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Monday March 05, 07
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12:39 PM - Maladjusted
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I am currently on a sabbatical from the world of gainful employment, doing the full time mum thing and bringing up my two small children. I am my own boss, I do what I have to do in my own time frame and I answer to no one. Nice.
However, my work as full time mum calls for long hours, constant repetition of mundane chores, a feeling that my brain is rotting in my skull, and general despair which is momentarily dispelled by flashes of elation if something sweet and heart-warming occurs (which it does quite a lot) Then there’s the frequently frayed nerves. In this phase of my life I am brutally removed from my comfort zone of wearing highly impractical clothes and drifting around immersing myself in the world of design. Added to this I am positively financially challenged and no longer able to support my expensive shoe habit (which is no joke in my world!!)
But that’s all by the by. The thing that worries me is that all this time at home is making me gradually more and more un-employable. I have become increasingly belligerent in my advancing years, and I was never one to be meek or mild in the first place. I simply cannot imagine going back into the workforce and having to answer to anybody. I fear I am rapidly becoming incapable of it. My Dad used to say he believed in “cheerful obedience to authority” but in retrospect he was a hell raiser, and in any case he was a company director so it is highly unlikely that he was often cheerfully obedient to anyone.
A friend told me last night that returning to work after raising children is easy because it feels like a piece of piss in comparison. Is this true I wonder?? Or do you really return to work and wish you were knee deep in play doh again? Does your childless female boss secretly resent the investment in her career and hate you for having kids? Or do you strike it lucky and find an employer who sees your years raising a family as valid and admirable?
Mr Nin says I should use these years to find something to do that means I won’t have to return to the workforce. In essence he means I should try to become self- employed in some way, but he is forgetting that I haven’t got time to do anything over and above deal with the children. By the time they go to bed (a very reasonable 7pm) I am on my arse and the only thing I have the energy for is my dinner and a quick browse on the solo forums. I then have to go to bed, to be fresh for the next round of nappies, porridge and those bastard Tweenies. Not before I look at my shoes though. I do this nightly. I try on all these impossibly high heels and dream of wandering through the streets of Paris in Christian Louboutins (I have a rich fantasy life. I think my beloved husband accepts that these flights of fancy are the only thing keeping me from going crazy stuck at home all day so he humours me. I am very lucky. And sometimes as he goes off to work in the morning I envy him).
The main problem with finding something I do want to do when I return to the world of work, is that I enjoy very little. Save for trying on beautiful shoes, and no one is going to pay me for that (apart from foot fetishists, maybe I just hit on a plan!) I have never actually known what I wanted to do for a living; it just never came to me. I fell into the jobs I did, and being a natural over achiever I got away with them. But still, I am a bit worried because I’m mid thirties now, and still don’t feel as if I’ve found my calling in life. If I don’t even know how I want to spend the rest of my employment life, how can I find a way to do it without having to answer to anyone? Is my fear of being unemployable after motherhood a modern quandary? Should I stop worrying about these things and just enjoy the time off, stalking the house in my low-cut blouse? Is my progressively more insubordinate nature just a natural by-product of aging? Do we ever know what we want to do with our lives?
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Wednesday November 08, 06
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12:25 PM - Last Will & Testament of Anais Nin
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“I, the under-mentioned, by this document
Do declare my true intentions, my last will, my testament.
When I turn up my toes, when I rattle my clack, when I agonise,
I want no great wet weepings, no tearing of hair, no wringing of hands,
No sighs, no lack-a-days, no woe-is-me's and none of your sad adieus.
Go, go, go and get the priest and then go get the booze, boys.” - Jake Thackray
I made my will today. Literally. And it’s quite a bizarre thing to do. I’m only 33 but I do have small children so I thought it would be prudent. The irony is I have no assets – well half a house with a mortgage like a lot of people. But no capital or anything like that. Just shoes mainly.
