The Life Of Lester ….

Last week I got a strange urge: I live alone and although I don’t get lonely (I actively prefer not living with anyone) I felt the need to nurture something that wasn’t a cactus. Barely capable of cleaning out my own litter tray; a kitten was out of the question and anyway, it would only sadly, turn in to a cat. So I chose goldfish. Loyal, trustworthy, low maintenance, will happily forget and forgive all of my wrongs. As some humans find with other humans, a goldfish will accept me for who I am.

I like to treat things like a military operation, or sometimes like a regular operations; whatever gets things done. So, ‘the mission’ started on a Friday at approximately 1400 hours. I met up with a fellow agent, had a delicious lunch, declared our mission statement and set off to find these illusive beasts. The mission commenced in Soho, which I swiftly discovered was not goldfish’s natural habitat. I checked in with DCI Google who instructed me that 400m north of Oxford Street a clandestine pet shop operation existed. I wanted to penetrate this ‘pet cell’ and see what they were hiding. We headed North – orienteering never a strong point we took many wrong turns but finally arrived outside a building that, apart from a small gold buzzer did not betray what lay within. My friend revealed she was of the opinion that goldfish were a poor-man’s animal and said …

“I don’t think they’re going to have goldfish, Jade.”
“Why not?”
“I think it’s just for posh dogs.”
“I don’t know what gave you that idea.”
I ring the buzzer, a camp American voice answers ….
“Hello.”
“Hi, do you sell goldfish?”
“No we do not.”

There’s a click of the receiver as the cell leader hangs up. My agent gives me an ‘I told you so look,’ and we head back to our headquarters disheartened. I send an SOS out to DCI Google who advises me there are plenty more ‘pet cells’ within a 4 mile radius of my current location and in coalition with my agent I discover there is one about 10 minutes from my house. I follow the scent.

That Sunday I head down, fully equipped with wallet, photo ID and high spirits. I arrive at Goldfish Base Camp, only to find it is closed. I retreat and wait. They can’t stay closed forever.

After protracted talks with Lieutenant Big Sister I decide to continue and execute the mission. I head down again on Monday and successfully penetrate the cell. There they swam, in all their burning, golden glory. Majestic beings of forgiveness and love; just floating around as if they were nothing but fish.

Having carefully referenced data reserves collected from The National Lottery’s probability figures, I allow another member of the cell to select my goldfish – I stand more chance of winning with Lucky Dip. He selects two perfect specimens, one slightly larger than the other. I purchase a huge glass bowl (recent studies have concluded goldfish think plastic ones are naff.) I am advised to buy different chemicals to keep the specimens alive. I buy them reluctantly as I recalled being able to just plonk goldfish straight in to a bowl and Fanny’s your nanny, they’re ready to get to work. But these babies are apparently of a finer constitution, which I can respect. So I leave the cell £40 lighter, balanced with the weight of my new responsibilities.

On my way back to Headquarters their names come to me as if from God. I look at them in their plastic bag and I know exactly who they are: the smaller one is Lester, the larger; a formidable beast is honoured with the name The Cracken.

I take them home, wash out their bowl and with horror stories of Hackney water still ringing in my ears I decide to fill the bowl with Evian. I measure the solutions accurately and pour them in. I allow the solutions time for osmosis (15 minutes) then in their bag, the creatures are placed into their clear, mountain water and allowed to acclimatise. Precision and steady hands are key in these high tensile situations. 30 minutes later I delve my (steady) hands into the cool, sterilised water and rip open the plastic bag allowing them to disperse. Happy as can be I feed them a pinch of fish flakes to celebrate this hallowed occasion. They are happy, I am happy. I cook dinner, I sing Toots and the Maytals ‘Dr Lester’ to them. I go to bed. My dreams are calm.

I awake. It is Tuesday. Tuesday’s child is full of grace and mercy, but mercy is absent this day. The Cracken has fallen. He rests lifeless at the bottom of the glass bowl. I peer in in disbelief. But his forgiving little soul has left the bowl. Lester is traumatised. Forgets he is traumatised, then is reminded again 3 seconds later. I must remove The Cracken in order to save Lester’s sanity, but I am also traumatised. I call an asset and cry down the phone. All my army training goes out the window, trained to operate a machine gun but I am rendered incapable of removing the dead goldfish from his bowl. This asset tells me to get a grip and to put him in the bin…

“But I caaaaannn’t.”
“Then flush him down the toilet.”
“But I caaaaaaannn’t”
“Ok, well take him down to the canal then.”
“Yeah, ok, that’s nice.”

