Picture the scene: you’re alone in a room that isn’t your own. You know that you have 20 or so minutes entirely to yourself. A computer is open in front of you. There are notebooks and scraps of paper everywhere. There are drawers and cupboards begging to be opened. What do you do?

What I did was sit on my hands. I sat firmly on my hands because I couldn’t trust myself not to snoop. For five solid minutes I sat there biting my lips, fingers going numb and itching all over with the painful urge to root and root and root. Eventually I decided that rather than risk dead hands I’d check my email, which meant shutting my eyes and hammering ‘sign out’ as fast I could. If I dared open my eyes more than a tiny chink I ran the risk of reading email titles, snippets of messages, possibly incriminating things. And the lure of a snippet would cause me to click the email, open it, write words in the search bar, possibly my own name, and then maybe go utterly insane, and be discovered lying on the ground turning in slow circles using only my feet and nearby cupboards.

Having freed my hands and logged out of all social media presences I found myself rather bored. I laid a hand on a nearby notebook and thought hard. The last time I’d read someone’s diary (hi Paul! Sorry about that!) it had revealed precisely nothing about ‘us’ being a diary with nothing but social engagements noted in, and I was heartily disappointed. The time before had been disastrous. I wondered what exactly I was trying to find: admissions of a homicidal nature? Declarations of undying love? I wasn’t sure which was creepier.

The desperate urge boiled up in me. I shut my eyes and jiggled like a child desperate for the bathroom. I thought about how horrible it would be to leave someone alone in my room and risk them finding my stash of diaries. Or the box of sex toys. Or that one diary, right at the bottom of the diary stash, that is full of emotional things like ‘WHY DOES NO-ONE LOVE ME?’ and ‘I SAW ALIENS’ from when I had a nervous breakdown in 2005. It’s surprising how embarrassing mental illness can be.

Back to the room. I’m sitting there jiggling, a feeling of denial so strong it was physically painful. I wanted to snoop more than I wanted to do anything. My whole body ached, yearned to open a dozen drawers, lie face down in a pile of coats, roll around eyeball deep in a pile of diaries with sordid words wafting round my head like feathers. Just as my jiggling white hot need reached boiling point the door swung open, relief flooded over me. It felt as good as an orgasm on a warm day. For the first time in months I needed a cigarette.

Everything was going to be ok, until of course I was left alone in the room again…

Pictures from unknown Tumblrs!
Title from one of my favourite songs ever: Hide and Go Seek by Bunker Hill

Another friendly reminder that I’m swimming 2.5k in April, to raise money for Marie Curie. If you want to sponsor me then click here and make both myself and a very worthy charity immeasurably happy.

There is a rite of passage all people who write about dating must go through. A harrowing spectacle which only the strongest will survive. A show of strength, skill, and wit beyond measure. That’s right reader: I went speed dating.

The plan initially was to go with a friend and my housemate, and spend the whole thing howling with laughter at this ludicrous situation we had found ourselves in, all in the name of an amusing blog post. I spent all week wondering what on earth was suitable attire for a Monday night bout of speed dating: my stretch velvet minidress? A woollen pencil skirt? Heels? Shearling lined boots? In the end my outfit choice was dictated by the fact that I hadn’t done my laundry or repaired the dozen or so dresses I’d ripped in the preceding weeks, so I threw on an everyday dress, put a bit more lipstick on than usual, and set off alone, my two comrades having dropped out.

Unsurprisingly I was nervous. Standing in the basement of The Book Club I looked around me. Everyone was so shiny and glamorous and stood in groups with their friends who had glossy hair and coloured jeans on. I bought a drink and tried not to stare too much. Thankfully another woman, who we’ll call Glenda, was alone, and we soon became friends. The girls with glossy hair did not talk to us, or anyone else, they stared a lot. Glenda and I were shunted towards an awkward looking group of men by the organiser. For a moment or two we all stood looking at each other, blinking. It felt exactly like the first day of school. Glenda and I looked at the men, they looked at us. We all smiled. Someone said something about the weather and we all laughed. The relief was palpable.

