Wednesday, April 30, 2008

At liberty

Today I have been running around pretending to be a roadie (more of that later) but my thoughts have been occupied by Liberty London Girl's kind post that I was alerted to this morning.

I've been addicted to her blog for a good while now and I was over the moon to read that she likes my writing. I've always said that this blog was for writing but LLG's linkage will probably send a few more readers over this way too and feeling part of the blogosphere is divine. Reading comments that agree with what I'm blogging about make me feel like I've just drunk a Black Russian. That's to say, sweet and warm inside.

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Mmm, cake




Dieting - whatever that might be - gets plenty of press. If we're counting slebs' respective column inches I don't know who'd win but I'm willing to put money on the notion that weight gain and weight loss would trump VB mentions many times over.

I've pretty much always felt I need to be slimmer. The funny thing about that is, over time, the only thing I have actually become is larger, so I may as well not have bothered lusting after a slimmer self. Right now, I'd give anything to have the figure I had around my second year of university but I can remember being in a blind panic about having to wear certain costumes for certain performances at that time and it just seems sad that no matter what my body shape I have always thought it wasn't good enough.

The problem, I think, with trying to lose weight is that you already feel you've failed before you've started. It's a bit like New Year's Resolutions - in making them you must acknowledge fault or failure and so if you start with a negative, mentally, you are only going to fall further into the minus. In telling myself my eating habits must change, the message I am subconsciously receiving is "you're a big fat pig who eats too much, you've done it all wrong and you should be better." Not great for anyone, even worse for me who would rather ignore failings than admit I am less than perfect. Yuh, it's not my best trait.

So now I am changing the way I think. At least, I hope I am. I haven't failed or done anything essentially wrong in putting on weight - I just have to eat less than some people in order to look the way I want to look. Being hungry isn't great but I want to feel better about myself and losing a few lbs is something I can do. Fingers crossed I don't lose it from the, er, decolletage...

Monday, April 28, 2008

Style and the singleton

Lately, I've been feeling a bit left behind in the style stakes. You know when you get to that point and you wonder what on earth you are going to wear today, tonight, tomorrow or at any other time present or future? And for that matter, whatever have you been wearing all this time? I'm gazing at my, admittedly extensive, library of clothes and these days I just don't know what to put on.

I have lots of ideas of what I'd like to wear but sadly no cash with which to purchase the items which would make the outfits of my dreams possible. And you know what, even if I did, my post-eating too much for 22 years physique has stopped looking good in anything at all. Interval training's my NBF, but that's another post.

The problem of course is that there are certain facets of my life which mean that looking good is pretty important. My career, my pride, my city, my age, my marital status. As a single girl, you've gotta be constantly stepped up and groomed and sometimes that seems like no mean feat. I don't think single style behaviour is all about effort, though, and super grooming. We all know guys and girls have different ideas about fashion - what's uber cool or chic to a lady, will make a gent recoil in 'is that a fancy dress costume' horror.

Take my beautiful friend, M. She's a single young lady, into her fashion, who was recently lambasted at a work personality and team exploration bonding session as not having made any effort. The three piece suit conference cad who threw out this comment may not have appreciated her this season florals, vintage boots and flicked eyeliner but in a bar I can tell you it goes down a treat. What goes down even better, is a very particular top M owns. I was with her when she bought it and let me tell you it was not purchased as a man-magnet. It's a whimsical looking high neck star print bad boy that is flattering and pretty but by no means vampy. Here's the interesting part - it draws men like flies. M often gets approaches - but star guy increases approaches by approximately tenfold. "I like your stars... you're a star..." mumbled one young man. A stripy shirted lad sidled up and commented "stars and stripes..." with a wink, another grins and offers, "stars in your eyes". Others simply came over to declare an outright and passionate love for the top. She wears it well - but no girl would ever have realised it would draw in guys like students to snakebite.

I have a dress that has a similar effect. It's perhaps more obvious that this dress would pull in the punters, considering its low neckline - but it's navy, covered in purple horses and I often wear it wit flat shoes and feel like a little girl whose other interests include ballet; this is the reason I love it. But it turns normally sane men into men who are interested in me. Odd.

What I seem to be saying here is that maybe men have taste after all; what I actually feel to be the case is that they are even more of a mystery to me than ever.

Sunday, April 27, 2008

Being left

Mum went without a word - her drug chart would have told you why. As the memory of life sharply began to fade, her beauty was astounding. Smooth skin, pure lips and these quiet eyelids of peace that said a devastating thank you. Outside, the shiny night brought suffocating loss and almost sweet reunion with the world. New Cross was still there and the street lamps still spewed light. Newfound smarting pressure and peculiar guilty relief whipped and spiralled around my body, shying from the fuzziness of my head.

When Daddy wasn’t coming home anymore it was all different - screams and confusion, crisis, tragedy and the unexplained, ubiquitous ‘red tape’ that apparently was all. Endless telephone conversations with countless people were overheard; whole rooms filled with cellophane, carnation and gypsum; three in a bed, cuddles and tears and sobbing and heaving; shock and utter pain. Even before this was death - Granddad‘s disappearance bore the same label but contained only confusion. Not understanding why I couldn’t wear my red pinafore dress didn’t stop me from dancing with relatives in my Auntie’s dining room. Absence was present but I couldn’t feel its cold.

The first day without Mummy was all daffodils and yellow bed sheets and a peculiar aching sunny confusion. It seemed like spring was commanding strength. I had cried desperately for a week beforehand and at this point, I stopped. There was much less cellophane, carnation and gypsum; there was tragedy but it was the sort that slips in, accepted like nausea - not the superlative Shakespeare kind. Tragedy’s almost more tangible - this was real loss and I recognised it because I began to pretend I couldn’t feel it.