Guardian Girl

Not like ‘Baby it’s cold outside, it’s so wintry and romantic, let’s crunch through the leaves, let’s wrap up in lambswool scarves and gasp at the fireworks.’

Like ‘Baby I’ve got a cold, I’m so weak and irritable, let’s stew in our own mucus, let’s wrap up in stinking, moth-eaten jumpers and gape at the telly.’

I will start by wincingly addressing the past three days of fashion.

On Friday I arrived home from a long day of business-tripping and met one of this blog’s most long-standing patrons, Photographer Cari, at a large shopping centre in East London.

Shirt

Shit

Will someone give this wretched beast a Lemsip?

On Saturday I broke free of my bunged-up, washed-out shackles to emerge looking like a radiant supermodel.

Street scene

Crime scene

Only kidding.

Then, on Sunday, things got even more terrifying.

Step out

Step down

If I was married to a CEO, he’d no doubt have this picture in a silver frame on his desk.

If my feet look inordinately large (although I imagine you may have averted your eyes by the time you got as far down as the hair) it’s because I am wearing size 12 DMs – they were the closest match in the house. However I fear that is the last thing about this photo I ought to be making excuses for.

And now, from muffin topped monsters to heavy-bottomed pans, it’s on to this issue’s food.

It has been a weekend of juniper. I do like juniper, but I’m not sure if I need it on my tongue three days in a row.

Chicken with rosemary and juniper

Chicken with rickets and anaemia

I love the way the colours really pop in my photos, don’t you?

Sunday dinner was delicious (ate it with roast duck breast) but by now the juniper was starting to get on my wick.

Potato and celeriac gratin with juniper

Potato and celeriac with juniper grating (harrrrrrrrr!!!!!)

Yet again my photo looks like it’s been puked out of a cat. A non-IAMS cat I should think.

As far as the Measure goes, it’s been an unsuccessful weekend, and I thank the Lord for that. I can’t summon up as much as a suggestion of a girl crush on Pixie Geldof any more than I can grow a Fu Manchu moustache. There’s not a lot I care to do about the former failure, but to address the latter I bought one of those fake moustache selection packs. I did it to show commitment, but I did it grudgingly. I know it’s Movember and all, but aren’t moustaches just so over by now? I mean, have one on your face if you like, but you don’t gotta put one on your T-shirt, your local bar, your necklace and your profile pic as well, do you?

The Henry Holland pants may potentially arrive upon my bottom courtesy of my apparent three degrees of separation from the man himself but I think that’s the only way it’s going to happen, since they don’t appear to be in the shops yet. Likewise the Carhartt/APC apron, but minus the degrees of separation scenario. Shame – an apron is one thing I could actually do with having.

Well look, this post is getting progressively boring, even for me.

Adios.

Conclusions:

• It is all to do with how you feel about your food tasting of gin. I personally do not eat potato gratin with the intention of being transported back to the precise moment on a warm summer’s night when, straddling the fence to Regents Park, I realised I had relinquished control of my bladder – and that I was crying and laughing at the same time – and that I was wailing something about a bus stop in Headington – and that I was being watched with increasing horror by someone I was trying to seduce
• No, I didn’t really do that
• I didn’t!

Walk this way

Dork this way