Glenda and I took seats at an incredibly long table, facing a bunch of empty chairs. I made a bad joke about it being like The Apprentice, which I proceeded to repeat a dozen or so more times across the evening despite getting not one single laugh from it. As my first candidate sat down I gripped my drink tightly. What the hell were we going to talk about for three whole minutes?

Suddenly a chime was going, people were getting up and moving seats. I played noughts and crosses with a posh boy in a check shirt who lived in Wapping, discussed comics with a man in a sweater vest, and found out that people send poo in envelopes to bailiff’s offices with alarming regularity. There was a man who was working on one of the major scientific discoveries of the 21st century (no, seriously),and another who had been to Dollywood and enjoyed it as much as I had. Across the room a girl was arm-wrestling every man who sat down. I couldn’t decide if it was kooky or creepy, but was leaning towards the latter. Two chairs up from Glenda a girl had a set of 5 questions she asked everyone. The first was “Have you ever stolen anything?” She seemed to be incredibly unpopular.

When the last person got up from the chair opposite me I took a deep breath, then shuffled closer to Glenda. We went through our lists and compared notes. One man was deemed to be ‘too French’, another had ‘very creepy eyes’ and seemed ‘a little too sweaty’. Eventually after much deliberation we made a list of four people each, agreeing that really we only properly liked two of them, but thought the other two might be contenders. Nervously we handed our papers in to the organiser trying to squint at everyone else’s lists. A drink or two, a short walk to the busstop and it was over. On the way home I began to wish I could have just sat at that table talking to people about utter nonsense forever. I missed the tinkling noise of the change-over bell. I missed making my life sound exciting and scintillating. The rickety chair missed me I was sure. I even missed the drunk girl in the bathroom cleaning the red wine stain off her top with whom I’d had a lovely gossip.

Needless to say, should the opportunity arise again, I will definitely be going back. And that is not how I thought this would turn out at all! Oh and I may have got a date out of it. Ahem.

Should you too wish to go and have a fucking awesome time meeting a selection of good looking and funny people then the next Last Night A Speed Date Saved My Life is on Monday the 24th of October, at The Book Club in Shoreditch. Details here.

Photos from UhHuh Hair and  Ryan McGinley.

There are mornings when the world seems full of joy and laughter. A child’s voice from the fire escape above, the sun shining just so through a half pulled damask curtain. Today is not one of those days. Rain is coming through a skylight I left open last night, pooling in a martini glass, which is now spilling out onto the cashmere rug. It’ll have to wait till I’ve had my coffee. Everything has to wait.

Out on the street the smell of garbage has been replaced with the smell of wet dog, I take a deep breath, and drag on my cigarette. The coffee shop is two blocks away, so I hop in a cab and tip the driver $50 to keep quiet about the smoking. My barista, Chad, is a darling. Six foot five, blond, trapezius muscles you could wrap your legs around, and lips like two pigs wrestling under a bed of rose petals. He hands me my soy splenda pumpkin mocha caramel skinny latte and for a second, just a second the air is lit with sexual tension. I leave before it gets too awkward.

Back at my apartment Luz is cleaning up around a sleeping figure, draped across my sofa. As I approach him Luz shakes her head and presses a finger to her lips. From the cut of his jacket lapel it looks like Silver Fox. I wish he slept at his own damn apartment more often. In the study I pour a little bourbon into the last of my latte, and get to work.

David, who I’ve been coaching for six months, called his ex last night and alternated between crying and heavy breathing while telling her he loved her. I can almost taste the tears. They taste like cold hard quarters and soft twenty dollar bills. Amanda has accidentally hooked up with two roommates. Resisting the urge to high five her, I explain that she must either choose or take this to its logical conculsion: a sordid affair in a Parisian attic, after which everyone goes their separate ways.