I hang up and muster the courage to remove the corpse from the scene. I place his lifeless body on some carefully folded kitchen towel. I take a photo for later analysis. Then – a sucker for time efficiency – I coincide my run with the burial of the fish. I sprint like a loon through Clapton brandishing my dead goldfish until I reach the canal; arriving at the perfect location to bid adieu to The Cracken. I’m a bit unsure of the proper protocol here; I look at The Cracken and feeling that I can’t just throw him away without saying a few words I look down and say to him …

“You were very pretty, I’m sorry you died.”

Seeing that there were people within hearing and seeing distance I suddenly feel pretty stupid; so launch The Cracken in to the air in embarrassment. He sails nobly through the wind and reaches the canal with a little splash. I watch as his bright golden body sinks to the bottom of the murky waters. I continue my run, comforting myself with words of encouragement from friends that Lester, is definitely made of tougher stuff.

I go home, check on Lester – he’s doing good; forgotten the horror of the morning and continuing with his life. I continue with mine. A few hours pass. I am full of hope for the future that Lester and I will share. I look in to the bowl where my soul mate swims …. flounders almost, on his side, gasping for air.
No. Not again. I call the poor asset, again. Already inconsolable.

“The other ones dying!”
“Oh God. I don’t know what to say.”
“I’m a terrible mother!”
“No you’re not – take him to the pet shop.”
I call the pet shop, a woman answers, I am still in tears.
“I bought two goldfish from you yesterday. One’s already died and the other one’s swimming on his side, I think he’s dying.”
“If you’ve got the body of the dead one we can give you one for free.”
“I don’t have the body anymore.”
“Where is it?”
“In the canal.”
“Ok …. well, if the other one dies, bring it in and bring in a sample of the water.”

The oracle on the other end of the line knew what was to come. My efforts to preserve his life are null and void, Lester’s life slips through my fingers, as he does when I scoop the fallen solider from his pooey grave.

My agent comes and escorts me with my water sample and the dead body to the Goldfish Base Camp. We board the transit unit to Hackney Central. As we sit and discuss the short, unfulfilled lives of The Cracken and Lester I divulge that I had been singing to them, my agent suggests maybe this is what killed them. I am worried she may be on to something. I will investigate this later, on other animals.

We arrive at Goldfish Base Camp, fallen soldier in hand. I had lost a lot of good men that day, I was in bad shape. The Cell Leader, an old man with the personality I would liken to that of Ghenghis Khan laughs at me.

“You didn’t cry did you?”
My friend: “She did.”
“Oh dear. Well we’ll give you a couple of free ones.”
“I’m not sure I want any free ones. I want to know what I did wrong.”
“Goldfish die all the time. Have some new ones.”

He walks off laughing. Ready to quash the emotions of his next victim. Bastard.

My training at the school of hard knocks enables me to continue my mission. Having regained my composure I arrive at the desk of the second in command. A hard faced woman who has seen her fair share of combat (and pathetic girls) in the field is unsympathetic. She takes the pH of my water as I carefully select my replacements. The woman shouts over the counter …

“It was your pH.”
“Oh.”

Her sidekick then plies me with more expensive potions to put in this foul water. As I am disputing whether all £15 of this is really necessary when the hard faced woman starts absentmindedly cleaning her counter. Spritzing and wiping, with a folded piece of kitchen roll; she talks of how all potions are absolutely necessary. The sidekick and my agent share a horrified glance. The hard faced woman looks to her sidekick, and dread washes over her face. Her hand jumps from the kitchen towel.

“This is the dead goldfish isn’t it …”

The sidekick and my agent laugh in agreement. The soulless woman tosses Lester in the bin. I walk out with my two new imposters, numb.

We reconvene at an undisclosed coffee outlet and discuss the days events – imposters by my side. The warm nectar of cow teat deftly mixed with ground coffee beans soothes me and I feel stronger and ready to face the world again. I receive a message from a secure source in regards to my deceased goldfish: “Poor thing, he was only alive for a day, barely remembered any of it and his name was spelt wrong.”

What?! This source doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Lester’s name wasn’t spelt wrong! I dial up DCI Google – he receives my transmission and confirms that yes, Lester had been spelt correctly. A flash of heat fills my cheeks ….