My main motivation was to put into place who and how I would like my children cared for in the event of my and Mr Nin's death. So that’s sorted now, but all the adventure really made me realise is that I have invested most of my working life in the acquisition of clothes and shoes. Thank God my solicitor is also a friend. He understood completely as I gravely nominated who would inherit my wardrobe in the event of my death! He laughed when he asked me where I would like my ashes scattered and I quipped “Prada!” but somewhere inside I felt panicky that all I have to show for the last 10 years is a bunch of high heels all neatly boxed and stacked, and far too many handbags. I have no pension, no savings, no premium bonds, stocks or shares, no trust fund. Am I screwed?
What makes me more unsettled is that I have stopped working to be a full time Mum. This is the most important job I could be doing as the world keeps telling me. And I love it. Make the most of it everyone says; “enjoy the early years as you can’t get them back” etc. But that seems to make the whole thing worse. It’s a blissful sabbatical from the workplace, but equally a ticking time bomb and my days are numbered. When I do return to work I will be about 40. Is that enough time to amass something more worthwhile to leave to my children? Will I fall into old habits again and go for the glory of a new pair of Prada shoes rather than a blossoming savings account? Of course I will. It’s almost inevitable.
And that’s the thing. We can’t change our natures. We can only do our best. Maybe it can work. My Mum, a self -confessed glamour junkie in her youth, would blow her whole months for silk stockings. She would then beg and borrow from my Grandmother to survive until the next payday. However, she must have got more sensible with age because she has never, to my knowledge, been financially irresponsible since my existence.
I wouldn’t actually say I’m irresponsible with money. Mildly reckless is more accurate a description. Sort of daredevil, I have that thing, curse of all curses, where my tastes far exceed my cash flow. I would rather have nothing than something I don’t like but can afford. But I would never buy a luxury if my children were left wanting. I know its naïve or wildly optimistic, or just monumentally stupid, but I do think that maybe when they’re older they may appreciate my efforts in the style department. “Yes Mummy, that Agent Provocateur corset is beautifully constructed and I’m so glad you invested in that rather than our trust fund…” Hmm, maybe not.
Perhaps I will even leave my children things that will be as much use to them as hard cash. Self-confidence, the ability to express themselves, good moral fibre, responsibility for their own actions, honesty, integrity and guts. Good taste, nice manners and a profound love of banana custard. What more could they want?
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Thursday October 12, 06
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12:39 PM - A flight of fancy...
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Getting tickets this morning to see Morrissey at Wembley with my lovely friend Alma has put me on a high. I have gone about my daily business with my head in the clouds, and can think of nothing else. Nothing else except my usual pre-occupation with fashion of course. Discussing what to wear with Alma got me thinking. Isn’t it a shame that going to gigs involves dressing practically??
You know the type of thing. Good stout shoes so you don’t get your toes trodden on or loose your footing in the throng. Jeans, of course because having a bag is a nightmare so you need the pockets. And layering on the top to enable one to be cool in the crowd and warm in the queue. Practical indeed. But desperately disappointing if you’re me. You see, seeing the ever-glamorous Moz would just be absolutely heavenly if only I could really dress for the event. Indulge me with this flight of fancy; it is my journal after all.
Waiting in the queue ‘denying the rumours’ in Alexander McQueen. Or standing at the barrier in Givenchy, champagne in one hand an exquisitely thin rollie in the other. My dream gig would involve Moz singing Christian Dior and dedicating it to me (of course). Then we (me and Moz that is) would go for a coffee and a lovely cake at Patisserie Valerie. Then on to Prada for a quick look (they’d stay open all night for us) and a quick try on. Morrissey would try on a few bits and do a twirl. (In the real world I once sold Thom Yorke 2 pairs of trousers and his girlfriend insisted he do a twirl, he did and I always thought that was very charming). Then I’d have to take off my impossibly high Christian Laboutin heels and carry them and he would find this amusing and hail a cab. Then back to the Dorchester of course and now I’d better stop, as I am a happily married woman you know.
So, now that I’m back in reality better go dig out those hiking boots in readiness for the Wembley debacle. Yes, I really do have hiking boots. Some things are just too unbelievable aren’t they?
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Wednesday September 27, 06
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12:54 PM - "I'll just finish this row..."