Around 2pm I buzz for Luz who brings me my coffee and a preztel. I return the tray to her a 2.15pm, pretzel uneaten. This impasse has been going on since 1986. For all I know it is the same shellacked pretzel every day. I have no intention of finding out. At 3.30pm sharp I turn the computer off and go into the front room. Silver Fox is gone, but his cufflinks remain. Luz sweeps them into an ashtray and tips them down the garbage disposal unit. She’s not all bad, I have to admit.

What I do between 3.30 and 7pm is no-one’s business but my own, suffice to say that when I exit my cab outside the 21 Club I am both buffed to within an inch of perfection, poured delicately into a navy pantsuit, and spritzed with a fine sheen of whiskey and soda. Inside I take my usual seat and scan the crowd discretely. Don, who I coached last year, is holding hands with a sweet redhead in the corner. I turn away and look over by the door where Steve hugs his date Conor. They wave and I raise my glass with a nod. Across the bar a shape is moving ever closer, I can smell that familiar mix of pomade, fine Egyptian cotton, and brut. I pull the bar stool out at just the right moment and Silver Fox slides onto it gracelessly. He drinks half my cocktail and puts his hand on my knee. “Dear E. Jean,” I hear in my head, “My partner is an asshole…”

Apparently somewhere in the world there are men who like their women to be virgins. Though I’ve never met any of these men myself, I can in a way see their reasoning. When you date someone they bring their whole world with them, a cavalcade of one night stands, drunken fumbles, and obsessive crushes, not to mention the dreaded ex. Maybe you don’t mind and you’re better at living in the moment than I, but I often lie alone at night next to the poor buggers I go out with, thinking about all the people who’ve come before me and everyone who will probably come after me.

Is it better to have been proceeded by ugly or plain people? Bores with lank hair and vacant gazes? Or should you be at the end of a line of sculptural beauties? Are either of these things good? Never has the phrase ‘between a rock and a hard place’ been more appropriate. Surely with the former it means that you too are a dullard, and with the latter that you’re doomed to spend the rest of your life trying to compete? Much like no-one could ever live up to the glory of Elizabeth Taylor for Richard Burton, how can I ever live up to the memory of his part-time acrobat, full time model slash philanthropist girlfriend? HOW?

The utter delicious irony of this obsession with everyone else’s dating history is that I despise mine being raked over. Sure I’m happy to talk about it, even with people I’m seeing, but if they start to compare and judge I go batshit crazy. Recently a man said to me “What’s the matter? Did your ex have a small cock?” Words can’t even begin to explain how badly that went down. However even when people are less freaking shitty (seriously mate: go fuck yourself next time yeah?) I can’t handle my dating past being subject to scrutiny. It pains me to admit this but I frequently give my partners a fairly edited picture of my past. One night stands turn into flings, flings turn into relationships, and somehow relationships get downgraded into ‘this guy I was seeing for a bit, you know’. Lovebites and nail marks get explained away with tales of falling from bikes and mishaps with the cat.

Having been burned before I just don’t want to lay it all out on the line because there is a strong chance that once someone finds out about my gung-ho attitude to dating they will freak out and promptly dump me, or worse just stop returning my calls. Then again, I feel shitty about lying. Of course I should just be totally honest. That’s a given. And yeah, yeah, I know that anyone who’s stupid enough to judge me by some outdated moral code isn’t worth my time but it seems that 90% of people operate on dating rules that were out of fashion in the fucking 50s. Then again this just backs up my theory that most people aren’t worth my fucking time.

The double standard I ask people to accept is ludicrous: you must feel comfortable with the roving band of people in my past, and I must never ever hear about anyone you did anything more than hold hands with. Strangely I don’t think of myself as jealous. I could never be the girl who stops her boyfriend from speaking to someone, or stands possessively close in bars shooting lasers out of her eyes at any woman in a 2m radius. Thinking of myself as ‘not the jealous type’ I now realise is freaking ludicrous.

