Day 22 and 23 Payday is upon me!

Hello dear readers, I apologise for a couple of days of absence. I had in fact taken out my laptop in order to update  you all with the happenings of the week but alas I passed out at 8.30pm only waking up when my housemate got home at 10.00pm. Day 22 and Day 23 have presented me with two rather interesting challenges firstly it is my friend, the lovely Laura's birthday tomorrow. An exciting yet undramatic event you may think. However I need to buy her a gift, and Laura, just like myself really loves pretty things, in fact she has somewhat of a penchant for nautically themed items. Think anchors on chains, striped tops and red ribboned bracelets. I too love to pay homage to the traditional dress of the high seas and was considering (aloud) making an addition to her lovely collection of memorabilia.

Shockingly a group of my colleagues suggested that this was in fact a breach of the terms of my blog and that in fact I should apply the rules of purchasing not only to myself but also to my entire purchasing behaviour for the year. It was even suggested that were I to buy a wardrobe based gift then it would be no different to an ex smoker spending time breathing deeply in the smoking area of a pub garden. I felt this to be a little strong as an analogy but nevertheless have been left in a quandary as to what to do. The birthday looms and yet I have not made a purchase. Tomorrow morning I will have to fix the problem and make a decision. Whilst I don't want to break the rules of my blog even indirectly, I am not convinced I signed up for a complete abstinence. It's almost too horrid to consider that I may not even be able to buy wardrobe items for other people. I have yet to make a decision as to how to proceed but this conundrum is giving me a stress headache

Day 22: a day with clients made ever so difficult by a challenge to the rules of the game.

Day 23: It's payday and a day of working with kids from the Ideas Foundation, that calls for a practical attire.

So yesterday was a day of hard work, some lovely young people from the Ideas Foundation  came to work to learn about our industry and to help us with some work that we have been doing. Largely therefore I was distracted from the date....it was payday. Now I am not actually the sort of individual to dash out and spend all of my pennies in one ill thought through disaster the day I get paid, however knowing that I couldn't even buy one little pretty thing to reward myself for working hard was most displeasing. Following a long day of being sublimely happy and enthused I felt at the very least I should have been able to have a little necklace....RUBBISH.

So as it was I went home instead of going out (on account of extreme tiredness), had one glass of wine with my housemate, went to bed early and woke up with an extreme hangover. Seriously there is absolutely no justice in the world whatsoever.

Day 20 & 21: Oh no, this is not a photogenic outfit

Mainly today I am terrified at the outfit I wore on Day 20. Despite thinking I looked nice, it would appear that I looked a genuine mess. The day started as any other.....

6.50am alarm clock goes off….press snooze (twice). 7.10am panic and run to the bathroom, clean teeth, shower and wash face (soap in eyes). 7.20am (late) kettle on, stub toe on kitchen door, (knock over ironing board thus waking flatmate). 7.25am makeup on, get dressed after scrabbling in wardrobe for clothes (curse innate hatred of ironing). 7.35am examine hair and attempt salvage of style (panic again as Chris Moyles announces the time and curses his morning guest for being late). 7.45am locate belongings and run down stairs (run back up stairs and collect glasses). 7.50am (late late late) drive to work (same route as always) laugh at Chris Moyles and guest, arrive at work……

I suppose it is clear now that given the scale of the wardrobe task I have set myself, the potential viewing figures of blog (if it is as successful as one hopes) and given my entrenched inability to get up upon first tinkle of my alarm, I MUST consider my outfits the night before.

I have of course tried to console myself over this picture in addition to fervently plotting a safeguard against any possible recurrence. I have considered the very real possibility that this photo is not a valid representation of the clothes I wore on the 20th of this month. I purport that in fact this photo is most unfair, and here dear reader is my evidence. Firstly, my shoes look low heeled at this angle and I can vouch that they are in fact 4 1/2 inch stiletto platforms and completely impractical for the office. One can only surmise therefore that we are suffering from some form of hideously distorted perspective. Secondly, three people told me I looked nice. Thats far more than normal. I can only assume that something funny is going on here, either that or the people I work with lack style. Although, horror of horrors, they might have said I looked nice when I didn't. You know what I mean, in the same sense as when someone demure dyes their hair flourescent red and one finds oneself forced to comment positively in order to provide explanation as to wht you have just reimplanted eyeballs into sockets and retrieved jaw from floor. 