“Oh shit. Maybe he means The Cracken.”

I dial up DCI Google again, whose patience for these creatures is now waning, and with no emotion quips:

“Did you mean the Kraken you fucking idiot?”

Oh yeah, I did.

Embarrassed I relay this information to my agent. She has an eye for covert intelligence and delves a little deeper. After a few seconds of investigation she bursts out laughing; is in tears before I have even seen what is going on. She manages to get out …

“Look below….”

I look and I see:
Urban Dictionary – Cracken: A large, smelly turd.
I’m not sure I will ever recover from the trauma. Emotionally incapable of loving my replacements, too scarred even to name them. They shall never be my confidents. Merely yearlong baubles, swimming in the hope of a confession to absolve that will never arrive. (Suckers.)

Rest In Peace The Cracken and Lester. I apologise. But with endless gratitude accept that you would forget, and forgive me.

 

The Pigeon And The Pussycat …

The other day I came down with a nasty cold, it had been a long time coming (as a hypochondriac, it always is.) I made the most of it, really maximised that good lurgy time. I snuggled up in bed, ate pumpkin soup and watched an Edgar Allen Poe documentary. As I had with Earl Grey tea recently, I rediscovered Edgar Allen Poe – I’d forgotten how much I loved him and how much I had enjoyed writing brilliant (appalling) poems and rhymes at school.

The week before one of my best friends from school wrote me an incredibly sweet and timely letter, topped off with a mix tape. As my iTunes library is pretty limited on this computer I decided my offering in return would be a Poe-inspired poem in time for Halloween. I wrote it on the tube from Old Street to Balham and was pretty pleased with the result; just enough clichés to make it a recognisable homage to Poe and enough in-jokes so my friend could feel an affinity with it.

Recently I have found nothing I want to blog about and as this has been the first thing I’ve wanted to and had time to write, so I thought it might as well go on here.

A bit of back story to help you understand the poem more – Peter Kettle or PK or Pete Kitten, looks like a little kitten, he has little eyes and a cute bobbin nose, he loves cats, he taught me how to play guitar – cool guitar, I used to call him Pete Kitten and he used to call me Crazy Pigeon Lady (God knows why, I’m not in the slightest bit unhinged.)

Oh and Edgar Allen Poe’s dead gothic, in case you haven’t encountered him …..

 

The Pigeon and The Pussy Cat

Once upon a grey dark evening,

Through trees the moon came beaming.

A pigeon stood upon a branch like bone,

Through the trees the wind did howl and moan.

Then from a distance came a song,

The pigeon tilted her head and listened long.

The notes drifted through the air like spring,

The pigeon had to investigate this din.

So using the crochets and the quavers as a guide,

Towards the song the pigeon did glide.

As the pigeon came closer she made out a silhouette,

A feline shape, yet she felt no threat.

She fluttered down by the side of the pussycat,

And cooed “You’re just a kitten, how can you play like that?”

The pussycat looked at her and smiled,

And with his feline mouth replied …

“I have tiny eyes but dextrous fingers,”

“I have a button nose and little ears where songs do linger.”

Every night for weeks and weeks,

With the cat on that balcony the pigeon did tweet.

The cat would teach the pigeon country chords,

And they would dream of warmer shores.

One day as they danced and played ‘Jolene,’

A crazy lady approached with fox-tails in her hair and breath like bream.

She snatched the cat and smashed the guitar,

Threw breadcrumbs at the pigeon and coughed up tar.

The pussycat did squeal and screech,

But his smashed guitar was out of reach.

The pigeon hesitated for a beat,

Looked in to the dark forest and at the breaded treats.

But as the pussycat was dragged away,

She realised without him she could not stay.

And so she followed the crazy lady and the cat,

And with that breath, never looked back.

To Pete Kitten Love Crazy Pigeon Lady

 

From the more famous ‘Owl and the Pussycat’ by Edward Lear

Mad Men ….

Last week I had my eyes opened and my ignorance stretched in front of me like a cats guts over a guitar.

I’ll take it from the top … it was turning out to be just another Monday afternoon when a very kind friend of mine offered me tickets to the premier of ‘Made In Dagenham.’ I knew the basic premise, and when I say basic I mean I knew it was about a bunch of women working in a Ford factory. So with this deep insight in mind I gratefully accept the offer, get ready, put on my finest Uniqlo shirt and strut/run uncomfortably down the red carpet in to the comforting womb of the cinema.

