in my lifetime. Anything's possible.