Guardian Girl

I prayed for opulent backdrops this week, I got white. I prayed for leaping and leaning, I got standing. You can’t hide behind standing against a white background – that makes it just you against the model, your clothes against the designer clothes, your iPhone against the photographer’s camera, you against the Guardian. With you still losing. That’s you meaning me.

In reality this made a good-enough Sunday outfit, apart from the torn and blistered feet having tramped around town in heels all day.

I did also spend all of Saturday in the requisite pencil skirt/heels/skin-tight polo-neck combo, having copied the first picture in the fashion shoot, but I never got a photo of it. That’s because I spent the day drinking white wine and double whiskies, then lost most of the evening to all manner of highly questionable activity of which I have little to no memory. None of that activity involved having my portrait taken, which is probably an extremely lucky thing in hindsight. I won’t describe the gory details but suffice it to say that my boyfriend put his hand in his jacket pocket on Sunday morning to find it was full of yoghurt, which I turned out to have spooned in there as a spiteful act of rebellion against some imagined, general crime of the heart he had apparently committed (probably ‘being against me’ or similar.) He later found a quantity more yoghurt inside his woolly hat – and something inside me suspects that won’t be the last we see of the toffee Muller Light either. Bloody white wine.

Polka

Bulkier

Conclusions:

• I can’t exactly describe why yet, but I slightly blame Saturday night’s bad behaviour on the pencil skirt. It would never have happened had I been wearing jeans. The more tailored the outfit, the more gruesome the behaviour. That’s how come bankers are always in strip clubs snorting coke, trying to break free from all those seams and darts
• That’s how come the financial crisis happened