Blag Bribe and Lie into Fashion Heave

I heard on the radio the other day the social pressure and discomfort that men go through when they are asked about a sport that they hold no interest in. The DJ was stating how this makes him feel nervous and panicky when he has to try and blagg his way through the football premiership, oohing and arrhing with the comments made by the other adrenaline fuelled males. This made me wonder about what the equivalent is for women and I have found mine.

Being someone who prides herself on getting the latest outfits for a fraction of the price wading through rails at Primark and Forever 21 to find them limited pieces at the back of the hoards of ‘on trend’ garments, I find the talk of fashion designers a bit out my league.

The recent realisation of this was with wedding dresses. A couple of my friends are getting married around the same time as me, so we are all discussing themes, invitation designs and of course dresses. I being very savvy with my budget ordered mine from China. Okay I know that some people will rise on their high horse about equality and human rights and the conditions my dress was probably made in, but with no proof of this I decided to do order after a bit of research from other UK buyers. So my mum measured me and I ordered it on a very well known bidding website from the comfort of my work desk. All very glamorous! It arrived, it fitted and it was beautiful.

However I have now entered into the world a world where people don’t talk about the dress but who made it. Obviously I don’t have a clue who made mine apart from their account name, so I have inevitably made up a story behind my dress. My friends is some designer which has taken 11 months to be made and has cost a small fortune, mine is now a Vera Wang exclusive straight off the catwalk in Milan. This was a panic stricken white lie to save my female grace.

So when men fluster around sport please remember that women have blagged, lied and bribed their way into fashiosta heaven to save their sorry soles from humiliation and the walk of shame down the aisle on their special day.

The joys of being a women

Being a woman is joyous. That is my statement for today and I’m sticking to it. The reason being that we are never one person at one time in our lives. Change is and also will be a women’s provocative.

I have been many women within my years, from the gold clad, jogging bottom wearing, pony tailed youth who hung around on street corners looking ‘cool’, to the black Goth who was unsurprisingly relishing in being miserable and moody. These childhood years spent experimenting with my image, too much the amusement of myself when the family albums are uncovered, have opened the world of fashion and personal awareness that would not have been possible today.

I have now honed my images down to a certain few and they come to light depending on my feelings and prospected occasion for that day. For instance when dining with MR B on a Saturday night a certain Vamp appeal rises over me and I emerge from my dressing room red lipped and bodied conned to an inch on my life. At the weekend the laid back 50’s style of sweethearts and summer frolics fulfils my senses and inspiration taking from Butlins summer camps and candy floss infuses into pastel cardigans and brightly coloured slacs, with plimp soles and canvas inappropriately strewn onto my soft flesh.

MR B has it good, where as I fell in love with that suit and tie, the shiny shoes and power, which unmistakably is worn day in and day out, even to the Zoo! He has a different fiancée every day. I am a mass of characters fighting for recognition and they plead with my consciousness every morning praying that they will jewel my body and be the star of the day.

So here I am today, 50’s style hairdo, slacs and cardigan, looking not out of place in an afternoon tea parade in Soho. And tomorrow, as my sub consciousness already scans my wardrobe contents like the unknown preciousness of Pandora’s box, I relish in finding new inspiration from the old and revamping myself as the years escape me.

Here’s to tomorrow and the ever-changing woman.

What will I wear tomorrow?

Day one

With hopefully a touch of Dawn Porter and stark reflections on reality I will be able to accomplish a distrubingly beautiful mirror of my life and how everything has almost cracked up to what has been expected on the rollcoster journey of my life.

My crave for the 1950's suburban housewife life, of cupcakes, baking, dinner parties and fashion are coming true and now my journey to marriage has begun. I have finally relised that money is not the path to happiness and that being a career minded mongrul is not what I was placed on this earth to do.

x x