So this weekend I’m supposed to play with light at different times of the day; dawn, the middle of the day, afternoon and dusk. Well, ain’t nobody got time for that, I have things to do and people to see today. And hoovering to do.
However, I have something even better to share, I think.
Last night something made me think of my old Flickr account, so I went looking for it and found all my old pictures! While rummaging through my digital memories, I found an album entitled Scanners (2008). Basically, all I had to create these images was my mother’s scanner, a computer and – voila! – this series of incredibly pretentious shots was birthed.
Aren’t they special?
Now, when I look at these, all I see is a silly girl trapped in a life she didn’t want but the images are kind of great. Yes that’s a banana (and my boobs).
As for the rest of the pictures on Flickr, I’m tempted to delete them all forever. I’m tempted to pretend I was never that stupid hopeful girl; and maintain that I was always this together and flawless. (Insert maniacal laughter here).
Life isn’t like that though, nor should it be. We’ve got to hold on to the memories, no matter how sick they make us feel now. It’s all a matter of comparison, after all.
Today’s word prompt is journey. Write a poem about anything that word evokes for you, from the excitement of a trip you’re about to embark on, the mental progress you witnessed someone make, or the struggles, pleasures, and extreme emotions that travel can bring about. Via Writing 201: Journey (16th February 2015)
Today’s form: limerick
I decided to base my limerick today on the journey of self love. It was fun to do and I think, quite effective.
Now that I sit next to a bona fide fashion blogger (go check her out for yourself: tattyfrankland.com), I have started thinking more seriously about my own wardrobe.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I shoved on decade old jogging bottoms and neglected my overall appearance before (love sweats, nothing against them at all), it’s just that I had hit a bit of a wall, personal style wise.
Now I’ve been thinking a little more about breaking a few of the unwritten fashion rules I had set myself (and what are they for anyway, if not for annihilating completely?) and it’s been fun. I’m damn cute actually, when I want to be.
While this is definitely not a fashion blog, I love clothes and thought it might be fun to mix things up with a little What I’m Digging post. I have an ASOS wish list the length of my entire head, shoulders and body, so why not share eh?
I’ve broken them into handy sub sections: Sweet Treats (under £10), Think About It Splurges (under £25) and I Wish Wonders (the pricier end of the scale). Fun, eh?
NB: I actually succumbed and purchased two items from this list while writing my post. Last expenditure for a while, I promise.
These all look very ordinary to the un-trained eye, but I am pushing back against my own Grab a Skater Dress and Throw It Over Leggings styling. I’ve decided to love that look but style more bottoms (skinny jeans, joggers, skirts) and tops (the aforementioned slogan tee, cute knits) together. Also get the hang of smart layering.
I hope to report back on how that’s going soon, but until then, I’m just going to sit on my credit card and be sensible about future purchases.
I have five minutes and I want to post today, so I thought I’d freestyle a love letter to my favourite thing in recent times. My Cherry Red Doctor Martens.
Dear Heaven in the Form of Footwear,
Yes, I made the mistake of going out in you the other night in just one pair of socks, foolishly believing you to be ‘broken in’. I’m still paying the price. The thing with you is you’ve been worth every single blister; even single irritated Achille’s heel.
You’ve been in my life for about two months and I already forget what life was like before you. I have dry feet all the time (except in the shower, where alas we cannot go together). My feet are warm and comfy, if I remember, always to wear two pairs of socks, the thicker the better.
In you, I have found the power to stomp like I believe I was born to do. Up, down, up, down and all the way back again. I feel like there is nothing I can’t do, no terrain that would defeat us.
In you, I feel like part of an exclusive club, coaxing discreet nods of approval from other DM wearers. I have a ‘DM Twin’ at work who looks like Bette Davis, if Bette Davis had a bleach blonde crop. Our bond is stronger, I swear, because we share a love of the same footwear.
You go with everything, from jeans to tea dresses. Especially tea dresses. You’re a miracle, a dream and I will never go back.
I love you.
Love, me xoxo
Are you a DM lover? I’d love to hear your ode to Doctor Marten.