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“It was unsettling for me to sing to people who were chatting amongst themselves and looking away and knitting sweaters whilst I yelped my guts out.”
I couldn’t help but be amused when I read this passage on Morrissey’s recent musings on TTY, for I myself am currently doing just that. Not yelping my guts out, but knitting a sweater, for my 3-year-old son.
At the risk of venturing into what is probably more Alma’s department, I felt the need to express my severe displeasure with the world of childrenswear – in particular little boys clothes.
Now, unbelievable as this is going to sound I am not a fan of ‘designer’ kids gear. In fact I think it’s tacky as all hell. Children grow so fast that to spend money on designer clothing for them seems obscene and thoroughly pointless. Also to burden them with any ‘brand’ at such a young age seems horrible as their innocence is so short lived and precious.
However, that said, I do believe that it is important to imbue them somehow with some sense of aesthetics even at a young age. (Listen to me! I am becoming a pastiche of myself) Good taste at any rate. And this is where the problem lies. I admit, if I had my way I would have all children looking like an advert for a well-known brand of French fromage frais, all Gallic stripes and wholesome looking. Indeed, as far as possible my boys (and that includes Mr. Nin) are encouraged to wear as many stripy tops as possible but they are few and far between in the shops that sell children’s wear. Well, that’s not strictly true, the common offerings are perfectly decent tops and trousers ruined with hideous logos and vile appliqués of diggers and tools. Now my boys love diggers and tools but why would they want them stitched all over their trousers? If they do have to have motifs they should be done tastefully in my opinion and we have found the odd camper van T shirt or two so it can be done. Otherwise there are miniature versions of Daddy Chav style, or horror of horrors, scaled down football strips for baby boys. It is for these reasons that I recently decided that a nice homespun knitted jumper was the way forward for Junior Nin number 1. Nothing nasty, just a plain little sweater in grey, nice and old school. Some hot buttered scones and two chapters of Enid Blyton anyone?
The first challenge was actually finding a shop that sells knitting patterns and wool. Not that difficult you may think, surely there are enough old grannies in the world still knitting. Evidently not, they are all on Saga coach trips living it large these days. So once I had managed to find a knitting shop then I had to wade through a bunch of patterns, which seemed to have been around since the sixties. Perfect! Found one for just a plain little V-neck, except with a pocket on the sleeve to make it more, erm, modern.
Some seasons ago knitting went through a period of being trendy again. There were celebrity knitting circles and everything. Sarah-Jessica Parker was spotted off set with her needles and ball of wool. It is actually very therapeutic. For me anyway, not necessarily for anyone who happens to be around me in the act. I am VERY slow. My fantastic Mum, who injured her shoulder during her 'extreme knitting' feats in the 70s, is doing the hard parts. She can hardly bare to watch me knit as it is so painful to behold. At this rate the poor boy will be lucky to have his jumper finished by Christmas.
But I am persevering, and have completed the whole of the back. Although if I spent as much time looking at the pattern as I do Moz Solo I would probably get on better. I wonder if I am, perhaps inadvertently, knitting myself my very own Morrissey. Now, that would be one HELL of a pattern and could easily spark resurgence in this forgotten past time to those of us around here. Knit one, purl one Alma dear?
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Sunday September 17, 06
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10:24 AM - Circle of Cool
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Whilst I agree with Coco Chanel with her ‘pursuit of style rather than fashion’ thing, I have never been adverse to looking ridiculous. In fact, if you are into high fashion it is kind of inevitable that at some point you will go a step too far and veer into the realms of looking dodgy. I feel this happened to me this very week, for the usually resigned Mr Nin made a rare comment on my attire, which proved without doubt that what was going on in my head was clearly not quite what was going on to the outside world!
There is no doubt that the majority of heterosexual men do not find the stylised extremes of catwalk fashion and high fashion photo shoots attractive. I used to share an office with a graphic designer and he would wait until I had finished pouring over my latest copy of Vogue and then go through the magazine ‘girlfriend shopping’. To my amazement, in a thick issue, full of images of the most astonishingly beautiful women, quite often he would completely fail to find any of them attractive. To him, and I believe he is not alone; the girls looks had been exaggerated so much as to almost uglify.