This hideous revelation, in the form of an ill thought through outfit set me thinking about the difference between personal image and reality. That time old conundrum that forces us to seek solace in friends when constructing our 'look'. Our mind tells us that we look an unutterable delight, yet until we step out into the broad light of day, to be scrutinised by friends, colleagues and foe, we never really know it is true. Celebrities the world over know only too well of the horror of public scrutiny. Surely not one of them has ever planned to end up in the dunce section of the style pages, yet each and every one of them with no notable exception will have found themselves unceremoniously plastered over it at some point in their illustrious career.

We can all run but none of us will ever be safe from the grasp of the wardrobe mishap from time to time. The tentacles of the heathen beast that is the closet gremlin will at some point clasp us all around the ankle, taking great pleasure as we fall flat on our face in a pile of ill thought through garments. Celebrity or not, every last one of us will fall foul to this evil little monster. In a way I suppose the wardrobe gremlin is in fact a wonderful leveller. No matter how much money you have, no matter how much care you take, one day he will get you. So maybe, no matter how tempting it may be to point and laugh at the celebrities on those pages, perhaps we should in fact rejoice that they are in fact human, we should comiserate with them on their valiant, yet fruitless attempts to push fashion boundaries and we should remember that in a sense we have all been on that page at least once. 

Day 20: the day I was terrified of. I look like a great big mess......I was sure it looked fine!

Day 21: Client meetings necessitate smartness. A great way to break free from the disastrous grasps of Day 20's malfunction and burst forth in a delightfully happy celebration of cinched in plaid...or something like that.

Day 19 Not a lot going down

So, the other day I was chatting to Caroline, the Denhamator as we like to call her about this wondering I have been doing around the subject of shopping. Following last week's craving for shopping and my hypothesis that in fact we shop to gain control over some point in our life when we find other aspects crumbling like an eroding cliff in a gale.

The insightful lady offered me an alternative view. A view that in fact newness drives our shopping cravings. When life is going badly, when we feel a little bit pants, Caroline suggested that maybe we then associate all around us with how rubbish we feel. Thus meaning that (consciously or subconsciously) we determine that the only thing that could possibly pull us out of the doldrums would be to buy new things absolutely immediately. When things are not going according to plan we blame the shoes that are over two weeks old (tsk) and the dreadfully dull jeans that we loved last week. Desperately we NEED new stuff, not nicer stuff necessarily than we had before but new stuff. Stuff that can never be associated with the unfortunate events that have resulted in the foul mood in which we find ourselves.

Thinking about this over the next few days I found myself increasingly convinced by this argument. A particular memory sprang to mind of a day in March during my 2nd year of university. A boy, had rather unceremoniously dumped me. Not a newsflash you think? Well this dumping would have been insignificant, suffice a few tears had it not been the day before my hair appointment. Now, until this point I had been an unassuming natural blonde, considering a few highlights as my first foray into the world of artificial colour. However when the time came to choose my dye I found myself asking for something different, something which would allow a reinvention of me, I went brunette, with red bits. I hadn't planned it but my circumstance inspired change.

From that moment on I have often changed my hair when I feel like making a conscious statement of change. Both chops and colour changes have, for the last few years, been indicative of moments of significance both small and large. In some way perhaps clothes have been another, albeit less extreme outlet for my emotions. Another way to put old news behind me and get on with the important stuff, the now and indeed the future. I guess you can't really separate the need for control from the need to reinvent yourself of your wardrobe, it is in fact as I suspected all along....girls are terrifyingly complex, even for other girls to understand.

Late photo's I have decided are a bad idea as I have a tendency to look dishevelled and not in a good way. This must be remedied in the coming weeks. This was taken by my housemate at about9.30pm when I had already been half passed out on the sofa for quite some time....NEVER again

Day 18: Pyjama day

So this delightful  post Sunday post has no photo on account of me not really getting dressed to do anything all day. Except a dash to the shops in my scruffs the Sabbath was passed largely on the sofa and largely in a state of semi consciousness. I think this is a common side effect of having a little bit too much fun. My body has begun to fail the unadulterated fun that my mind seeks and yesterday it went on strike.

But, dear blog followers, fear not for todays post. I was lucky enough to pick up Grazia Magazine in Sainsbury's during my shortlived trolley dash and consumed all of the latest fashion news in the windows of clarity that littered my somewhat fuzztastic day.

