Back to (un)reality
Well, I’ve spent a week at my new place of work and it all seems very great. Unfortunately I haven’t yet mustered the courage to ask my new colleagues to accompany me to the park and photograph me perched on a branch, which is top of my list of tasks this week since I’ve decided to return to Guardian Girl proper.
Let’s be honest about it – this blog became pretty sub-standard when I tried to get reborn as Independent Woman. It just ain’t me. And, as actual-genius Jesse said at at the weekend, The Independent isn’t the same – it doesn’t have a visible halo of sub-culture surrounding it. It just tells you the news, really. Even the recipe pages lack the secret whispers that if you only baked a potato cake on Wednesday you’d be part of This Crowd. The fashion doesn’t lure you in by repeating themes week in, week out until you find yourself wearing your hair in plaits or tucking your scarf into your belt because it suddenly feels like the obvious thing to do. All in all The Independent doesn’t boil down in the same way to a sort of politically conscious Grazia. I still haven’t managed to work out exactly how the Guardian manages it, but it does, and I’m back riding the bandwagon for the foreseeable future.
The other blogly misfortune of my present life situation, besides being the shy new kid on the work block, is that I’ve busted my foot proper. It’s been sore for a while but on Friday night I turned it over on a curb and spent the night causing mischief in A&E. My foot now looks like a hairy plum (sadly I can’t put my lycanthropic toes down to the injury – I have only my lax personal grooming to blame) and hurts a lot. I was given crutches, which made this week’s shopping quite a task, since they leave no hand space for baskets. Luckily my friend Tom was willing to help me out, so I managed to buy my crumpet and farl ingredients despite the gammy foot, but by the time we’d done the shopping and had a few pints of beer and a burger to celebrate, it was too late to rise crumpets. I’ll do my best to cook them tonight, although I must pop by Liv’s on my hobble home and ask her to take my day’s outfit photo. Every time I have a necessary holiday from this godforsaken experiment, I forget what a logistical nightmare it is.
On Saturday I took my crutches to the pub via the newsagent and had a look at what was on the cards for my first week back again, in the company of the as-ever-bemused-by-the-whole-concept Disco Dave. He just looked at me as if I was a complete idiot while I flicked through the fashion pages (“I know a few Mickey Mouses, you could cut their ears off and stick them to yer ‘ead”).
I tried to be patient looking at those ears (you’ll see the photos on here soon if you didn’t buy the paper) but I have to say I felt some degree of exasperation. I instantly knew I’d be substituting a headscarf – or an alice band at the very most.
The recipes look kind of nice in a let’s-pretend-our-bedsit-is-a-cobhouse kind of way. My favourite fantasy, that is. I really like the look of the massive omelette extravaganza Yotam’s done this week, although buying the 15 eggs made my arteries demand I have a friend over that evening, and Dan Lepard excels himself once more by writing a nice cake recipe and then telling you to pour rum/melted chocolate/butter/evaporated milk/liquid calorie over the top of it for good measure. All right, I will.
The life, the universe and everything pages seem to make sense and I think I’m going to practice being angry and enjoying it all week. So watch out. Even the home pages look kind of nice and simple-ish.
Yeh, never mind the crutches, I’m going to do the best I can this week and we’ll see what happens. Photos to follow as soon as I can transport myself labouredly to some familiar photographers (oh Cari how I miss you!), crumpet-ring retailers and Jude-Law-trainer-replica shops.
I’m back, there’s just not much evidence of it yet. Wish me luck.
Sincere apologies
Dear reader(s),
Today is my last day in my job, and it’s straight on to the next one on Monday. For this reason I’ve been spending my spare time tying up all manner of loose ends.
Please accept my heartfelt apologies for the uncanny quiet. The project has by no means come to an end (in fact I spent £35 on a Stella McCartney babygrow only yesterday!) but over the next few days I might find it more tricky to keep up the inane babble of commentary.
On one’s first day in a new job, one is generally not encouraged to march up to the nearest person and enquire if they wouldn’t mind photographing one straddling the sink in a pair of silk harem pants.
Still, I’ll try my best, I promise.
X
GG/IW
Independent’s days
Life is dramatically different as Independent Woman, it must be said. Last week was great fun, what with being liberated from the obligation to cook a proper dinner every evening and being able to see my friends in the pub, dressed in my own outfits, with just the odd exciting little cultural mission to undertake – even if only buying a bunch of DVDs. Today has given birth to my first hollow moment, though, wanting a comforting evening and finding no winter hotpot recipe awaiting me at home. Could it be that I miss Guardian Girl and am readier than I ever predicted to return to the motherland of Fearnley-Whittingstall and The Measure? Crumbs – the very words put tears of homesickness in my eyes! Anyway, let’s focus on the job at hand. Last week’s exploits have so far gone unreported, so here’s a catch-up episode of the achievements, near misses and abysmal failures since I last sat at keyboard.
