So how is 2011 panning out for you all so far? I suppose it is no coincidence I am completing my first Blog Entry on what is more commonly known as Blue Monday (more than just a classic New Order song, apparently). I am blue, it’s the January blues, the work blues, the stuck in my flat with no money blues…so I feel I should admit to a few things….not things I want to dwell on…but things nonetheless.
The first is that my resolution to whinge less was the first to go out the window. I blame work. Specifically the fact that I had to open the shop on New Year’s Day for a pointless four and a half hours. In which time, I saw practically three people and whinged about it for four and a half hours, in between trying on some exquisite vintage-inspired tea dresses, all of which are on my Uniform wishlist. Nice one, work.
The second, and this is harder to break, is that try as I may (and that’s really really trying) I cannot get the Boy of Dreams out of my head and this is much worse than I anticipated. Yes, he has a face like a biscuit (Hobnobs have never been so sexually appealing). Yes, he actually isn’t that nice to me when we see each other (a punch on the arm does not a greeting make – especially when the puncher is clearly not aware of their own strength). But the heart still wants what it wants, and the unmentionable revelation of last month seems to have done nothing other than make me pine even more. I’m sure I wasn’t always this masochistic. I seem to have acquired an ability to fall faster and harder, the older I get. This must be stopped in its tracks. What an epic resolution FAIL.
It hasn’t all been doom and gloom these past few weeks though fellow musers. No no no. I supposed I should be starting the ‘Year of Change’ (as I have coined it) on a high with reasons to be cheerful, and look forwards, rather than forever longing backwards. There were, after all, wonderful New Year’s celebrations with Lovemenot and her sister hosted by my most favourite club in the world Proud, including Burlesque beauties, band-hotties, dancing until our feet were on fire and a cheeky kiss with a lovely young man whose name escapes me (I think this is because I didn’t ask him). There was also midnight chomping courtesy of Maccy D’s, even the refined young women of Dalston need to eat at 3a.m sometimes you know.
I’ve been at it with the eye-sex again. Eye-sex with sandy Gingers too (stickler for standards). This was a particularly quiet overground to Dalston Junction one Saturday after a hectic day at work. I was extremely tired from sober over-exertion at Koko the night before, he was sat looking charming and seductive in drool-worthy uniform of checked shirt and leather jacket. I would like to point out the word ‘sober’ again, as my month-long drinking ban is about the only resolution that is proving to be effective at the moment! Those eyes, that beard with a tinge of ginge, the hair, the guttural laugh. Perhaps it’s time to enlist the old-school opportunist confidence I once possessed?
Yes indeed there have been incidents at bus stops in my past and phone numbers scribbled on receipts thrust into unsuspecting hands of Saturday boys in shops. I miss those carefree days, these days I seem to be more concerned with whether or not a crow’s foot just appeared under my eye or whether I have done enough in my little old life to warrant turning the unspeakable age that I will be turning this year (though I have it on good authority I look no older than 22 – I could sleep with this person for saying that, but I won’t - because it’s TO and he is BANNED). Nevertheless, the confidence was not installed; and off this new beautiful man popped at Shoreditch High Street leaving behind a trail of ‘what could have beens’ and a sincere hope that I see him (with ‘carefree spirit’ fully intact) again.
Plus there is the slightly wonderful news that I have been selected for free tickets to the MASSIVE ‘In New Music We Trust’ gig in Kentish Town this Thursday. Featuring sets from the awesome White Lies, Jamie Woon, Funeral Party, Sleigh Bells and a DJ set from Nero, should be a good night. Am very excited about prospective free night out, especially as White Lies have all but excelled themselves with their new album ‘Ritual’. In fact I feel so elated about the whole thing it feels as if hyper-monkey Zane Lowe himself picked my little old name out of a hat and screamed it at the top of his over-excitable lungs. That’s how I roll, and I make no apology for it.
So it seems the world and it’s Mother (gosh…what a pun) is pregnant. Posh is knocked up again (and who can blame her, being married to Mr ‘The More Years I Have On Me, The Better I Look’ Beckham after all) as is Natalie Portman, Marion Cotillard and all sorts of other beautiful celebrity types. One can only wish one looks that svelte and glowing when it becomes her turn to bear Baby-Musings. Did we predict a baby boom year in 2011?
The one that surprised me most is Kate Hudson, who is considering a move to Devon to be with part-Musical Genius, part Long-Lost-Brother-of-Skeletor Matt Bellamy. I can recommend some good farm shops in the area should she be interested; plus Mummy Musing would probably make herself available for babysitting duties should Matt offer an acoustic ‘Unintended’ or ‘Knights of Cydonia’ as payment in kind. But don’t think you can kid everyone with the ‘it wasn’t at all planned but we’re very excited’ revelation guys. Any man who can write a Doctor Who-inspired rock-orgasm called ‘Exogenesis Symphony’ knows exactly what he is doing, and that ‘lack of condom may lead to baby’. Honestly, Hudson you’re fooling no-one. Grrr, even celebrity news about perfectly nice celebrities (no Jordan, I still don’t care) is making me whinge.
It is usually at this time of year I am much excitable about the previews for Spring/Summer trends. I don't know why, I don't know what kind of earth-shattering Catwalk revelation I'm expecting year upon year. This year, however, such pleasure is not to be had as I am constantly attacked photographically with ugly reminders, from otherwise sane Fashion Journalists, that Neon is on its way back. I can’t help but wonder whose idea it has become, once again, to encourage the general public to dress like liquorice allsorts. As an employee of the fashion industry, I for one am boycotting it, I refuse to traipse around in the heat (or monsoon) of a Londinium Summer looking like a missing member of Matthew Bourne’s Nutcracker crew, based on the fact that DVF (or whoever) has decided that everything bad about the 80s is, in fact, cool again.
I see the groundbreaking ‘Urban Nomad’ trend is back citing a cross between city cool and bloody safari-inspired prints. Every year it shoots up, every year we are told to stack hideous bangles on top of each other to ‘embrace our inner tribal sister’, and every year the same boring trend is disguised under another crap name. Ladies and gentlemen I give you the Safari Jungle of 2006, the Global Nomad of 2008 and now the Urban Nomad (this in no way makes women’s Chinos in, in my humble and slightly gothic, opinion). Let’s just call it what it is shall we? The ‘Dickheads who can’t afford to take a sabbatical, so wear a bit of zebra print to make up for the fact they are more likely to be surfing Amazon.co.uk than chilling in the Amazon’ trend for 2011. Next year I want to see something radical. But not Neon. Or Dickhead-inspired. This Summer I believe I’ll be going for my ‘Rock and Roll Gothic Librarian Geek-Chic Meets Romance with Nude Lace’. And definitely no Chinos…
Ah, Happy New Year one and all…here's to looking forwards
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