Me: “All the better for purchasing shoes from the net and having to return them immediately the next day, my dear.”

Oh, the internet. When it comes to buying footwear from you, you are a pain in the foot. I’m extremely happy that you accommodate my Sasquatch-size-11-paws, but must you always incorporate that little bit of extra point in the shoe?

You know full well that I’m an optimistic fool and that I will keep purchasing through you in the vain hope that you will supply me with a shoe elegant and in proportion with my figure… That day has yet to come.

For when it doesn’t make me look like I’m going skiing, I feel like the physical evocation of Icabod Crane – the Disney animated character circa 1949, not the one played by Johnny Depp.

The problem is that 99% of every pair of trousers I own and wear are extremely tight-fitted and skinny. To throw in any footwear that exceeds the length of an ironing board will just not do.   

I’m not willing to salvage the livelihood of my feet by wearing shoes too small. So I guess I’ll just have to move to the internet-free town of Sleepy Hollow – and get used to the chirpings of “Who’s that coming down the street? Are they shovels, or are they feet?”  

Evidence of my consumption was clear when I looked through my iPhone’s photo album and found pictures of some deserts I have gobbled up in the past few weeks.

Here are three I recommend -

The Baked Alaska from The Ivy in the West End, London.

After two minutes of repeatedly stating the obvious: “It’s on fire. It’s on fire!” I whispered a silent prayer of thanks to the gods of fashion for not making me wear hairspray that night. Despite my impressive impressions of Mary Cherry during drama lessons at secondary school, I am actually not a fan of cherries. However, I was assured that these were “Griotte cherries” and that is apparently a good thing. Overall, it gets a nom out of ten.

This is Mary Cherry for those unaware of the sheer genius of the 1999 television series, ‘Popular’.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qkx7Qs46pio&feature

The Strawberry Gateau from Patisserie Valerie.

My mouth is watering again at the sight of this. The succulent fresh cream and strawberries and layers… boy, oh boy! I recall shovelling this down for dessert after a meal of poached eggs and getting those ‘how is he so thin?’ looks from other customers. Berry good, overall.

Finally – The best Milkshake in London. Ever. From Byron Hamburgers on Wardour Street, Soho.

This sweetheart of a shake needs no introduction. Just think of the thickest ice-cream, the sweetest, fresh milk and fragments of Oreo. As scrumdiddlyumptious as the Oreo Milkshake here truly is, I wouldn’t recommend this creamy heaven to be consumed on a date. Otherwise, cue that seemingly awkward ten minute silence as you are both busy trying to suck up as much as you can. My waitress that night was a hoot as well.

Overall… it’s sucking great.

Hero – Enrique Iglesias. Love the Bonnie and Clyde feel of the music video with J-Hew and Enrique. Who didn’t get emotional when the latter was getting his honorable butt kicked by the Rourke-Meister? Despite being a beautifully composed song, it is however tainted with cringe-worthy connotations for me.

Late last year, I witnessed (on Facebook, nonetheless) a cheating, delinquent boy-fiend (see what I did there?) sending this song to his lover’s profile via Youtube in an attempted reconciliation. I couldn’t help but think, ‘Forget being a hero, you’re a fookin’ villain, love.’  

You’ve Got the Love – The Source & Candi Station. A beautifully written song with a tolerable religious theme. I’ve loved this particular version ever since it gave me goosebumps when played in the background of the final moments of the Sex and the City series. Who could refrain from teary eyes when Carrie is reunited with the girls and her voiceover gives the brief, but wise summing up of the present relationships? And then decrees the ultimate in personal empowerment: “But the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all, is the one you have with yourself.” Bless!

I’ve got the love for this song. Or at least I did, until on date three with Steve-o when, after two hours of trying to explain and remember a song he had heard and thought should be “ours,” (and two hours of me being like, “Huh? What the hell are you talking about?”) he proceeded to play it on Youtube and then enact a prom-style-dance with me around my bedroom. Would have been sweet if we knew each other longer (three dates!? C’mon!). Would have been sweeter if it wasn’t my favourite song of personal empowerment. Oh the shame of it.

I’m Gonna Getcha Good – Shania Amaze-Balls Twain. “You’re a fine piece of real-estate and I’m gonna get me some land” - vocal evidence that our Shania is a saucy minx, as well as a great singer, philanthropist and all-round betty. The lyrics of this song are well written and very catchy. A good one to blast out while dancing/ cleaning in your underwear - I thoroughly recommend. Just don’t think of that certain someone and get your hopes up about said person while listening. Which brings me to a final cringe (for now).

Back in year ten of my Catholic secondary school, I fancied the Italian pants off of this Italian guy from my English class (what would Mother Mary have to say?!) And while my best friend would say today that he was not even physically attractive, at the time I was in awe of him and his personality. That kid had charisma. The cringe-worthy moment came when, after several weeks of playing that song on repeat and thinking of him (while clutching a ‘Me to You’ bear with his name on it – JOKE), I visited my best friend and found her talking to him on msn about weird dreams. That’s right, as a heterosexual he fancied the female pants off of my best friend and was flirting away. Urgh, the cringe of it. What drugs did they put in the holy bread back then?

In a bid to escape coursework, I have compiled a few of my most recent and favourite letters and cards from my best friends.

I am blessed to have met them.

When asking most everyday people about their current outfit, a stream of fairly monotonous answers is enevitiable: “They said it was going to rain,” “I just put on whatever was clean/could find at the time.” But then there are the exceptions, such as today, when I find myself inside a pair of my favourite faux leather skin-tight trousers. As the least typical attire of my skinny-jeaned generation, I feel like a cross between a sexually-active Angelina Jolie circa 1993, with teen angst-a-brewin’ (probably) and some kid who was forced to join a gang of Harley-Davidson enthusiasts, but who secretly goes home to read Vogue in his mother’s wigs.