I think, in an ideal world, I would like to go out with someone who had had a varied, chequered, and filthy, dating history, and in a strange twist of fate, all the people they’d tangled with had mysteriously died. That would be bloody perfect.

Last night I got stood up. Sparing you the boring details, it meant I found myself in East London, in a pair of platforms and a nice blouse, seething with anger at about 11pm, and with no-one to take it out on. At first I thought I would walk it off, which is my normal way of calming down. But by the time I had reached Bank I was still full of bile and about to cut someone if they looked at me wrong. The idea popped into my head that a nice quiet drink at a bar, somewhere dark and with the sound of tinkling pianos in the background would probably make me less likely to deck someone and so I began ambling around the city in search of such a place.

As I passed bar after bar wondering if they would do, I tried to imagine Don Draper inside clutching a whiskey sour and staring into the middle distance but it didn’t work. Momentarily I considered returning to Shoreditch and picking someone up, but then thought about how that generally worked out for Don and decided against it. I found myself walking in circles smoking cigarette after cigarette, stony faced, until I got to London Bridge and looked out over the water. I wished I could throw myself in a cab, turn up at someone who wanted me’s house and fall asleep in their arms. Instead I walked to the busstop and smoked yet another cigarette.

It occured to me that whenever I am in a situation where I am at a loss for what to do, I think about Don Draper. Sometimes I take the opposite tack to his feckless actions, and just have a cig and a highball, but there are moments when he and I are in perfect tandem. A few days after Series 4 finished I decided to take up swimming again. As I swam, breathless and in agony, I would tell myself “I’m Don Draper. I’m Don fucking Draper.” Somehow this bizarre mantra would take me through five more laps, and I’d get out feeling some sense of vague accomplishment. When I am nervous and walk into a room full of people who I suspect are out to judge me, I pull my shoulders back, stand as straight as I can, and think about what Don Draper would do. Even as I stand there, trying to mask my utter fear at being somewhere alien and new, I think of something Don said: “When a man walks into a room, he brings his whole life with him. He has a million reasons for being anywhere, just ask him. If you listen, he’ll tell you how he got there. How he forgot where he was going, and that he woke up. If you listen, he’ll tell you about the time he thought he was an angel or dreamt of being perfect. And then he’ll smile with wisdom, content that he realized the world isn’t perfect.”

Neither is Don perfect. He makes mistakes, he says terrible things, he hurts people over and over again, and he hurts himself the most. For this, I love him. It has taken Don a long time to come to a place where he realises that he has to change, I’ve taken my sweet time about it too. But like Don I’m learning that no-one’s perfect, that no-one can do the right thing all the time, that everyone fucks up now and again. Last night, as I stormed around in a blind rage, desperate to think of some way to blot it out, I wanted someone to tell me what to do, to tell me I was making the right decision and that this impotent moment would pan out in the end. Don could have summed it up best himself: “Happiness is the smell of a new car. It’s freedom from fear. It’s a billboard on the side of a road that screams with reassurance that whatever you’re doing is OK. You are OK.” But it was now midnight, I was standing on London Bridge alone, in the cold and dark, I was pissed off I’d let myself get into a situation where I thought I’d be stood up, and I was. Another piece of Draper wisdom floated into my head “People tell you who they are, but we ignore it because we want them to be who we want them to be.” More than anything I wanted to go back in time to before my last boyfriend broke up with me, to when I had a home to live in, to a time when things seemed like they might actually work out, like someone in the world gave a fuck about me.

As I waited for the bus on London Bridge, and tried to summon up the Don Draper inside I felt drained. Being stood up, and not for the first time, was the least of my worries. The lights on the river were shining and the traffic was heaving behind me. I took a deep breath and tried to let the feeling go; as Don says “The world continues without us; there’s no reason to take it personally.”