First, television. The Independent had a wee spot about playwright/writer Jack Thorne, who has an upcoming telly collaboration with Shane Meadows. This isn’t on until next year, as is the case with many items covered in this On the Agenda column that I’ve perhaps rather thoughtlessly chosen to copy. On the plus side it means I get some forward planning in my life, which is welcome relief after developing the knee-jerk reaction of replying: “I’d love to but I’ll have to let you know after I’ve seen what the Guardian tells me to do” when faced with any invitation. (My mate Disco Dave’s recent response to me asking politely what he was up to at the weekend: “Dunno until I’ve bought the Independent on Sunday, sweetheart – probably sticking pins in my eyes and taking a shit in a church.” He’s been the first person to give me a bit of genuine stick for this whole thing.)
Because I’m in no position to watch advanced screenings of TV programmes that possibly haven’t even been made yet, I did my best to ‘read around the subject’ instead. The IoS reports it’s our last chance to go up to Manchester to watch Jack Thorne’s play 2nd May 1997 but this isn’t going to happen for me. I’d go for a weekend in Manchester but I wouldn’t try to make it up there on the Megabus to watch a play on a school night and my weekends are busy at the moment, so that was that. Instead I stopped off at HMV after work and bought myself some bargainish DVDs from HMV. I got Shameless and Skins, both of which Thorne has written for but neither of which I’ve seen (well, maybe 1.5 episodes of Skins – enough to know it makes me feel cripplingly decrepit, clinically obese and criminally dull) and Shane Meadows’ This is England, all for the cheaper-than-a-ticket-to-Manchester sum of £26. I haven’t watched them yet but they’ve joined the DVD queue, and I’ve photographed the results as always to prove I’m telling the truth. I’ve already seen This is England and I think it’s superb, so that’s a good one to have for a rainy day:
This is England
This is a DVD of This is England
Marks out of 10: 5
I was also supposed to buy some books – the ones the IoS mentions might not be out yet but I thought I could get the prequels at least. However I put it off until Saturday and in the event book shopping didn’t fit with people’s plans, so I let that one go. I have a book queue at the moment too, with a Paul Newman bio at the front, so that’s no great loss.
Marks out of 10: 0
The main event of the weekend was one regular readers will know I’d been looking forward to all week – the Hammer House of Horror Festival.
It was supposed to consist of three parts: a special screening on Friday night, an exhibition on Saturday daytime and a couple more films later that day. Unfortunately I couldn’t twist anyone’s arm to come all the way to Kensal Rise (I have lots of east, northeast and south crew but northwest-dwellers are under represented among my friends) for the screenings at the Lexi, and after Friday night’s shenanigans I wasn’t sure if I might be barred from any future Hammer events, so I didn’t want to rock up on my own dressed as a vampire and be cruelly rejected.
The Friday night event at The Curzon Soho was a greatly exciting affair on paper but something about it fell slightly flat in reality and, because it didn’t kick off until 9.30pm, several pints had been consumed before it all began. They were serving a highly delicious whisky and ginger cocktail (once glass of which was free), we were experiencing the well-documented liberty of the facial disguise, and we went a bit bonkers.
Phoebe heckled the CEO of Hammer Horror (“Where’s MC Hammer?”), I got the giggles very loudly during an introduction by the organiser, which killed even me because he seemed extremely sweet and nervous (and he was very handsome) – but I just couldn’t stop once I’d started – and we got a few vampirically cool glances from the daughters of the starring actress who did a dull Q&A before the film started. Liv and Phoebe found the film boring after ten minutes and headed back out to the bar to drink more cocktails, while I feel asleep, dribbling in my full zombie make up and only awakening when the room was empty but for the odd tutting horror fan trying to push past my blood-stained corpse. Then a band played. They were called the Dellas and they were fairly mediocre, so Phoebe livened matters up with a bit of dancing while I harped on to anyone who’d listen about how desperate I was for a plate of tagliatelle with quatro formaggi sauce.
All in all it was more hammered than Hammer, and we perhaps should have been more mindful how many of those ginger cocktails we consumed. I blame the organisers, who made it all sound so thrilling that we could barely contain our excitement and then had to try to behave ourselves in a quiet room after getting all whipped up.
OK, I blame us.