I am not really talking about the physical features of models. Yes, they are freakishly tall and thin – we all know this and should know it to be purely a matter of genes. I am talking more of the exaggerated styling of the clothing, hair and make-up and the looks that are created to portray the coming trends of the season. The outfits that have been put together so deliberately to illustrate the current trends, are often so concentrated that they would look completely bizarre if worn outside in that easily offended ‘real world’. The styling is the details that most people filter out to focus purely on the clothes. But to a certain breed of fashion junkie (myself included) these are the bits that we cannot help but be seduced by and occasionally try to recreate. The only problem is that the real world is not such a kind setting for such flights of fashion fancy.
I always remember comedian Eddie Izzards ‘Circle of Cool’ skit, he said
“Cool” is a pursuit of youth, it’s a fashion link thing being cool. It’s linked to the circle- you’ve got “Looking Like a Dickhead” over here, “Average Looking,” “Kind of Cool,” “Cool,” “Hip and Groovy…” “Looking Like a Dickhead”! “
So the danger is you can go full circle from fashionable to twat in the blink of an expertly lined eyelid. It’s a fine line between fashion and farce.
How many of us have seen a photo story in a fashion magazine and thought, THAT’S it, THAT is what I want to look like, to FEEL like – that’s the kind of look I want. And for the next 2 weeks you may try to acquire the accoutrements of such a look. Then someone says that you look like something totally different and you abandon the look in horror. As I write this I panic – Oh God, maybe that was just me.
I have, as usual, l have veered from my story. Animal print is a strong trend this season. Its everywhere in case you haven’t noticed. The problem is when it is done cheaply it looks nasty. So you have to be careful with it. The thing is, I happen to have always liked leopard print - it can have very classic connotations. Audrey Hepburn, Brigitte Bardot, two of the many iconic women who have successfully worn a bit of leopard print. I also like pencil skirts. Again, very classic but having a renaissance this winter. So, in my wisdom I purchased a leopard print pencil skirt. It was not in the usual black and tan colour, but grey and black. I knew it could have been perilous but decided to play it down with a skinny black T and Havianas. In my world it was very Manhattan, I just needed a take out coffee and I was off. Apparently to Cloud Cuckoo Land. Mr Nin caught me on the landing; “That’s very, erm, Coronation St,” he said.
The skirt was returned and refunded later that day. When having a high fashion moment I always find it wise to leave those tags on. Mr Nin found it more Bet Lynch than Bet Davis and that just goes to show; do any of us look like we think we do?
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Friday August 25, 06
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10:57 AM - Morrissey in Paris *sigh*
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Tonight Morrissey is playing in Paris. It is just past 4.30 as I write this and I am still trying to work out if I have time to get there. I have no ticket. I know I am not going. I am what is commonly known as “Gutted”. I am not going because for some bizarre reason I didn’t think I could. The main reason I suppose is my children, and my basic lack of vision and forward planning. However, it is, I am telling myself, for the best. The heady combination of Morrissey and Paris would probably be too much for me. Even thinking about it is too much for me.
Last year, two colleagues and myself took a bunch of Fashion students to Paris for a week. Apart from the students it really was an amazing trip. I say apart from the students because, for some strange reason, this fantastic city seemed to be entirely wasted on them, to the point where it actually became ludicrous and was hysterically funny once you got over the immense irritation. Picture it, a trip to the Musée des Arts Decoratifs to see a handbag exhibition in one of Paris’s foremost design museums. My colleague and I wandered through the exhibition, taking it all in, watching students from other international colleges studiously scribbling away in their sketchbooks. “Do you see any of ours?” we asked each other, not one of our party in sight. We went to hunt them out and found them huddled together outside of the museum café as if waiting for a bus. We questioned them as to why they had got around the exhibition so quickly. “We don’t know why we’re here” came the meek reply, “We thought there would be some clothes.” We tried to point out to them that as design students the show should have been of immense interest to them, but it was to no avail and we left muttering insults under our breath.
