Blazers #1
Blazers I can do but the rest of the garments in this shoot are totally under-represented in my wardrobe. I’m going to be in the same pair of black jeans all week because my other trouser options keep falling apart.
I need the Measure to recommend me some decent strides, please. Preferably ones that won’t make me look too much like Sandi Toksvig.
What?
Clot
Photographer Cari just emailed to congratulate me on my improved posing skills after seeing yesterday’s effort but I think she might retract her blandishments on seeing the above.
The old broken foot is still preventing me from wearing heels and I’m getting mighty fed up with it now. The growing-out fringe continues to produce curtains. When oh when will it be long enough to tuck behind me lug’oles?
Food update: last night I went home alone and cooked chorizo carbonara for 10. I don’t know what to say about it. A surreal evening spent hovering over a vast cauldron of calories feeling very much like I was doing the wrong thing, mostly because I have yet to work out what I’m going to do with it all. It’s so filling I could only eat one bowl, although I might possibly have revisited the vat on my way for a night-time wee.
I have a recently developed a pretty embarrassing habit of listening to new-age sound effects as I drift off to sleep. Last night’s was supposed to be a campfire crackling with a few crickets chirping nearby or something. But all I could hear was frying chorizo, haunting me with its oily fumes. I had to switch over to “medium cicadas with owl near creek”.
Measure update: yesterday I pulled my socks up and got going on the kitchen linens front. I am soon to be the proud owner of a Chanel-style John Lewis oven glove. I already have two very nice oven gloves and could really have done with the apron but the Labour and Wait website is out of stock. Blooming Guardian readers have sucked them dry it would seem. What a shame. The best thing about online shopping is that you often get to send yourself a free gift card with a personalised message. If you enjoy, as I do, fabricating long and convoluted jokes purely for your own amusement, I recommend this.
As for some of the other items on this week’s list, I’ve been a mild Yeasayer fan for several years now so no action was required on that front. Tanlines provided the soundtrack for Saturday night’s bollito misto feast and got the thumbs up from Phoebe and I. I didn’t buy any though – if I’m going to spend money on music I’m going to go and buy a record, and I feel a bit embarrassed about going up to the counter with an album that’s in the Guardian that week. Is that ridiculous? Coming from a girl who walks around with a stuffed toy pinned to her shoulder because it was in the Guardian that week, probably.
Vocab update: thanks to Abby for teaching me the word ‘blandishments’ when we were 15. I knew it’d come in useful one day.
Conclusions:
- Nothing left to conclude.
Non-sequintur
Midas touch
Frodo's touch
Conclusions:
- Don’t have a sequined blazer.
- But do have a black wall. You win some, you lose some.
Sunday: a nice cake, a grotesque photo
Sunday involved making a large apple and prune cake. As I spooned a worryingly scant amount of cake mixture into a greased tin I thought I was about to create the first genuine culinary disaster of the project. It looked like a thin layer of gruel with a load of apple slices and prunes dumped indelicately on top. But 40 minutes later I opened the oven door to the most delicious smell of warm, cosy baking and a golden cake looking like a princess’s pillow (what on earth am I writing?). It tasted delicious. Even my actual genius friend Jesse who can’t have lactose ate a few slices and reassured me that she could understand why I’d scarfed down most of the damn thing before she even arrived.
Apple (and prune) pudding cake
Grapple (and swoon) for pudding cake
Dumbass caption alert.
Jesse also accompanied me trough the rat-infested alley on to my elegant street to have my photo taken against a wired-up window.
This is pretty much the worst photo I’ve ever seen of myself, and that’s really saying something given that I’m famous for producing rank portraits. My friends and I often used to go on the Crazy Mouse ride on Brighton pier, just to blow the cobwebs away and kill some time being spontaneous near the seafront, which is what you do when you live in Brighton. This one time we had particularly great fun and got off the ride whooping and high-fiving before running over to the booth to have a look at the automatic photo they take of you. There was Liv, laughing away next to Elin, who was clinging on for dear life with a big smile on her face. And then, next to them, was what can only be described as a large, brown monster that appeared to be covered in thick fur and had its mouth open in a hideous, deformed roar. That monster was me. I honestly didn’t even look like a human. I just can’t explain it. To this day the three of us rue the fact that we didn’t buy that photo on a weekly basis, but it was £7 and when you’re young you imagine this sort of opportunity will arise every day.
Turns out we weren’t far wrong: if anyone wants to buy a print of the below photo of an inflated grub, send a postal order for £7 to PO Box 101, blah blah blah.
Go, figurehead
Go, quickly, you are scaring my young family
Conclusions:
- In life, there are good times and there are bad times.
- I think this post perfectly illustrates that point.
Brave nude world #1
My heart sank when I opened the fashion pages this week. Not only was I destined to spend Saturday mooching around the shops in a floor-length golden ballgown, but I was also to spend the next three days writhing against walls in public places while pulling facial expressions suggestive of a Viagra overdose. It’s not my favourite way to spend time.