It was a largely pleasurable review of the week's celebrity and style developments. I caught up on Jen's latest conquest and sighed in despair, I love the girl but if we are to believe the papers surely she has had more men than the legendary Pavarotti had dinners? I was kept captivated with news that Cheryl was not only in hospital but in ITU with her malaria, I admit feeling a mild panic at the thought that my favourite fellow Geordie was so poorly. However a blot was placed on my serene afternoon when I got to page 30.

Following the Lovely Stella M's A/W catwalk shows which showcased more than a sprinkling of beauteous point toe courts (PTC's to the fashion literate amongst us) EVERYONE is wearing them, a little research substantiated that this is not a vicious rumour spread by Grazia alone, Elle also documents a rise in the number of celebrities sporting these early noughties classics. I am reliably informed by my trusty style bibles that the pointy will be the big shoe of Autumn. Every girl worth knowing will be hoofing the skyscraper platforms they have loved for the last two years and whizzing off for some therapeutic bank balance abuse to purchase these newly styled beauties. Now I can't help but think this represents not the meandering of fashion trend that I had dreamed of when I signed myself up for this challenge but is more akin to a hairpin bend. I am NERVOUS. I could be forced into style Siberia this is NOT cool.

If this wasn't nervewracking enough for me on Day 18, I was dealt a further blow when I reached page 42 and the 10th hot story of the week. Trousers are coming back. What in the name of the lord is going on? Trousers went out in my second year of Uni and I have seen not hide nor hair of them since. Faithful blog followers will know that the trouser is the least prominent member of my otherwise plentiful wardrobe. I own two pairs, neither particularly loved, or in fact worn. Both of them grey and both over 5 years old. At this point I admit to having a moment of genuine terror. Pointy shoes can be worked around with the two pairs I actually own, this is a completely different challenge. Bar knitting a pair with the wool of my favourite lounging blanket I fear there is little I can do to conform to this new addition to the fashion canvas. The Miracle Flare and I will not be united for quite some time and I feel I am going to struggle profusely. After quite a few years of grappling with opaque tights, there is a genuine allure to the idea of a new take on the trouser. Think Coco Chanel and the ladies that Yves Saint Laurent made so famous, how I would love to model my 26 year old self on their loveliness. Oh now I am sad, what made me do this silly silly thing?

I had imagined that to some extent I would be able to style and accessorise what I had to keep up with the style of the moment, these worrisome, some may say beastly developments suggest otherwise. I have more concern over my mental state than previously and feel I may need to call upon the support of my followers sooner than I first imagined.

On that note I am off to re examine my wardrobe in the vain hope that I will find something buried in it's depths that resembles a black, pointy toed classic and understated shoe........GULP

Day 15 - 17 A week of challenges

The end of the week was both challenging and delightfully easy. The weekend passed in a blur of fun with not even the inkling of an urge to part with any hard cash in a retail environment. All hard cash was in fact channelled into the Rose wine industry which I endeavour to support on most Fridays. The sunshine did what I believe is commonly known as 'a runner' and hasn't been spotted since Wednesday which presented in itself an excellent opportunity to diversify the going out clothes and I delved into the Autumnal wardrobe for both Friday and Saturday night. Please note due to Rose wine induced memory loss I am unable to document the evening outfits for your delectation as I forgot to chronicle them digitally with my trusty Canon.

The real blow of the week was dealt on Friday as tatty devine sent through their e-newsletter to my account. I have long been a mega fan of the name necklace and have not only invested in my own but have found them to be excellent gifts for the discerning friend. However my inner bliss was seriosly compromised at 10.34am as they announced a sale AND new and marvellous fonts. I was overcome with creative desire for a green one saying peas and an orange saying carrots. I can picture them now in 'chips' the new font and genuinely felt bereft at the thought that I cannot make my dream come true. But as my delightful and incredibly insightful BFF said...'Dude, you've made your bed...' OUCH.

If I can say so myself, I gathered inner strength and managed to move on from this incident with remarkable spirit and speed, making a mental note to buy myself the first of many gifts on July 1st 2011. 