As for me I peaked way too soon, on day one in fact. I made a furtive pilgrimage to Serge Gainsbourg's house on the Rue de Vernuille. The house is located in a fairly quiet residential street close to the Musee d’Orsay and easily identifiable as it is literally covered in graffiti in tribute to the man and his music. Whilst adding my own words of admiration, I stood in some of Paris’s finest dog crap but even that did not ruin the moment. Later that night we ate amongst broken glass in one of the cities most historical restaurants Chartier, where the waiters look like they’ve been there a hundred years - their rudeness is legendary and only seems to enhance the experience. At least you can argue that Toulouse Lautrec probably got the same treatment.
The visit did have its downsides of course. I was in the early stages of pregnancy at the time and morning sickness on a ferry is not fun. And once again my last morning was ruined by some of our flock, the youth of today with their bizarre set of priorities. God, I sound old. I was having the perfect Parisian morning. A continental breakfast in the hotel, reading my Serge Gainsbourg book and looking forward to the day ahead, a visit to the Picasso Museum. “Excuse me Anais” I look up and three students are transferring their weight from one foot to another. “We were wondering if we could skip the visit to the Picasso Museum today” Rather puzzled as to what could possibly be more important than a trip to said museum I asked what they planned to do instead. “We’re going to try and find the McDonalds – we’re gagging!” they said in all seriousness. Words nearly failed me. My perfect Paris moment obliterated by a trio of nasty teenage girls hell-bent on swapping Picasso for fast food. I was forced to adopt my most strict Paddington hard stare. I pointed out once again that as design students the Picasso museum should have been of huge interest to them. The point is why bother actually studying something if you’d rather stuff your face with crap. Who knows, is it me? (My Terry Wogan moment duly arrived at)
Suffice it to say that I love Paris. The trip with the students was my second visit; the first was a weekend away with Mr Nin in the days before our children. I would have liked a third, to see one of my favorite men sing his heart out in such a wonderful, dirty place. Now that would have been something. So, to all those people right now waiting for Morrissey to come onstage, there is one little mummy who, happy as she is in her world, would love to be somewhere else just for the next two hours…
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Monday August 14, 06
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02:42 PM - Please Return To Tiffany & Co.
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As far as I know I have always been interested in glamour. Even as a child I was spellbound by stylish things. My most tangible memory of the first inklings of this preoccupation with style was watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s at about age 10. I didn’t know the name of the film and was initially attracted by the apartment in which the main character lived, in which half of a claw foot bathtub was being used as a couch.
This film stuck in my head for years until I caught it again in my late teens, thrilled to see it again and finally know its name. I recorded it, and watched it over and over until the VHS got snowier and snowier. Eventually the adverts in the film became more and more retro, and still I watched it, all the way into my early twenties. I watched many other old movies too, but always came back to Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I dreamt of a life ambling down Manhattan streets with my take out coffee, my tiara, my big sunglasses and my cat with no name. My Dad had been a regular visitor to the states and would always say to me “You were made for New York, you have to go!”
In my real life I found myself in London studying Fashion at a very fashionable college. It was the early 90s, grunge was the thing and I was working hard to follow my glamorous dream. I worked so hard that when I graduated I had a job offer to go to New York to work for a predictions company. I turned it down because I was in love with the man who is now my husband and the father of my children. Manhattan could wait. I was, and remain, in love.
He took me to Manhattan in 1997. He took me to Tiffany and bought me a necklace. I cried. I had the most wonderful day of my life. Following my heart had led me to a little eggshell blue box with white satin ribbon all of my own. We came home and I longed to return, but made do with Sex & the City and my little silver coffee bean necklace.
We had our first baby in 2003 and our second in 2005. For each I received a little eggshell blue box with white satin ribbon. In fairness, I earnt them. Our first baby nearly died and I nearly died having the second. In the interim my Dad developed Alzheimer’s disease, and has never been able acknowledge my having children. In terms of glamour my life has serious dips now that I have sacrificed myself to full time motherhood. In short, I am a far cry from my dream of ambling down Fifth Avenue in my tiara and huge sunglasses. Lets face it, I am miles off target.