I managed to make a surprisingly good effort at the first outfit though, mostly thanks to a lovely Farhi by Nicole Farhi silk blouse that has the requisite big shoulders. I dug out a gold lace dress that I wore for my sixth form ball 13 years ago (from underneath my “Sunkist cans 1979-2004” collection), added a nasty glittery belt I bought aged 22 while conducting an experiment involving copying the lifestyle makeovers in Zest magazine to see what would happen to me (bad clothes, naff hair, loads of pilates classes) and hey presto! There was the gold outfit I needed. I spent the rest of the day laughing at terrible second-hand t-shirts (and their price tags) on brick lane and discovering that gold lace dresses are impractical garments for wearing on the back of scooters in winter.
Later on, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s bollito misto recipe for 10 provided ample sustenance for two friends and I before we headed to a Victorian-themed party at which I looked not very Victorian.
No photos of the tasty meat feast but horrendous evidence of outfit below.
Oscar beckons
Oscar flicks the Vs
Conclusions:
• Tiring of gold, beige and sequins even before having to wear the outfits this week.
• But dead excited about Hugh F-W’s apres-ski food: proper carb fests every night and a good reason to invite lots of pals around.
• Also something i’ve been pondering after spending my days in pokemon t-shirts and ugly gold get-ups: this experiment is ironically becoming an exercise in setting vanity, fashion and style to one side. I put on the closest thing I own to that day’s look and I head out of the door. I’m fast learning there’s no point in worrying what i look like as I have no choice, so I get on with other things instead. It’s very good for a person, I think. A bit like school uniform – allows you to concentrate.
• Rejected Clarks clogs on the basis that I don’t like them enough to spend £50 on them and must try to retain some financial and ethical responsibility while playing this game.
• Labour and Wait was shut by the time I got there so no posh apron for me. Phew. More cash saved, less cotton wasted. Although perhaps an apron would make a lot of sense given that I find myself cooking in silk blouses on an almost daily basis. Hmm.
This week’s wrap-up
Today’s outfit isn’t way off the mark, and Flavie and I even ventured out of the toilet into the office reception area for the shoot. The result is that the photo looks less like army night footage this time, although given the theme of the fashion it might have been appropriate to keep things grainy.
Look sharp
Be blunt
I did get my ponytail on the wrong side and tilt my head in the opposite direction from the model’s, but I have to honour tradition.
On the subject of this week’s Measure, the less said the better. What with a best mate’s 30th, the end of the January pay period, lunch breaks filled with blog writing and outfit capturing, and evenings spent over the stove, I somehow didn’t find the time to put my name on the Anya Hindmarch for Barbour waiting list (much as I would love to), or spend hundreds of pounds on a designer bag. I’ve been rubbish. I now have a bit of cash in the bank, a shopping trip planned and several hours earmarked for a home restyle over the weekend, so I hope to make restitution for my indolence forthwith. Or, in other words, get up off my rump and try harder.
As regards This Column Will Change Your Life, I couldn’t let the week end without making reference to the fact that it might have been aimed directly at me this issue. Why don’t they teach you how to make simple decisions in primary school? If only they did, Britain wouldn’t keep producing chowderheaded buffoons who can’t decide what to have for dinner without the direction of a Saturday newspaper supplement.
I put Oliver Burkeman’s three models for decision making into practice this week and found them extremely useful in every situation, especially choosing which song to listen to next. These rules will stay with me, and might actually change my life for the better. Get this man writing the national curriculum (caps?).
Conclusion:
- First week over and I’m a scone-filled, noodle-loving, quiff-sporting picture of happiness. Not partaking in the Measure shopping list, or putting any pressure on myself to do so, has been good but a bit cheaty given the nature of the experiment.
- But one serious complaint: my clothes still smell of kippers.
Post-scone midriff
Often the garments required to copy Guardian fashion shoots are fairly ubiquitous: white shirt, black jeans, blue dress etc. Every now and then, however, you get an awkward one. Today’s red jacket is one such garment.
Since I have no red jackets, it was never going to be easy to copy the key part of the outfit. Hang on a minute, why didn’t I wear my brown one? Oh well – I forgot I had it.
Since my grey jeans now have an imprudently positioned tear in the denim, and since I’m not allowed to wear heels, and since I don’t have a tanned washboard stomach, and since I don’t have a bob, and since I’m not a model, today’s outfit is boundlessly inaccurate.
These new toilet shots make me look like a middle-aged version of a Bratz doll, with an enormous head and tiny little peg feet stuck at the bottom. That’s because the toilet area is quite small and Photographe Flavie (no typo, for she is French) has to climb on to the loo to get all of me in.
In fact my feet often do look tiny, even though I have size-seven feet, and that is because I am not exactly spindle-shanked , to put it euphemistically, and also because I wear a lot of minuscule little plimsolls. I wear them because they are cheap and available in many good colours. But they are cold, unflattering, overly ubiquitous and in fact the colours aren’t that good. But this blog is not about the pros and cons of my plimsoll collection. Or about the variant spellings of plimsoll, which might be a better, although less ample, subject for a blog.