Seriously. Fuck it. If you need a Clinton Cards sponsored day to tell someone else you love them then there’s something wrong with you. Buy your flowers, trinkets, heart shaped caramel centred chocolates, and engagement rings all you want – you’re being held down by the man and his bullshit!

Look there’s only two ways to spend it:

If you’re in a couple: DO NOT LEAVE THE HOUSE. I repeat do not leave the house. Out there are people selling wilted roses, heart shaped funfetti filled cakes that taste like cooking oil, and overpriced champagne and oyster set menus and you don’t even like oysters! How romantic can you really be when you’re surrounded by dozens of other couples also trying to be romantic? Doesn’t it end up being a bit of a buzzkill? Please, I’m begging you – stay indoors. Eat a nice meal, have a good fuck, sleep tight. It’ll be awesome.

If you’re single or your other half is a douche: GO OUT! It’s so much fun! One of my favourite Valentine’s Days ever was when my friend Nadine and I forgot what day it was, and went out to have an awesome sushi dinner together. We took advantage of the cheap oysters (which really, I do not like) and discount champagne, got ratted, giggled our way through an hilariously awkward dinner, then went out on the pull and found some shockingly good looking men who were similarly oblivious to the papier mache strewn wasteland that was Central London.

Either way don’t play the game! Don’t let the cliched sentimentality of Valentines Day get to you! And if it does, dance to Andre 3000 who is far wiser than either you or I will ever be.

Oh and don’t forget on the 15th cut price chocolates will be EVERYWHERE! Now is your chance to gorge on processed milk fat and cocoa and kit your room out till it smells like a wake. That friends is the true spirit of Valentines Day.

Last time I wrote a ‘Worst Date Ever‘ post I really did think that I had never had such a terrible time before or since, but on reflection I think that I’ve had a few shitty dates that could contend with that title, although at least one of them is my own fault: after all falling asleep at the BFI kind of does give someone the right to be angry with you. Oops?

Before I start telling you anything about this date I want to get the elephant in the room out of the way. The man I went on a date with had one arm. His one arm has nothing to do with this date sucking, it has nothing to do with whether I found him attractive or why the date turned out badly. However knowing that he had one arm may let you imagine this story all the more clearly and so I thought I’d just get it over with. Now, are you sitting comfortably? Then let’s begin.

Edward and I met at a Vines gig in Wolverhampton, I missed my train home and spent around 5 hours in Wolves station with him and his friends waiting for the service to resume in the morning. He was sweet, fun, cute, and really fucking smart: everything I look for in a boyfriend. And so few weeks later I found myself on a rail replacement coach trundling to visit him in Leicester on a Saturday evening wondering what the hell I was doing and whether he was going to dismember me since that’s what happens to girls who meet strangers and go to strange towns with them.

My mind was racing because before setting off on my journey I had spent an entire afternoon smoking weed in my housemate’s room watching Ken Russell’s Crimes of Passion over and over. Have you ever seen that film? If not then let me just tell you that Kathleen Turner plays a sportswear designer who moonlights as a prostitute in a selection of increasingly bizarre outfits. If that isn’t enough to set someone’s head spinning I don’t know what is. As I rode along I couldn’t stop thinking about the hundreds of different things that might happen when I got there, most of which ended in my gruesome death. But when I arrived I found Edward and he took me to what I think was a vegan restaurant. It was ok, I was having an ok time, things were swimming along nicely. And then he dropped the bombshell.

“So I thought we could go to this Nick Drake thing?” He said as we left the restaurant. “Nick Drake thing?” I replied. If there was fear in my voice he didn’t seem to notice it. “Yeah I have tickets.” “Cool…” I said and stared into the middle distance. “Nick Drake… he’s…..” But much as I tried I couldn’t say ‘great’ or ‘brilliant’ or even ‘competent’ so instead I trailed off and smiled wanly. What the hell was this ‘thing’ going to be? A ballet? A series of sculptures depicting him in the classical style? Anything but his music, please God, anything.