Then last week I went to see the Bejewelled by Tiffany exhibition at Somerset House. It is the first time that many of the jewellery pieces have ever been seen together in London. Seeing the exhibition in such a wonderful setting was amazing enough. It was just amazing. At the end of the exhibition is a single glass box, mounted simply next to a huge blow up of Audrey Hepburn in her Breakfast at Tiffany’s get up. And in it the Tiffany Diamond, a huge canary yellow stone, a whopping 128 carats. Mesmerised, I stood in front of the glass box. “How much is it worth?” I asked a nearby exhibition person. He repeated my question and then said “Its priceless madam”.
Priceless. When you’re faced with a material thing that’s officially deemed priceless it’s quite a thing. No one can afford it. The poorest can stand next to the richest and they are equal. All the money in the world can’t buy it. I thought about my children, my husband and the journey I have taken in the opposite direction of my dream. I stood in front of the Tiffany Diamond and I felt rich. I put on my huge sunglasses and smiled.
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Thursday August 03, 06
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01:03 PM - "RRRRRRRRRipppp!"
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This week Miss H and I booked in for Bikini Waxes. Miss H is going on holiday next week. I am just a glutton for punishment.
All in all it is a strange experience. ‘Abject pain to whale song’ best describes it. The couch and trolley of equipment necessary for a good bikini wax evokes perhaps a trip to a private hospital. This is countered by the typical environment preferred at provincial beauty salons. Lashings of peach coloured everything, naff prints of potted palm plants, and dismal ‘relaxation muzac’; tinkling wind chime tunes that could drive you into an institution (as if you didn’t feel like you have already been institutionalised). As I lay on the couch, feeling rather ‘prone’ I was reminded me of another trip to such an establishment.
One of my oldest and closest friends is the daughter of an extremely famous actor. He once paid for us to attend a day at a very posh Spa. The day spa package we chose promised pampering and relaxation second to none. The first couple of hours were indeed very pleasurable. Combined sauna and tanning, whirlpools and lots of lying around swathed in luxurious towelling robes. However, the treatments we had booked began at lunchtime and we couldn’t have them together as we had planned. There was no mention at all of when lunch would be available and as the afternoon wore on it became clear that food was not part of the package. Between treatments I was ushered to the ‘relaxation room’ with a view looking out over a wealthy marina. All around me rich women lolled, staring out of the window, in a strange Stepford Wife style trance. I couldn’t help but wonder. Have they nothing better to do on a Saturday? They weren’t talking, reading or even sleeping. They were barely bloody breathing. My mate had vanished into some treatment room; we were both hungry and frankly all I could think about was coffee and a roll-up. It became abundantly clear to me on that day that I don’t ‘do’ relaxation.
I decided to be pro-active and try and get my hands on some food. I got up from my chair in the relaxation room and sort of sidled out, partly so as not to disturb the so-called ‘relaxation’ and partly to draw the least attention to myself as possible. I padded past reception, still in robe and hair turban, and found myself a doorman, out the back having a fag. (I was green with envy.) “Is there anywhere I can get some food around here?” I asked hopefully. The doorman advised that the only option was to order some fruit from reception. Not quite the sort of thing I had in mind, but I went ahead and did just that. The fruit was presented to me just as I was called for yet another massage. It was 2 bananas on a silver tray. We were billed £6 for them. We left feeling exasperated, starving and stressed out. We went to a Pizza place on the way home and smoked furiously. We never did find out what happened to the gold plated bananas.
“RRRRRRRRRRippppppp!!” Back to the waxing. Miss H had specifically booked the hot number in waxing around here. ‘Sasha’ ex London, waxed many a celebrity bikini line. Very ‘thorough’ apparently. I was booked in with another ‘waxing technician’ who seemed to possess no sense of humour whatsoever, which isn’t great when you are in a compromising position. Perhaps she should have been a dominatrix or an income tax inspector I thought as ‘rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrripp!” she tore off another strip. Then she came at me with her tweezers. I had to focus on the dreaded whale song at that moment and, not before time, the job was done. “You were very calm,” she said through pursed lips. “Hmmn, must be the music,” I said.