After spending quite a lot of time away from home with family over the Christmas period, it was really lovely to be back in our own flat. I’ve talked about being a homebody before and this is never truer than in the Winter months when it’s cold and wet outside, and my sofa is willing to hold me while I watch Netflix.
But this is not a post about home comforts, it is a post about warpaint, or lack thereof. On returning home on the 27th, I half-arsedly unpacked my fluffy cat shaped travel bag, only to find that my make-up bag wasn’t there. No need to panic, I thought, it’s obviously in my handbag, where it normally lives.
Why I was expecting to find it in my luggage, I don’t know. Except, it wasn’t in my handbag either…
Not that long ago, this discovery would have send me into a tailspin, or at least straight to the nearest make-up selling establishment. I did send a text immediately to my mother, suspecting that it had fallen into the boot of her car (it had) but then I really started to think about make up and why I needed it so much.
I came up with this. I need it because I love and want it. I don’t need it because I can’t conceive of leaving the house without it. This is not something I would ever have been able to do a decade, even five, three, two years ago but now I can and do.
There is a freedom in being able to operate without having to think about your face, it’s true and weekends are usually spend bare-faced and slouchy. I like the feeling of being fresh and clean. I don’t run from people I know should I bump into them in the street.
But, and here’s the big but (tee hee); I love make up and really enjoy wearing it. When people describe it as warpaint, I know exactly what they mean. I’m just not myself without my signature liner (even when I’ve fucked it right up).
That can never be a bad thing as far as I’m concerned, knowing what works for you and which bits you love, therefore want to play up. It’s not vanity to want to present the best of yourself. Plus, for me, it’s about ritual and I have a pretty non-negotiable one:
Wake up at 7am Hula hoop in front of the TV for 30 minutes Do make up with a cup of tea Get dressed Brush teeth Watch about 20 minutes of bad TV (I live ten minutes from work) Leave for the day
My make up applying session is the only time I really spend with myself. It’s just about the only time in the day that I really look at myself and I think it’s important.
I mean, I wear glasses all the time and I love how cute (and smart!) they look but I do miss my face. I haven’t really shown it to the world without specs for two years and on the rare occasion that I have been caught off guard without them, I’ve been complimented on my eyes or make up, and that feels bloody great. Like I’m no longer invisible.
I’ve found myself with an impromptu afternoon off thanks to the kindness of work, who released us back into the wild at 2pm today.
I can’t lie, I was moving stacks of unimportant paper from one side of my desk to the other in a bid to look busy and hadn’t the strength to complete a whole day of faux-productivity.
So, here I am in front of Brooklyn Nine-Nine, back in pajamas with some unexpected time on my hands. I did pick up Lena for a wee while but she wasn’t quite doing it for me.
So blogging it is. It’s a few days before the new year rings in and I’m feeling okay about that. Naturally, this late in proceedings it is typical to be reflective.
Usually to have a ponderous scratch of the head and review what you didn’t manage to achieve despite all good intention; more likely to set up the next in-depth list of goals for the fresh snowy carpet of the new year ahead.
I will probably do that before the witching hour comes on the 31st but not yet. I must have a good think about what I really want to put myself through first.
Instead, I will tell you about the Christmas present I bought myself. The calm before the storm seems a good time to mention it.
I bought myself a name. And with this new name, comes great responsibility.
When I was born, my mother didn’t name me for three weeks. She rolls this anecdote out on the reg and I can’t decide if I think it’s a bit upsetting, or that it’s the coolest thing ever. I am leaning toward the latter. She maintains that they were waiting for my personality to manifest itself before they labelled me forever with a moniker that didn’t fit.
I almost had a name that puts me in mind of a Russian spy, and again I can’t be sure how I feel about that. Perhaps by not having the name Natasha, my career with MI5 was snipped even before it began.
It took me a long time to come to terms with my name. It’s just unusual enough to be messed up all the time by anyone using it. I am constantly referred to as ‘Christine’, ‘Chrissy’, ‘Christina’ – even ‘Christopher’. It seems now that I have spent most of my life ‘coming to terms’ with my name, my hair, my body.