We sit down and my word are we greeted with a plethora of goodies. Water, Popcorn and a Weight Watchers Flapjack – which I have to say was bloody delicious. “This is just great,” I think whilst revelling in the oaty goodness of my flapjack. “Oh fucking hell look, that’s Mark Kermode, God he’s a God.” I make a little joke about the row of oldies sitting behind us and I’m just about to make, what in retrospect would have been a pretty tasteless joke about a rather slutty looking middle aged woman who turned out to be Ben Kingsleys wife when I clock ….. Ben Kingsley. He sits down like an absolute player. Has a swig of water and then to my delight rips open his Weight Watchers flapjack. Now, although I could only see the back of his head, the bald creases at the bottom of his skull turned in to what can only be described as a smile as he tucked in to this heavenly low fat treat.

The director and producers come on stage and have a chat, the cast come on stage and have a chat, then the lights are lifted to the bunch of oldies behind us. They are not just any bunch of oldies, they are some of the women this film is based on. I’m impressed, but not absolutely sure why at this point.

The lights dim….ooo….premier….exciting!

The film starts and this is where my eyes are opened and my ignorance is exposed. For anyone who, like me, is unaware of the actual premise of the film. It is about a bunch of women who worked as seamstresses making leather seat covers at a Ford factory in Dagenham but these women were pretty remarkable. All from working class backgrounds, they had worked all their lives and lived, as was expected at the time, like second-class citizens. Even though it was the ‘60s and there was all this free love going on, women on a day-to-day basis were still treated like servants you slept with …..

“I expect dinner on the table at 6pm Bonnie and a hand job at 9pm.”

“Yes Brian, would you like peas with that?”

That kind of thing. Women got paid about half what men did and this was never disputed because its absurdity was never questioned to any beneficial extent. That was until, these women stood up and said “Hang on a minute love, this isn’t right. What we’re doing is skilled labour and it should be paid as such.” They were initially laughed off, and ignored. They’re women, they’re just making a fuss, pay them some attention and they’ll shut up. They didn’t. They kept shouting. They went on strike. They went on strike for so long Ford ran out of seats to put in the cars. Ford has to close the factory. The men are out of work. The women start getting shit from the men because they’re out of work. As one woman perspicaciously points out after being berated for going on strike “All us women came out and supported you men when you went on strike, why is this any different?” It gets harder and harder the longer they’re out of work.

After months of speeches and protests and refusals to back down and be laughed out of the room these women are invited by Barbara Castle (a labour politician, the first female secretary of state and also a woman with massive balls) to the Houses of Parliament. Without permission from the man in power at the time these women that afternoon changed rights for women around the world as much as the Suffragettes did. Because it was recognised that day that women should be paid equally to men it was therefore recognised that they should be treated the same as men and respected to the same degree instead of being fobbed off as something nice to come home to.

How then – did I know none of this? I understand it’s my duty to educate myself but Jesus Christ, why the hell aren’t we taught about this in school? We’re taught briefly about the civil war, the abolition of slavery, the Suffragettes; why aren’t we taught about one of the most revolutionary occurrences to happen this century and it happened in this country! I’m honestly quite ashamed I didn’t know about this. I walk around with my iPhone, my flat and my job (from time to time) not just thinking I should be paid or treated the same as men but expecting it as my right. I’m not saying I should be grateful to be treated with the same respect as a man, but I should be grateful and most certainly aware of the people who made this possible. But then I get confused. Does this mean I’m not to expect chivalry and in line with equality go out and buy my man Milk Tray and Gladioli? I don’t know …. anyway, I’m veering wildly of course here.

So, as the film draws to its end I am busy trying to hold back tears, I don’t know if the fact that these incredible women were sitting behind me made the film all the more poignant but it really did feel incredible to be in such close proximity to these unbelievable people, who for some unknown reason receive barely any recognition for their achievements on a day to day basis. As like me, most people would think they were just any old ladies.