I waited in the plush peach foyer with my intellectual glasses and “The Line of Beauty” (“I’m not an airhead – honestly!” I tried to tell the passing parade, of well, airheads). Then, something more painful than the wax itself. A remix of Bonnie Tyler’s “I Need A Hero” came blaring forth from the speakers above my head. Dear God Please Help Me. For a split second it seemed that the pain was too much. Could an exquisitely neat bikini line ever be worth such agony?
Well, yes, I can confirm that now that the redness had subsided it was just about worth it. Even when racked with the flu that I now have (karma for the airhead thing no doubt) there is something most reassuring in knowing that despite my red nose there is a part of me that is very well groomed…
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Monday July 24, 06
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12:35 PM - As Dorothy Parker once said...
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‘Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses’
This scalding little refrain that has been looping around my head since a long overdue trip to the opticians a couple of weeks ago.
It appears the dreadful headaches I have been suffering from (for about, erm, 2 years) are the result of being long sighted. Apparently, if you are short-sighted (Myopic) you pretty much know you need glasses. But if you are like me long sighted (Hyperopic) you can kind of see, but your eye muscles work overtime to enable this to happen. After eye test in a well-known national chain of opticians, the options open to me, of course, were glasses or contact lenses. I always thought that if I ever needed assistance with my vision I would wear glasses. Firstly I am a bit squeamish about eyes which rules out contacts, and well, its just another opportunity to accessorize…
However, their choice of frames was ‘limited’ lets say. Also the assistant seemed to in fact be Alan Partridge, which was of no use to me as I was choosing them on my own, with no one trusted to give me a second opinion.
I had to find the right pair.
The thing about choosing glasses is that they have to go with all aspects of you. They have to suit your face shape, complexion, hair and clothes. Not just one outfit either. ALL YOUR CLOTHES. From your best clothes when you’re out ‘doing a number’ to your grimmest around the house ‘shit I hope no one sees me’ clothes. They also have to suit you in your bathrobe and your pyjamas. And then if you too play the fashion game you have to consider the make of the specs too. I couldn’t possibly just find a pair that suits me. Oh no. They have to say the right thing.
I started thinking about well-known women who wear, or wore, glasses. The first was unfortunately Nana Maskouri. Not off to a good start then. Anne Robinson. Hmmn. Super Nanny? (Hers are FCUK - I am now obsessed with looking at other peoples glasses) It did get better. Marilyn Monroe in How to Marry a Millionaire. The ’10 Years Younger’ presenter Nicky Hambleton-Jones doesn’t do a bad job of wearing specs. Then it got bad again, Bette Davis in Now Voyager (great movie, bad glasses). What’s a girl to do? Women who wear glasses in the movies are often portrayed as bookish, spinsterish, old maid types. Or conversely they are a prop, to be discarded when the severe secretary takes down her hair in a moment of seduction. Which only lends weight to Dorothy Parkers poem.
Thinking about men in specs was easy. Morrissey, of course, gave great cachet to glasses. By wearing those awkward National Health specs the way he did, he challenged the nerdy associations and gave the geek look a sexy irony. (Astonishingly there is a whole site dedicated to Moz in glasses as our dear Alma discovered ). It is easy to think of countless well-known men who wear glasses in the main without any negative slights on their sex appeal or style. Wearing glasses is a totally different ball game for women it seems.
Anyway, after hurtling around the cities opticians rewardlessly, I walked into the only one left. And the assistant was amazing. I told her that by a process of elimination I had established what shape best suited me and that I wanted to go for the blaringly obvious “I’M WEARING GLASSES” look and she totally ‘got it’. I tried Prada (of course!), Fendi (too much), Philipe Starke (beautiful but too expensive) Face a Face (Parisian hand made specs) and Alain Mikli. Finally, I tried a pair by Miu Miu and I knew at once. I had found MY glasses. Heavy black rectangular frames, fairly small with no off putting diamante or accent colours, and a discreet ‘miumiu’ stamp on each side. Understated but definite. Perfect.