On the Saturday I headed to the Idea Generation Gallery on Redchurch Street with Adam, Katy and Thomas – and that was undeniably worthwhile. There are some excellent photos, posters and other bits n bobs on display, it’s a really nice space to walk around and very well presented. It comes highly recommended – and it’s free.
Instead of the Lexi cinema showings we then bloodied up again and spent the day drinking drinks and eating tapas around East London, where everyone inexplicably loves dressing up as the undead anyway, so no disapproving glances there. Here follows the Hammer gore-gore gallery of shame.
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- Off for tapas
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- A very patient lady who’d written a book about Hammer
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- Exhibitionism
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- Why’s no one else dressed up?
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- Zombie petrol
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- Remembering the night before
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- It’ll wash off
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- Foreground: hideous corpse. Background: serious cinemagoers
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- Posters of unbelievable goodness
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- Terrified at state of selves
Marks out of 10: 7
We really tried on this one and you have to give us all props for it – especially considering that I still have faint rivers of blood running down my face if you look hard enough. Three points deducted for not being thorough – or serious – enough about it, though.
Task #3: A Chocolate Spread
I would’ve loved to be able to do today’s task properly, as it involved going to The Connaught for a special afternoon tea created with Valrhona. It isn’t mentioned on the hotel’s website as far as I can see but I’ll take The Independent‘s word for it.
However there were several obstacles to achieving this one.
First, I’ve run out of holiday at work so I’d only be able to go on a weekend day, which is a very tricky time to book afternoon tea at a posh London hotel at short notice. I know this from experience. Second, it would cost about £50 a person and, even if I was willing to save up that cash to spend on a eating chocolate at an exclusive location, I doubt (m)any of my friends would feel the same – particularly those with kids (apparently this is designed to be a family affair). All in all this item on the agenda didn’t seem to be aimed at me. It seemed to be aimed at wealthy parents with lots of spare time. Hmm, bells are ringing.
Not to be deterred from the challenge, though, I popped out for half a flapjack and a Chupa Chup to eat at my desk instead. It ain’t posh but it’s the best I could do under the circumstances.
Valrhona
Chupa Chup
Marks out of 10: 3
I did make some sort of effort here but two of the classic obstacles to success are rearing their heads once more: time and money. We can’t all afford to spend half a ton and a day’s holiday on chocolate, despite what the left-wing press might think. Photographs brought to you by Nokia today as I left my camera at home. You can’t tell, can you.
Task #2: Uniqlo Heat Tech
Next thing on The Independent‘s agenda: thermal undergarments from Uniqlo. I was pleased these came up, what with them being fairly cheap and me having no heating. Perhaps if I change into a thermal polo and leggings combo the moment I walk through the door I might be able to get away with not turning my daze-making electric heater on all winter! Imagine the cost savings, which can all be ploughed straight back into the business.
I hobbled off after work last night (return of the stress fracture: no running for a while) and caught the bus to Oxford Street to get the thermals in. £9.99 a piece for a black polo neck and leggings, which I’m wearing today under a dress (which I daringly removed for the photo). I can report that they are soft, warm and not deadly unflattering, and that I’m throughly enjoying the Independent agenda as opposed to all that Guardian palaver.
Having a break from the cookery has already made me lose a couple of pounds in chub and save a great deal in sterling: I’ve realised that most of my money was going on ingredients. And I’m seeing a lot more of my friends already as it’s easier to fit a social life around a calendar of events and purchases than around cooking from scratch each night. So far, so darn good.
Lily Donaldson
Silly Simpleton
I haven’t really worked out how to get the images the same size, even after many months of doing this, and for that I can only apologise and promise to do nothing to remedy the situation. I also haven’t worked out how to pout without looking, as Photographer Cari (she’s reached Capital Letter status now) put it, like a stroke victim. Mind you she seemed to think I did OK in this attempt. You should see the ones we rejected.
Marks out of 10: 7
I bought the Uniqlo stuff I was supposed to, although the article mentioned £6.99, neons and camouflage, none of which I paid any attention to – I thought it too wasteful to buy something I clearly wouldn’t wear. I also have to deduct a few points for failure to pout alluringly and failure to stand against mountainous backgrounds. What is it with The Independent and mountains anyway?
Task #1: Mountainfest
Hmmm. Not a particularly strong start for Independent Woman. The first task this week is to book tickets for The Kendal Mountain Festival in November. My bestgal Liv is taking me to Antwerp that weekend for my 30th treat (I am being truly spoiled from all angles here) so tragically I’ll be too busy funning around Belgium to spend those four days conversating about trangias with bearded retired couples in Berghaus outerwear. It didn’t seem right to begin the Independent Woman phase of the project on such a low ebb, particularly with the task involving high peaks, so photographer Cari and I made it today’s mission to go on an outward bound trip around the vicinity of our offices here in London.