Day 14: Wintry rumblings break the blissful sunshine in the form of solid British cloud cover, inevitably we are forced to reach for the layers and, sadly the boots in order to keep tootsies dry and avoid frostbite. Ah the wonders of a North West July morning

Day 16: Yes I do believe that wearing a summery skirt could make the sun come out. However my faith was shaken as the day wore on and the rumblings of thunder were heard in the East....TUT

A hangover and a lot of rain, led to the mid year unearthing of my most favourite comfort coat....ahhh the animal is back.

The weekend ponderings centred mainly around the act of 'getting ready'. I have always been somewhat fascinated by the individual rituals that each girl refines as she learns how she wishes to present herself on an evening out. Of course for the puposes of these pages my focus centres around the clothes the girl puts on. For simplicity, I will be the girl. I always think about what I am going to wear before I get to my wardrobe, potentially this limits me only to what I can remember that I own and in fact maybe limits me to outfit combos I have created in the past. Something I may have to reconsider when times get tougher.

However, I think first and foremost of the type of evening and then of the people I am steeping out with. Firstly I consider what part of my personality should be showcased, which I believe is another nail in the coffin of individuality as I suppose my personal style must therefore be tempered by it's audience. Secondly I consider what wore last time I was out with this group of people and what they have seen me wear before. Critically, for reasons I have yet to begin to unravel, we always want to look like we are wearing something new, not that one has plumped for a timeless classic with supernatural slimming and lengthening powers.
The outfit is constructed with the loving care that one would deliver to a small sleepy kitten or indeed a set of birthday cupcakes. The bag, the shoes, the jewellery are all considered. I often construct from accessories upwards as I find it easier to look different, but this weekend it was all about the t-shirt dresses and opaques, simple and effective for chilled out cocktails and dancing to cheesy pop. I guess, what I wonder is why when we have seen our friends in the day time with our makeup smudged and our hair scraped back, do we bother to go through such a rigmoral as day turns to night?

I kind of think I need to write a list of things I am thinking about and think of how I can get the answers otherwise, heaven forbid, my blog will be a minefield of unanswered questions.

Day 14....a serious moment of withdrawal

This is a sad day, I have had a little bit of a grumpy week, it is after all my prerogative as a lady, ahem. I found myself a little stressed in the workplace and a little at sea personally speaking. The natural reaction to such a predicament is of course to do something to make oneself feel less squiffy. To inject if you will, a little chirpiness into the midweek doldrums.


And so it was that I found myself on a cloudy Wednesday afternoon thinking of shopping. To be more specific I found myself thinking about the wonder that is the Trafford Centre after work. Absent mindedly I ploughed through a presentation detailing the psychology of the social web (I know YIKES), yet thinking about gladiator sandals with intricate jewelling, floaty summer shift dresses embellished in wonderful detail. And then I realised that this was a dream, not a day dream but an actual dream, the sort that won’t come true. The sort that you don’t waste your precious birthday wishes on because they won’t come true. Let’s take a moment to think about some other examples of this;

• That a handsome prince will appear, galloping along on a handsome steed to save you when you get a puncture in the slinging rain....AS IF

• That one day your life will be stress free .....it occurred to me at the age of about 18 that life gets more and not less stressful as you get older (NB we are not forced to grow up).

• My friend Laura purports that marrying Russell Brand is one, I am not sure that I concur

• She also thinks that it is unlikely that one would ever grow wings and fly....here I believe that I must agree.

We digress however from my point. The issue at hand being that I have in fact removed a commonly used and effective form of personal therapy from my repertoire. My emotional first aid kit has a shopping bag shaped hole at it’s very heart, oh the ridiculousness of the situation. I confess to being a little irritated at myself. I have a life filled to its very brim with ridiculousness for heavens sakes. What exactly was it that possessed me to make it just a little bit sillier?

But then, like the introspective ponderer that I am, I began to think. How amazing that something so simple could make so much difference to my inner happiness, and not just to my inner happiness but to the inner happiness of most of the young women I know. We teeter close to the reinvention topics of last week but here I am convinced that I have uncovered something slightly different. We talk about retail therapy in a joking manner but there is something about shopping, or just looking at clothes that is restorative. The future foundation last year reported an increase in the number of women who have shopped alone since the beginning of the recession. Yes there are probably a lot of factors attributed to this shift but I wonder if, in times of increased stress whether the need to make ourselves look better becomes more important to us. When times are good, looking perfect doesn’t matter as much because everything else is great. In a recession, or even after a pants day at work, we choose to exercise more control over those parts of our lives which we are able to.

