I hate it when people moan about having colds. Especially the ones who proudly announce (usually from their desk, while eating a sandwich) that ‘it’s actually flu’. Unfortunately, I have in the last couple of days become one of these moaners. I haven’t told anyone it’s flu though. I may be shallow but I’m not a liar. No, I see myself more as a tragic figure much like Beth from Little Women. (Actually, did she not die? Maybe not Beth then…) I long to be found, pale and ghostly in a nightdress, wandering the house in search of my smelling salts, a fan and someone to loosen my bodice. Continue reading…
When the sleet started lashing against my face yesterday, I realised the difference between going for a walk before and after having kids. In my old life, I would have found the nearest café/pub/bus-stop and abandoned the whole excursion, secretly relieved at being able to blame it on the climate rather than my laziness. Continue reading…
Back in the days of yore (that’s an actual historical period you know), make-up wasn’t created in laboratories and tested on rodents/people. But I’m sure you know this from your History GCSE. In fact, women had to make do with what they could get their hands on, and believe me, it wasn’t great. Consider the poor old Elizabethan ladies. Not only were they forced to be attracted to men in codpieces, they were expected to have a flawless, alabaster complexion. Far from easy when The Pox was rife, and I don’t imagine those with sensitive tendencies had a hypoallergenic skincare range to fall back on either.
So, for the fortunate few, whiter-than-white skin was achieved by an early form of foundation called ‘ceruse’, which was a terrifying – and expensive – mixture of white lead and vinegar. I bet they were gagging for Ye Olde Clinique Shoppe to open in their neighbourhood. Because unsurprisingly, smearing lead on your face came with a few ‘issues’, like making your skin grey and shrivelled. Continue reading…
When my stepdaughter was doing a school project a couple of years ago, she asked her dad and me if we had gone to school ‘in the olden days’. We laughed of course. But I suppose, when you’re eight, the 1970s were the olden days. Just in the same way that the stories our parents regaled us with about powdered egg seemed like they were from another time.
Even back in the 70s and 80s I remember a lot less choice when it came to items of a beauty product nature. So I’m painfully aware of how I would have struggled to get by with the limited resources that were available to women during World War Two. But despite rationing and shortages, women did not give up. Quite the reverse – make-up helped them feel more feminine and positive about the chaotic world around them, and indeed propaganda encouraged them to make the most of themselves, whether they were in the services, working in a factory or staying at home. Now I just feel spoilt. Continue reading…
Getting ready to go out: oh what fun it used to be. That bubbly bath with an even bubblier glass of bubbly (OK, Lambrusco. I was young. And poor)… The hours of outfit decisions (centring around a range of lycra-based items from Next, sadly)… Blow-drying my not-very-compliant hair until it was smooth as Kylie’s (for about 4 minutes before it curled back up again)…
These days it’s more likely to be a swift shower with my head poking out of the curtain to repeatedly shout “DON’T YOU DARE put that down the toilet”. To my toddler, not my husband. Usually.
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Oh how I miss those heady days of having a newborn. DVD Box Sets, endless cups of tea, sacks of Minstrels justified by breastfeeding. But then something very sinister happens to these little bundles of flailing limbs. They start to crawl. Which is frightening enough, but not as frightening as the latest development in my offspring. Yup. He can walk. Chaos is now two feet tall and shouts ‘POSTMAN PAT’ a lot. (Well, PA-MA-PA. Christ, he’s fifteen months, what d’you want from him, a thesis?)
No longer interested in actual toys, he runs around the house with arms outstretched like a zombie finding things to destroy. Usual my things. Actually, usually my nice things. Just this week he has rubbed Petit Filous into my White Company slippers, emptied my Jo Malone Bath Oil into his own bath, and horror of horrors, tipped the contents of my make-up bag into the bin. Continue reading…
My dream job (apart from writing Product Placement of course) would be to come up with the names of colours. I’m a big fan of not using ‘green’, ‘yellow’ or ‘brown’, and I’m not even that fussed about ‘emerald’, ‘sunshine’ or ‘earth’. If I’m buying something, whether it’s a skirt, a shower curtain or a set of Tupperware bowls (shut up, I have to these days), I want to choose from shades with names that really speak to me. That skirt would have to be available in ‘celery’ to get me to add it to my virtual basket. I’d rather have my bowls in ‘yolk’. And the shower curtain? I’ll only take it if it comes in ‘ferret’.
Who’s done the walk of shame recently? If you know what I mean, you probably have. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately), the walk of shame has come to mean something different for me: pushing the buggy to the supermarket without realising I have baby crap on my face/ lentils in my hair/ a non-specific stain the size of a dinner plate on my clothing. But the real meaning is of course the return home having been out all night. Shameful indeed.
There’s a time and a place for minimalism, I think you’ll agree. For instance, when it comes to food, it’s really not OK. Don’t get me wrong: as someone still trying to shift that pregnancy poundage before the baby can actually tell me I have no shame, I certainly see the merit in smaller quantities. But a shake for breakfast, a shake for lunch, and then some poxy bit of grilled chicken for dinner? I’m bored just writing it. This is the kind of minimalism that makes me want to grill my own hand.
The same with booze. Who came up with the whole “Just stick to the same drink all night and you’ll be fine” nonsense? Realistically, you’ll still feel like a crock of crap the next day so why not just experiment? Mmmm G&T… Yum a nice lager… Ooh I fancy a glass of Pinot… I’ll stop before we get to the messier, Sambucca end of the list.
You get my point. But one place where I am a big advocate of minimalism is on your face. Yes, yours. But I don’t mean you don’t need much make-up. Of course you do. And I don’t support the whole 90s ‘natural look’ concept of ‘No Make-Up Make-Up’. (Clear mascara and a tinted moisturiser? Who are you, Anne of Green Gables?) No, I’m talking about a bang up-to-date version of that. It’s natural, but better. And it’s all done by using just a few of the current high-performance make-up products out there, to give a slick, pretty – but not too try-hard – look. Excited? God, I am. Continue reading…