See if you can spot which pictures are of speakers and activities on offer at the thrill-packed Kendal Mountain Festival – these are people who risk their very lives in the pursuit of pushing humankind’s physical and psychological limits – and which were taken during my trip around the office – this is a person who thinks she deserves a medal for having vaguely worked out how to budget money at the age of 30.
Marks out of 10: 1
I’m giving myself one point for actually going somewhere on the weekend in question. I would also like to award two honorary points to Cari for being such a good (extreme) sport.
For the remainder of the week I expect far more success, what with the tasks actually being possible to complete. The Halloween extravaganza is especially exciting.
Independent Girl
I spent most of this weekend at a spa hotel with my Mum (my 30th birthday treat), sauna-ing, steaming, eating and chatting. I’d brought Saturday’s Guardian Weekend magazine with me, so after lunch we headed out into the grounds of the hotel to find something close to a beach in which to pose for that day’s photo. The landscape around the area looked lovely but Mum had the genius idea of photographing me in front of a puddle in the car park, with highly satisfactory results I’d say, wouldn’t you?
Men's knitwear
Men's twitwear
Since I started this project various onlookers have suggested I take the odd roadtrip through the publishing world to see what influence other newspapers and magazines might have to offer. Most people insisted that if I really wanted to challenge myself I ought to copy every snippet of lifestyle advice in the Sunday Sport or the Daily Mail. This seemed like a highly amusing idea until the realities of living even the Guardian way began to hit home. A slightly interrupted social life and dedication to a rather off-the-wall daily routine I can live with, having been strongly predisposed in this direction for most of my living memory. The thing that has unexpectedly crept up and haunted me, which I’ve mentioned several times before, is the disposable consumption involved.
Every issue Weekend magazine reels out a relentless ticker tape stream of clothes, music, celebrities, soft furnishings, make-up and recipes that clamour for attention, only to be gobbled up/worn once/googled and forgotten by the following Saturday. Apart from learning how to make a passable attempt at cooking most dishes under the sun, being Guardian Girl isn’t necessarily an enriching experience. The photoshoots are fun and I love the cooking but sometimes I feel like I do so much consuming, I barely have time to digest. And as for seeing my friends to do fun stuff, it’s worryingly one-sided. “I’d love to watch that film you’ve been waiting to see for months, but why don’t you come to mine instead? I’m cooking raspberry tarts.” Nice, but a little inflexible for friends who don’t live round the corner/like raspberries/enjoy sitting on a rock-hard sofa in a small flat with no heating being dribbled on by a cat while trying to make friendly conversation.
So to return to the weekend, my mum takes the Independent, which arrived outside our hotel room at her request on Sunday morning. While flicking through the IoS review I noticed its ‘On The Agenda’ section, which makes suggestions for not only clothes and food but also books, events, interesting adventures and so on that are coming up in the near future. Needless to say this caught my eye instantly and I wondered whether it mightn’t be a bad idea to take a holiday on another left-leaning newspaper to compare with the Guardian. It’s certainly one alternative to proving what I probably already know, which is that while I might spend less money and provide more amusement by following the News Of the World, I might also end up with hair extensions, a diet inspired by Cheryl Cole’s favourite healthy snacks and a wardrobe manufactured entirely by underpaid children. Let’s save that for later, I thought, and see whether I become a more useful member of society after a few weeks of Independent action.
In the name of entertainment I will continue to upload as much unselfconscious photographic evidence as possible. So please join me as I embark on the next chapter of Guardian Girl. Independent Girl is born!
(At least for a weeks until Guardian Girl is reborn, the pair of them don lycra outfits and pugil sticks to battle for ethical supremacy while readers watch on with increasing bafflement/boredom, and News of The World Girl rises from the ashes, grinding into oblivion with a Primark stiletto the last vestiges of the greying, powdery husk of my identity.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.)
Conclusions:
- Here we go then, let’s see how long it takes before I’ve spent all my money on tickets to literary festivals and following every page of the Guardian to the letter seems like the best idea I ever had.
Ten years, ten looks #7
Well this was a bit alarming. I think the model looks great but I was under no illusion I’d be able to pull it off.
I’ve taken off the shades at my desk but other than that the whole thing is fairly office appropriate. I know some say you shouldn’t wear shorts at work but with thick tights, boots and a longish blazer I really can’t see the harm. I don’t exactly look racy. Not feeling too chirpy either after getting through considerable amounts of red wine and port in front of Question Time last night.