The upfront sexuality that these trousers suggest, and the fact that I was actually heading to my part-time job in retail, finally resulted in me toning it down with a grandad knit cardigan. Say hello to the ’naughty but nice’ look… Meow.

An associate (that I regard as very stylish) calls me over to her at work later that morning. “Does something need doing?” I ask, expecting a list of chores along the lines of dust the rafters, stay at the tillpoint and flirt more with customers. ”Your outfit doesn’t go,” she declares. I stand there stunned. Had I subconsciously asked for style advice? ”What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry to sound harsh, but it’s true, leather and knitwear doesn’t go.” Being particularly proud of the juxtaposition of my clothing, I am immediately offended. I smile and explain that I have brought another cardigan – a plain one - and will bring it to her on my lunchtime to continue our ‘fashionable debate’.

I sit in the canteen tucking into my pie, chips and beans, a twix bar and some water.  Nom nom. Lunchtime comes and goes. I relish every moment. Returning to the shopfloor, she stares at me with a look of ‘Where is the other cardigan/ where the f*ck have you been?!’ She then verbally asks me. I remain silent, smile again and resume my responsibility as a sales associate/ sex kitten. 

Having been brought up on a council estate back in Swindon, (I had the best childhood, but boy, it was rough) I have previously learnt to assume a pacifist role in situations like this and play ignorant to the ignorance of others. So I did… Like a gay Ghandi.

At the end of the day, fashion is constantly changing and entirely subjective. The next time she asks I will probably reiterate this. Or explain simply that ‘they said it was going to rain’. The End.

p.s. I do not use fake-tan; my skin colour here is merely reflective of the lighting from the locker room workplace and one funky iPhone camera.

To be Macebook-ed is to put aside most physiological fuctions and or be temporarily mentally disabled while on the social network, until you have read all of your news feed/ seen every holiday picture of your ex-boyfriend. 

According to the Facebook app, My Year In Status, I posted twenty-three in 2010 (see picture above). If my grade C GCSE maths can be trusted, that suggests I posted something newsworthy to my friends/the world (on average) once every two weeks.

In comparison to many individuals on my Facebook who seem obsessively compelled to broadcast emotional song lyrics/loving declarations about their boyfriend every ten minutes, I’m pleased to announce my use of the social network seems healthy. Maybe I should write a status…

I love how the longest word of all my statuses for 2010 was conditioner. Maybe I should ghost-write novels for the cast of Jersey Shore.

Despite that which the title suggests, I did not physically become an Italian man today. Although some rippling pectorals, a touch of tanned skin and a fairisle knit from D&G wouldn’t go amiss.

No, today I became Italian mentally, taking up a well-known custom: l’arte di non fare niente – which rougly translates as ‘the art of doing nothing’.  Ah… Bliss.

Despite at first feeling incredibly naughty (I blame our indoctrinated-overworked-Westernised-mentality), I eventually shook off any feelings of guilt and just sat still. Until of course, I could sit still no more and had to do something. A quick flick through my iPhone’s music collection resulted with me dancing alone, and on repeat, to the funky little 1930s jazz number, ‘In The Mood’ by Glenn Miller. I’m cool like that.

Surprisingly, I actually found time to cook a meal… which didn’t require the sole use of the microwave. And despite arriving in jar form from a shelf in Sainsbury’s, it was actually quite Italian. Pasta bake, anyone? 

In conclusion, despite being hardly productive, my day was meaningful. I spoke to only two people and without having to rush to work, or get coursework done, I found myself asking them questions and genuinely taking time with my verbal interactions. Songs, books, even the bloody sky from my window suddenly seemed more inviting and inspiring on this day.

Maybe taking a little time like this for myself each week could be my new mantra.

Image courtesy of http://damnfunnypictures.com

I’ve started with my ever-growing magazine collection (which is fashion-based, not porn, incase you hoped to zoom in and catch vintage editions of PlayGirl – although both are much the same these days… but that’s another post).

I’ve found that apart from clothes and my box of memories, magazines are the only thing that I hoard or am vaguely materialistic about. But since they provide inspiration, knowledge and a bit of nostalgia, I’m feeling far from guilty… until the day I mentally add up all the cover prices. Overall, I am very pleased with how accessible and tidy they are now. Neat freak, much?

Now onto the wardrobe…

Image Courtesy of Handbag.com

NOTE: It is more interesting if you imagine Alan Carr saying this in his wickedly camp manner, while dressed as  the Fairy Godmother  Enjoy!

“It seems Cinderella is alive and kicking,

Find her on the TV that you would be flicking.

Our Geordie chav turned X factor Queen,

Underwent a transformation ne’er before seen.

From ladette to lady she is now refined,

Her local chip shop she’ll deny to have dined.

Our L’Oreal girl can shift much more paper,

Than designers or stylists that claim to now drape her.

Forget her divorcé; he’s now in the fire,

Ol’ Ashley Cole missed the goal – now barbed-wire.

Relocation to the States is now in the cards,

A tricky position, she’ll have to work hard.

Forgetting her roots, extensions still intact,

A charming new prince will she find and attract?

“Watch out for midnight,” godmother would say,

The clock is a-tickin’, no more time to play.

With album released and a possible reunion,

The gays all around rejoice in communion.”

- Daniel Piggott – Stewart