After some idiot from Strictly Come Dancing comes over to them and asks some pretty insensitive questions, we head over to the after party (after walking up and down Wardour Street 2,00000000 (zillion) times trying to find the place.) The after party is perfectly nice. Champagne. Salmon. Dominic Cooper ripping up the dance floor like some sort of crazed jive alien. The band finish and the DJ steps up. All attention is on Dominic Cooper and what turned out to be Rosamund Pike (I need to get some glasses) when ‘The Beatles – All You Need Is Love’ comes on. Now, anyone who knows me, knows I’m not a massive Beatles fan but to this song possibly the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen happened. All the old ladies got up from their seats, formed a circle all held hands and swayed and sang along to this, even one of their husbands who looked incredibly frail got up and joined in. I watched them and just thought “You can actually look back on your life, safe in the knowledge that not only did you achieve something with it, you achieved something that every generation of woman is thank full for and will be thank full for.” That must be a pretty incredible feeling.

The evening ended as ‘Nancy Sinatra – These Boots Are Made For Walking’ came on and one of the old women strolled over and danced with us to the whole song, as I serenaded her with my ethereal voice I thought “It can’t get better than this….” but then, the old frail looking husband prowled over and after a little boogie, grabbed my face and gave me a nice big smacker.

I couldn’t have been happier.

… And no, I am not suddenly anti-male and sadly, Weight Watchers aren’t paying me for this. It just was truly delicious.

Blade Runner – The Eternal Sleep

Blade Runner is a classic. A real cool classic. People with taste like Blade Runner, film buffs like Blade Runner, everyone likes Blade Runner.

I’ve never seen Blade Runner.

This is not through lack of trying. It’s just every time I try to watch it, I fall asleep. So through sci-fi induced narcolepsy it has unfortunately turned in to a film that for years I have lied about and pretended I’ve seen (I would like to point out this is the only film I’ve done this with – well, this and Dirty Dancing, but I think I already know what happens in that; Swayze and some baby have one hell of a party from what I’ve heard.)

The first time I “watched” Blade Runner was a good six or seven years ago, I got pretty stoned, thought “Hell yeah I am so ready for this, Scott it to me Ridley.” Next thing I know it’s Sunday morning, I’m still on the sofa next to a cold cup of herb tea and the dvd menu is running on a loop. “Oh well, never mind,” I think, “I can always try again.”

Years pass. I don’t try again. On numerous occaisions I end up hudddled in circles of cool, smart people and somehow, don’t ask me why, but someone always brings up Blade Runner.  Usually I’m too drunk or stoned (because I’m such a party animal) to be bothered to go through the whole:

Me: “No, don’t know, I’ve never seen it.”

Smart Person: “You’ve never seen Blade Runner?”

Me: “Well, I’ve seen the first 3 minutes ..”

Smart Person: “And…”

Me: “And…then I fell asleep.”

Smart Person: Look of dissaproval.

So I usually just nod along and smile in the right places, go “Yeah that bit was awesome” and hope someone starts talking about Withnail and I.

This social trauma has been part of my life for the last seven years and it kills me that Blade Runner’s entirety hasn’t been. Recently I made this admission to a lovely young man who, sympathetic with my plight kindly lent me his dvd, or his friends, either way nice gesture. I got home, thought “Ok – this is it. There’s been seven years building up to this. I cannot wait. I’m going to be in on this ‘in joke’ that’s not a joke, but I’m finally going to be ‘in’ whatever this clique is.”

Play.

This is great! God look at all those lights! Oh wow cool that’s Harrison Ford, I love Harrison Ford. Oooo .. he’s eating noodles. I’m kind of hungry …….

I fell asleep.

Fuck! How does this keep happening?!  But I’m no fool. I’m not taking this shit from myself. I am going to watch this. So, undeterred from my recent failure as a human I wait for an appropriate time for me to pounce on it, again, again. The time comes last Saturday morning. 10am, fresh from a night of sleep. I am ready for this. I make a coffee and turn that baby on.

This is great! God look at all those lights! Oh wow cool that’s Harrison Ford I love Harrison Ford. Oooo .. he’s eating noodles. I’m kind of hungry. Oh cool, he’s in a space ship. Some guys talking about a tortoise. Pete used to have a tortoise ….

I wake up, no joke, as the credits roll down. It’s nearly 1pm. I make the decision there and then that, like Pavlov trained his dogs to salivate, I have trained myself to fall asleep to Blade Runner. So I may as well give up. It’s over. It will take years of reconditioning to reverse this.

But that would make me A) a tad melodramatic B) a pussy, and more importantly that would be a waste of a dvd loan. So I’d like to announce that this evening my friends, is the big night. I’m keeping the lights on, I’m making coffee, I’m sitting up, like Clockwork Orange I will fasten my eyes open with metal prongs and I will watch the whole of Blade Runner, from beginning to middle to end.

