As it’s almost the middle of July, and my desire to cry and drink Pimm’s is at an all-time high, I’ve finally decided to admit defeat and join the rest of the world in celebrating summer. Unfortunately, my wardrobe doesn’t quite match my mind set; I’d love to spend the next few months wearing woollen tights and oversized cat t-shirts but both society and the weather seem to frown upon that.
In search of a solution to my clothing issues, I spent the afternoon shopping for pieces that would further my plans to emulate the current queen of boho, Vanessa Hudgens. However, whilst trying on a multitude of patterned dresses and kimonos, I spotted something that changed any plans I had to look summer chic: Harry Potter t-shirts.
After 15 minutes of sitting on the changing room floor, torn between the Hufflepuff and Slytherin shirts, both two sizes too small for me, I realised: selecting my summer wardrobe is the least of my problems.
It’s June, also known as the beginning of the end. On Saturday I had a half an hour debate with myself over whether I should put on tights: if I wear them I look like a Wednesday Addams wannabe, and if I don’t I have to show the world my less than supermodel legs. In the end I decided to go for the lesser of two evils and try to give off the image that I’m wearing 120 denier control tights to push the boundaries of what’s accepted by society. Summer just isn’t my forte, but instead of writing yet another post about how I miss the pleasure that a mild, cloudy, day brings me, I’ve decided to be more positive and mention all the things I’ve been loving as of late.
- Actors from my favourite television shows tweeting each other. It’s been 7 years since The OC ended, and 7 years since I said goodbye to the small glimmer of hope that Seth Cohen might move to England and fall in love with me. However, seeing Kelly Rowan and Melinda Clarke at dinner together, and Peter Gallagher tweeting about it afterwards only solidifies my love for the show and gives me hope that Kirsten and Julie might one day be back on our screens, bitching about the Newpsies. It also cements my theory that I care more about fictional characters than real people.
- Spending time with my family. This past weekend I saw my Nana, and after an hour of chatting about biscuits and seeing her new M&S skirts, I informed her that I’d be home in a week and would pop round to see her. Her response? “I’ve seen you now, you don’t need to bother with that!” She’s a gem.
- Animal interspecies friendships. Dogs kissing cats, cats hugging bunnies – you name it, I’ve seen it – I can’t think of anything better than endlessly clicking on YouTube videos of animal BFF’s. I’ve always been a soft touch, but I might as well settle in with a tub of ice-cream, The Notebook and a box of tissues now because I’ve officially lost all ability to pretend I’m secretly hard as nails. If a cat can cuddle a bunny then surely there’s hope for the rest of humanity too.
- New hair. Now my life can also be a poorly made romantic comedy, complete with makeover montage where I fall down the stairs wearing my new heels afterwards! Quick question – if there’s no-one around to like my selfie, did it ever really happen?
Of course, I still hate passive aggressive tweeters and people eating on public transport, so at heart I’m still the same miserable cow that I’ve always been.
It’s that time of year again, temperatures rise a couple of degrees for just a weekend and all of a sudden we’re in the bloody Bahamas. Every time Spring rolls around I tell myself that I’ll try not to behave like Wednesday Addams on crack but unfortunately the sudden spike in sunny weather has once again left me feeling like an anxiety-ridden, social pariah.
It all began with the wasp stinging incident of 1995, the day I lost my dignity and ability to act normally in social situations involving beer gardens, barbecues or ice-cream: the day Pollyanna replaced herself with Blair Waldorf’s less-nice sister. I can be sat having lunch, enjoying a large G&T with my friends until a wasp lands on my large order of fries and my palms start to sweat, my entire body is ridden with fear and I’m out of the door faster than Usain Bolt.
It’s probably for the best anyway: why would I want to be sat at the local park, surrounded by screaming children and half-price sausage rolls when I can be at home alone complaining? I miss Christmas, bobble hats, mulled wine and the sheer misery of everyone else in the UK.
Currently lain on my bed naked like an unhappy starfish, void of any emotion apart from anger and frustration. I’ve already flipped my covers and pillow over to ‘the cold side’ about 5 times and have come to the realisation that the only cold thing in this house is my heart. Thanks Krissy Chula, nailed it.
Summer is here! In case the hundreds of Facebook and Twitter updates of people who are “OMG so excited that it’s sunny!” haven’t clued you in, summer has hit the UK. Bah Humbug, that’s what I say, inconvenient outfit choices which either involve getting my deathly pale legs out or flashing the flesh and feeling like the lone fat girl amongst a sea of hipster barbie dolls. I want to wear tights, I want to wear black, I want to put my make up on without it sliding down my face half an hour later, I want to step out of my house without immediately sweating or getting attacked by a swarm of wasps. The only good thing about summer is iced coffee, pimms and the fact that it’s only a few short months until winter. Barbecues can fuck off, and so can all of the arseholes that think life is ten times better just because it’s sunny. Life’s a solid 5/10, it might be sunny but before you know it you’ll get shit on by a bird and come crashing down to earth again.