All my worst hopes were confirmed. It was an evening dedicated to the music of Nick Drake, and performed by half a dozen or so tribute acts. We had seats. It was in an arts centre. I sat down next to Edward and smiled. He seemed far off and fuzzy, I was suddenly extremely wasted even after the coach journey and the food. The lights dimmed and a man took his place at a tiny stool in the middle of the stage and it began.

For almost an hour I sat, cross-eyed with boredom, listening to third rate musicians hack at cheap guitars and sing songs that sounded a bit like Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen but not quite. Edward was enthralled, I had looked at him after 10 minutes ready to say “Fuck this lets go eat more vegan stuff yeah?” but he was leaning forward in his seat with eyes like saucers. To make the time pass quicker I went to the bathroom. I went to the bar. I had a cigarette. And then I went to the bathroom again. When I came back I was now tipsy on my quickly necked pint and needed to pee again. The room was swimming, a man was emotionally, possibly near tears, talking about how much he loved Nick Drake. His long, wavy hair was getting tangled in the tuning pegs of his guitar. He looked a bit like Jesse from Mystik Spiral. My hands were tingling, my mouth was dry and I was so fucking hungry I’d have eaten my mum. I swear to God a clock was ticking somewhere in slow motion with a booming sound. Thankfully as the man sniffled the lights came up and the interval was declared.

We stood in the art centre’s bar and talked about Nick Drake. I tried very hard not to say that I found listening to mice eat their way through the cabling behind my desk was prefereable to another minute of this hell. Edward told me about the songs, he told me about their history, he told me about certain chords with his eyes shut and his head tipped back. Suddenly I lost it. Grabbing hold of his coat I bellowed “This has been so great, but I just remembered it’s very important that I leave. Now.” And promptly left.

While I regret leaving in that way I don’t regret leaving at all. On the coach back home I felt happy I wasn’t dead, much as I had wished to be during the concert, and felt was sad that Nick Drake had died young because if he hadn’t I’d never have had to listen to that shite.

Illustration by Mike Bertino and Photo by Alex Prager

5. The one who won’t get away
Problem: They called and called, you ignored them over and over again. There were times you had the opportunity to kiss each other, but you decided it was a bad move. Their teeth stink and their hair is greasy but they’re just so sweet and they really really like you. Now it’s Saturday night, you’re going out alone and you’re so desperate it’s making you walk funny.
Solution: Call them if you must, but know that this won’t just be for tonight, it’ll take you MONTHS to get away from their greasy tendrilled clutches.

4.  The one you have nothing to talk about with but who is really really hot.
Problem: Your mouth waters, your eyes roll back in your head, and just the slightest glimpse of them zipping by is enough to make you need to sit down with your hands in your lap. When you first met you bonded over how noisy the gig was and funny the guy behind the bar’s nose is, but now, alone together it’s clear you have no shared interests, no common background, and they don’t know the difference between Martin Luther and Martin Luther King Jr.
Solution: Stop talking, start making out, and don’t stop till dawn.

3. The one who dated your friend last year.
Problem: Ashley said it’s cool if you guys went on a date, so it’s fine with her. But why isn’t it fine with you? Now every time you kiss you start thinking of Ashley and it’s killing your mood. Did Ashley touch him like this? Did Ashley like it when he touched her like that? It’s got to the point where you might as well be kissing Ashley.
Solution: Go home, it’s not going to get any better. Ashley’ll thank you for it later. That is if she’s still talking to you after you tell her that you made out naked with her ex.

2. The one who looks nothing like their profile picture.
Problem: They’re not fatter, or thinner, they’re just, well, less hot. The photo was from a good angle and well lit, but here, under the strip lighting you can see them from every angle and it’s starting to look a bit too post-modern. You bring up something you both said you liked, he can barely string a sentence together about it. He asks you if you’re going to have dessert and raises an eyebrow: you don’t know if he’s implying you’re overweight or that you should skip it and go straight to his. Both of these seem similarly repellant.
Solution: Go to the bathroom, text your friend and say they should call in five minutes saying something ‘very bad has happened’. Don’t feel bad that you’re ripping off a scene from Sex and The City. Pray that he hasn’t see SATC. Go back out smiling and wait for your call. Note: I find that a housemate losing their keys is always a good get out clause.