It’s going to be worth all this, right?

SEPTEMBER …

Conkers, bonfires, sheepskin, changing leaves, red wine ….. September is the best month of the year.

Fact.

It holds the day of International Peace, which I feel is not a bad start but it only gets better from there …. I was born! On September the 13th 1986 in Hammersmith hospital this baby came in to the world. Apparently some other things may have happened on this day as well …. On September the 13th 122 AD the beginnings of Hadrian’s Wall commenced, on September the 13th in 1989 Desmond TuTu lead the largest anti-Apartheid march in South Africa, on the September the 13th in 1503 Michelangelo began work on the statue of David. Unfortunately their work was kind of eclipsed by my birth.

Now, aside from my birth September has a lot about it. It is a month with a weight of transition and change – more so in my opinion than New Year’s Eve. What ever really changes that night other than your perceptions of some of your ket-head friends?

You can feel it in the misty morning air, this is the month between summer and autumn when you get your act together ready for the coming months. Sexy Mumma Natura kindly gives us a few pointers that it might be a good idea to get our noses back to the grindstone. One being the days start getting noticeably shorter, signalling the end of summer drinking and lax self-discipline, welcoming the point where people start to go home earlier. It could be that we’ve been conditioned to feel this way through school. When we’re kids, every September is a new academic year and so as the days start getting shorter, the long division starts getting longer. Each September signals a new and harder tier in your academic life, and if you’re a closet nerd like me, massive excitement at getting back to school with my brand new Jonny Quest Pencil Case . Or it could be inherent and part of some sort of natural cycle we all still adhere to a certain degree. Copying dormice stocking up acorns for winter (I’ve seen Bambi), we stop drinking cider and fumbling behind hay bales and harvest all that’s been sown. A month where all the seeds you’ve planted over the year are reaped and put to good use. Either way, inherent or conditioned, there is a certain pressure to kick yourself up the arse this month.

September is also a month of transition in fashion – each year we pack up our flimsy skirts and dresses that weren’t really done any justice by the tepid British Summer and we’re allowed to start wearing some serious clothes. Tailoring becomes important, leather and lambswool, cashmere and sheepskin are all brought out of the closet and suddenly getting dressed is brilliant. More thought is put in to getting ready, the masses of different fabrics to layer to keep warm. I genuinely find this exciting. I haven’t always; I used to be much more of a flimsy dress girl and loved floaty summer clothes. This was until I went travelling and wore them there. I realised then that they’d never this good walking down Streatham High Road, so I started not to bother.

September is the month when some of the most horrendous acts of terrorism occurred. However, this is only my first post so I’m not going to start theorising what change that has brought about. I’ll leave that to the people who think they know what they’re talking about.

September’s flower is the forget-me-not. For anyone who found or lost love this month.

Enjoy it, it’ll be bloody October soon.

WELCOME ….

And with tentative fingers I type the first entry to my blog …

Twelve words I never thought I’d hear myself say, in the same sentence.

I say this because I’m pretty selective when it comes to modern technology and the aspects of it I let in to my life/enjoy in my life. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a sucker for Facebook; the four horsemen of the apocalypse couldn’t stop me from updating my status, but I never thought a blog was one I would open my proverbial door to. I would’ve rather poked myself in my eye, my proverbial eye.

I don’t really have a plan for the blog part of my blog, surely it should be the simplest part of having a blog, but no. I’m struggling. Reviews? BOOM – There you go reviewed. Interviews? KABLAMO – Interviewed. But the blog? What do I write? I am all too aware that I could easily find myself talking about love and life in the city and then all of a sudden BAM – I have a mass of curly hair and I’m doing a voice over as I type about shagging and shoes. Don’t get me wrong, this would be my dream but sadly someone called Mick Hucknall already did it. How does he always get there first?

When this whole blogging bonanza started I frowned upon it.  It just seemed like a free for all. Suddenly it appeared anyone could have a website dedicated solely to what outfit they’re planning on wearing today  but when a wise young man recently argued that I might be generalising, just a tad, I delved a little deeper and when love is put in to them, there are some really awesome ones out there.

Really, what I’m trying to say is welcome to my blog. I’m a little unsteady on my cyber feet at the moment, so be gentle.  And although it looks like a barren spinster right now, I plan to pump this thing full of love and will do everything I can to avoid mentioning what I’m wearing today. But tomorrow I’m planning on wearing ….