Kate's rock chic
- Kate’s got sick
Grand conclusions of the week:
- How nice it’s been to have a week off, free to dine out and about with friends and family.
- No great investments needed, no guilty money splashed on idle capitalism.
- And no particularly ridiculous outfits. It’s been a fantastic birthday week, I saw all my most loved people, got some brilliant presents and entered the Decade of Success. I seem to have been on a rollover hangover most days but tomorrow my mum’s taking me on a birthday treat to a spa, so expect a refreshed, newly focused GG on Monday. (Do these words sound familiar?) Au revoir and have a great Weekend. x
Ten years, ten looks #6
A little black dress, no probs. Needless to say I put on some tights and took off the Raybans for work purposes.
The shoes were given to me by an ex’s sister in one of those brilliant “Nice shoes!” “Thanks, I never wear them, you can have them” moments, but I’ve abused them too much and the heels are now at an acute angle and are bandaged up with fraying sellotape. Once I was toiling through Angel in them and a woman outside a cafe stared so long and hard and disgustedly at them that I was forced to wave passive-aggressively at her. Even then she didn’t notice – too engrossed in the shoes. Her boyfriend noticed though, and was tapping her manically. Anyways, you can’t even see them properly in this picture but I’ve not got much else to say today. Happy Thursday.
Victoria Beckham looks genuinely posh
Vainglorious plebeian looks genuinely sloshed
Conclusions:
- The caption is a little laboured today, do forgive me.
- Good job my wonderful mother gave me some money to buy a new pair of black heels for my birthday.
- I need to fix the hem of my dress as well.
- And remember to buy some more cat food on the way home.
- Oh, and loo roll.
- (Stop! – Ed)
- (I grew up on Trev and Simon’s Stupid book [funniest book ever, still] and Smash Hits [every time the Ed interjected I thought it was Edd the Duck speaking and wondered why they couldn’t spell his name.])
- OK, I’m really stopping now, bye.
- Bye.
Ten years, ten looks #5
A classic get-it-a-bit-wrong day. All the component parts are good, in my book, but put them all together and you get a mad old farmer’s wife. Or a mad old farmer, to be a little more modern about things. Imagine: you encounter this figure hobbling down a country road in the autumn dusk. You say a friendly hello. The old hag looks up from underneath her straw hat to reveal a hideous, gurning apparition with empty eye sockets and wormholed skin.
I’m not the biggest fan of the totally full-on boho look but at least the model’s outfit is consistent.
I love this straw hat I’m wearing – and the skirt, which my granny made in the 50s. But I think both should be worn on a beach or in a field, with a tan. I’ve never been too sure about long skirts in winter – unless it’s done in an Edith Holden sort of way, which takes commitment. I’m quite content being at work in this outfit and I won’t feel wrong wearing it out for dinner later, but I’d never have put it together this way if it weren’t for the Guardian.
The boho boom
- The bozo boom
Hmm. Now I look at the photo again I’m thinking: you’re watching TMZ. A drunken Sienna Miller stumbles out of the Ivy trying to shield her face from the paparazzi. You’re watching on widescreen.
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Two consistent obstacles to getting the fashion right: proportions and textures. You need the biggish brim and the floor-grubbed skirt with the slim hips and the long top. You need the felty hat and suede boots.
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That’s why all this is such an expensive lark. You can’t just have a pair of boots – you have to have suede boots for one skirt and leather boots for another. You can’t just have a nice hat – you have to have a straw hat for summer and a felt hat for winter. You can’t just cut your hair into a bob, throw on your old Sienna Miller get-up and expect it to look as boho as it did with rib-length hair. It’s all too tiring. No wonder so many people choose a style that suits them and stick with it until several decades later when a ‘friend’ from work calls up 10 Years Younger and Channel 4 forces them to cower helplessly around Brighton Beach while the general public vox-pop dates them at 95. “Let’s bleach the old crone’s teeth! We can get her down to at least 70!” Terrifying.
I've always found it funny when people write letters to the Guardian's Weekend magazine complaining that the recipe ingredients are too middle class and the fashion only looks good on thin people. After all, it's just a magazine. Or is it? I decided to follow its recipes, fashion and lifestyle advice as closely as possible, to see if the aspirations promoted therein can really be achieved by the average reader who is not especially wealthy, not necessarily model thin and is obliged to work regular office hours. This blog has no affiliation whatsoever with the Guardian but I link to the Weekend magazine website for the purposes of illustration. 
Guardian Girl 
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