1. The one who’s already in a relationship.
Problem: Or is married or in an open-relationship their other half doesn’t know about. Seriously just don’t do it! I have and basically it sucked. It broke my heart in two and made me hate both myself and the rest of the world for a very long time. There are exceptions; people are frequently in relationships with people they don’t love and aren’t happy with but you are not the solution. You are worth being with, wholly and completely, in public, and on your terms.
Solution: If you want to be in an open relationship then do it- don’t sneak around and fuck up someone else’s life. And if you do then own up to it – whether you’re the cheater or the cheat-ee you did wrong. Apologise, stop fucking about, and make amends. And don’t ever EVER do it again.

I fucking love the idea of matchy matchy dressing with my boyfriend. In fact it’s something I try to trick him into doing regularly, but he’s yet to fall for it and was rather annoyed with me when we left his house last weekend in almost matching scarves. I, conversely, punched the air with glee.

Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t want us to look like creepy twins, or like that couple who wear one red one green Converse each that Alexander Fury keeps seeing in Tesco, but there’s something fun and ridiculous about being part of a secret gang of sorts who wear the same clothes and do the same shit. I love secret gangs: I used to wish when I didn’t have anyone to ride my bike with that I could get a whole gang of friends and dress them up in leather jackets, then we’d ride around and maybe find a secret island like in Swallows and Amazons, and hang out there for the afternoon. Come on! Who doesn’t want a secret gang? Handshakes and haircuts, secret words and songs, imagine it!

If you think about it being in a relationship with someone is a bit like being in a secret gang as long as you do it right. The best things about secret gangs are how everything cool you do is exclusive and under wraps. So if you and your boyfriend call each other pet names, or have private jokes, it becomes 100000000% less cool and fun when you say them in front of people. This goes double for dressing up. While Halloween is the one day of the year this advice/rule/whatever can take a hike, I want you first to look at Dough Reinhardt’s face and think twice before you dress as the tooth fairy and a… ummm…. depressed molar?

I find that most people and pets find being dressed up like an amusing toy incredibly humiliating no matter how much I’m, er I mean, you’re enjoying it which is a damned shame. Although, duh, your boyfriend isn’t a toy some days it would really be a lot better if he just let you do his mascara, draw a glitter lightning bolt on his face, and squeeze into some co-ordinating platforms, because then the two of you could act out some sweet as fuck Bay City Rollers videos. Or you could wear matching suits and pretend to be city boys. Or put on wigs and pretend to be Lady Gaga and her reflection. The possibilities are ENDLESS.

Just remember the secret gang’s rule: keep it indoors, because then no-one can laugh at you.

Pictures from Fuck Yeah Cute, I Love Pugs, and Jezebel

At the age of 9 I could hardly understand the not so subtle sexual tone of the book, but I loved Nana for bucking the system in every way she could, and having a bed surrounded by blue drapes and carved cherubs. Now, having read the book countless more times I love her pig headedness, her sharp tongue, and her girlish gaudiness. Had she been moved from the 1800s to now, I’d like to think her look would be perfect for any hopeful cocotte.

While Nana is a courtesan and proud of it she is always anxious to distance herself from the street walking friends she once had in looks as well as attitude. So while her taste runs to gaudy, (and what can be gaudier than D&G?) she is also effortlessly chic in that sickeningly Parisian way that I can only dream of. The main effect of a Nana-esque look should be a polished exterior concealing the minx within. Or rather as Henry James said: “instead of saying of Nana that it contains a great deal of filth, we should simply say of it that it contains a great deal of nature.” and you can’t go wrong when you act natural…

Further reading:
Wikipedia
Amazon