It takes a lot for Mr Nin to be distracted from his Laptop. However, he has been most attentive since I became a spec wearer. Perhaps he likes the, er, ‘strict’ look who knows. But something’s changed since Dorothy’s day…
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Thursday July 13, 06
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01:43 PM - Take Cover! The Bikini War...
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A very dear friend of mine, Miss H, has for the past month been fighting that perilous fight known as the Bikini War. Faced with an approaching holiday abroad, she has been bravely facing the terrifying quandary of what to wear on the beach.
Something about the imminent prospect of exposure is enough to paralyse even the most confident of women. My friends swimwear predicament has been further complicated by another factor; the new man. The crux of the problem seems to be how do you find a bikini that stays put (!), flatters the good bits of ones body, conceals the not so good bits and makes you look age appropriate AND feel sexy.
Most sources of advice make it all sound so simple. Not happy with your tummy/breasts/bum? (delete as appropriate) well then, wear a one-piece. But to most of the women I have spoken to on this issue, the one-piece represents a fast track to middle, even old age. Even when designers re-invent the one-piece, as they have done in recent seasons, there are so many pieces cut out of them that they are harder to wear than the average bikini. In short, in the midst of a Bikini war, reaching for the one-piece is like surrendering, waving the white flag, kissing goodbye to ones youth and acknowledging the graceful descent into aging.
Strange then to consider that the Bikini as we know it, has only existed for around 63 years. Conservative ‘two-piece’ bathing costumes had been first seen in 1943 when war time rationing ordered a 10% reduction in the fabric used in women’s swimwear. But the modern bikini was unveiled by Louis Reard in Paris in 1945, and took its name from the atomic bombs being detonated by the US Military near the Bikini Reef. It was banned in Catholic countries and considered an absolute outrage. The bikini went on to achieve iconic status throughout the 1950s and 60s thanks to Brigitte Bardot, Ursula Andress in Bond classic 'Dr No' and that awful “Itsy Bitsy Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” song. The 1970s saw the bikini become even more revealing with the rise in popularity of the string bikini, which as its name suggests consisted commonly of three tiny triangles of fabric and well, bits of string. The 80s saw the introduction of Lycra, which revolutionised swimwear and also saw the introduction of the best-forgotten ‘thong’ bikinis.
Anyway, back to my friend. It seemed the real enemy in her particular bikini war was a body fast approaching forty coupled with this new romance. Age does seem to be a really big deal in the Bikini War. In your teens bikini wearing can be an angst-ridden affair as you veer between pride and horror at your new female form. The twenties seem to be fine as most women these days are pre-children and at their physical best. The thirties seem to be way more tricky as the post-baby body is very hard to deal with in a Bikini situation and the Forties seem to bring a new confidence I’m told. Kind of a Mrs Robinson thing.
We decide to get strategic and move to the war room (her bedroom) to take stock of the ammunition. And she’s pulling out an arsenal. Two vintage Missoni bikinis from the 70s (which little Anais would sell her beloved Granny for), a black Knickerbox bikini from the 80s, and a Prada bikini from last year. It should have been enough to blow the enemy out of the water, but NO. The Missoni ones are knitted. Fine when lying perfectly still, but move around a little and OOPS! The Knickerbox number - not nearly sexy enough for a new romance. The Prada bikini was fine on the top, but the bottoms were all wrong. My friend would have to find a new ally, and like all war situations, allies take time and money…
And so, after an exhausting retail ambush, my friend won the Bikini war, with the help of a sexy brown Calvin Klein number. Bra fitting on the top, for perfect lift and fit. Beautifully fitting bottoms, cut wide on the side to eliminate that fleshy look, with a seam in the back. Very flattering. “We will fight them on the beaches…”
Now, every war has its casualties. I refer, of course, to the Bikini Wax…
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