Can you tell I don’t have much to say today?
Eyes front
Avert eyes
Conclusions:
- Rubbish outfit. Have untied knot for work purposes and put my jacket on properly. You don’t need to ask why. Today is payday and we’re going out for after-work cocktails. I have to go in a stained Pokémon t-shirt. Gutted.
- If whoever left the stained Pokémon t-shirt at my flat four years ago wants it back, just say the word.
- Bit of effort needed with the photo cropping.
- Also could do with learning some synonyms for ‘ubiquitous’.
Ginger beer scones
Thanks to the miracle of technology i write this with a hot-from-the-oven ginger scone balanced upon my knee.
Although tonight’s ingredients looked somehow sad on the supermarket conveyor belt (small packet of flour, glacé ginger, two mini cans of Schweppes suggestive of imaginary friend), the texture of this hot scone on my knee is something to be seen. It’s a hybrid of a scone, fresh bread and a crumpet. It’s a wee bit sweet for my cheese-tooth (inadvisable word combination noted) but still, it’s a proper treat on a cold Wednesday evening like this one. And you know what? I reckons it might be quite nice with a slab of mature cheddar, I does. I’m having mine plain in an uncharacteristic show of temperance but don’t worry, I’ll probably eat the whole batch. Other things to note about the scones: cheap, easy-to-find ingredients, quick to make, slightly chalky after-texture possibly due to baking powder/shivering hand combo.
I’m off to visit the oven again – sod tomorrow’s midriff shot.
Ginger scone
Ginger scoff
Conclusions:
- Nice.
- I don’t mean to sound arrogant but looking at the above photos I can barely believe I actually made that. It looks almost like the original, no?
Military chic deficit continues
The elated monkey noises once filling my happy lungs have been replaced with a long, sorrowful sigh.
I am so lumpen today in my wrap dress and trainers (heels still banned due to broken foot fiasco). The dim light of the photograph below represents the death of last weekend’s bright glow. Can it be true that I miss my backcombed quiff, red eyeshadow and contemporary dancer-wannabe get-up? Yes, it can be true. Natural make-up and a centre parting continue to translate into teenage boy when I try them. Unflattering dress and flat plimsolls compound sense of gloominess.
Oh well, at least tomorrow I get to tie up my sweatshirt and reveal my bristling, wan abdomen to everyone on the 9.33 to Kentish Town West, so that’s something to feel excited about.
What really is exciting is that I’m baking ginger scones for dinner tonight. Come on, positivity!
Chic
Sheesh
Conclusions:
Udon noodles with walnut and miso
Udon noodles with walnut and miso
Worm noodles with walnut and miso
This meal exceeded all my expectations, it really did. Unsurprisingly I couldn’t find Kombu, dashi, miso paste or even mirin at the supermarket. I would happily support my local Asian grocer if only it were on my way home from work and open at 9pm. I’m lucky enough to live in a place where I could probably get my hands on most ingredients the world has to offer with relatively little effort so I should try harder, but try telling me that at dinnertime. Forget heart and mind: the belly rules in my household.
Udon noodles are lovely big squidgy worms – the kind of thing I like to eat – and despite flinching while pouring in a whole tablespoon of sugar at the end, I loved the taste of the sauce. Instead of miso paste I just poured in a packet of instant miso soup. The other ingredients I left out. I haven’t cooked with garlic and ginger for a while and had forgotten how splendid they taste together.
Also a bit of a revelation as far as food prep is concerned: I cut my spring onions into actual (kind of) julienne things! No idea where this sudden bolt of patience sprang from but let’s hope it sticks around for a while.
Conclusions:
- Top marks for this one, cheers Yotam.
- Deep-fried aubergine is bloody lovely and heatproof tongs (thanks Ads) are good for turning the cubes over in crackling fat as if roasting chestnuts on a fire – albeit with none of the cosiness, but you take what you can get in bedsitland.
Military chic
I was looking forward to getting out of Cartoonies mode and back into sensible clothes. Then I saw my reflection.
I’m in harem pants again today because they’re my only pair of non-jean trousers that fit. Centre partings, which are good on some people, give me the look of a teenage boy with unfortunate 90s curtains. My shirt has been washed with so many non-whites it looks like the ‘Before’ shot in a Daz advert. My stubbly calves, demonstrating the colour my shirt’s supposed to be, are straining to escape the silk cuffs of my trousers with the determination of a pair of malnourished paratroopers, which is the only military thing about my look today. As for chicness, the faint aroma of last night’s kipper isn’t helping much.
Luckily the light in the ladies loo at work is broken at the moment, so my colleague Flavie has managed to capture a dusky shot that reveals none of the above disturbances in my appearance.
Military
Defensive
Conclusions:
- Never thought I’d say this but I’m starting to crave a good pair of slacks.
- For a clandestine photo I will undo two shirt buttons.
- For a day at work I will undo no more than one.
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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