Subconsciously do we deliver ourselves more control over these parts of our lives in order to balance out the lack of control over other elements of the rat race? Is this why a lone shopping trip can be so calming to our conscious? It’s one to think about over your tea isn’t it? Oh ok, that's just me then.

In other news I entirely forgot to have my photo taken on Wednesday and arrived home to find no amenable flatmate to help me out! Bad times. Therefore see above, a ridiculous DIY angle of my vintage jumper with no view of my delightful city shorts or heels. Never mind eh.

Day 12 and 13 Thinking about two types of girl....

Today was a day for thinking. Someone said something that stopped me and made me consider what it is that drives fashion, or to be more specific, style. There are two types of fashionable girl (or person if we insist on being PC) , those who love fashion because it helps them to blend in and those who are passionate about standing out.

Day 12, bit tired post weekend fun

For some people fashion is about getting dressed up. Standing out from the crowd and making statements about their personalities which allow others to understand that they are different from those around them. The others use style as a way of fitting in, they aren't directional in their choices but choose mainstream fashion as a way to fit in, to identify themselves with those around them. They are fashionable, classic and groomed but do not wish their style choices to emphasise a point of difference.

It strikes me that this is something of a poetic irony that clothes can unite individuals despite vastly differing personal agenda's. The underlying wonder of style is in fact it's flexibility. We are in a way a blank canvas each morning, as we stretch out respective limbs, rub our eyes and prepare to face the day, we all make our own separate decisions as to how we wish to present ourselves to the world. We paint a picture of our personality with clothes and we showcase ourselves accordingly.

Those personalities are defined to those we meet not only by the clothes we put on our backs each day but by the way we construct our outfits. A girl who dresses in classic shapes, dark colours and a pair of sharp shoes is, I argue highly likely to be organised than I with my multitude of bangles and excessive scarf collection. Personally I am of the stand out camp of dressing, yet not to the extent that people would stop and stare at me in the street. See below for an example of said understated behaviour! My quest is to make an statement of individuality, to express my somewhat eccentric personality without appearing odd to the point of 'different'. I have an overwhelming admiration for those able to execute individuality in it's true sense, the Agyness Deyns, Katy Perrys and Lady Gaga's of our popular culture truly  deliver us a sense of themselves without the need to utter a word.

Day 13...standing out, moi? Nah

But are these women really non conformists? They still wear the work of designers, they in fact buy into the style ideal in it's purest sense as a mechanism by which we detail ourselves to those who watch. Is the fact that these girls potray their personalities with such conviction a non conformist action or in fact is this conforming in its most pure sense? Its an interesting thought that in fact those who don't conform are those who still step out in velour Juicy Couture (heaven forbid). Those who are the least conformist are those who genuinely don't  care about fashion, or style....gulp. They are women who would not find my challenge a challenge and who probably think I am a vacuous wench for even bothering to try. In a way it is laudable that they have the self confidence to abstract themselves from the crutch that fashion provides us with, but personally I am proud to have thrown out all Fruits of the Loom sweaters post 1995.

This leads me to conclude that in fact conforming is an excellent life choice, one in which I am not only comfortable but proud. Hurrah for conforming to the cultural imperative to express oneself through fashion and heaven help me whilst I keep up with it over the next year.

Days 7-11 following a serious lack of connectivity

Firstly, apologies that I have been so tardy in my blogging this week. It has been more than a little action packed and wifi connections have been few and far between. Whilst I accept that not having shared my experiences for almost a week is pretty rubbish for a blog which is only 3 weeks old, I am sad to think that some people (you know who you are) thought this absenteeism was due to failure. Those who know me surely know I am nothing if not stubborn and that I will not fail.

And so to the week. It has passed as mentioned in a blur of activity. Tuesday was stresstastic and, embarassingly the day after blogging about increasing levels of photo fear, I failed to have my photo taken (oopsy). However I quickly regained control of myself and have had a photo taken everyday since.

Thursday was quite a day and saw the first serious challenge to my task. Following a day with clients, I and the team got ready for sports day. One may imagine this to be a charming affair but lest the summer breezze carried more than a whiff of competition as the sporting event of the year whipped up a frenzy in the office. All of a sudden I and my colleagues were presented with....team outfits. Ermmmmm panic ensued as I considered (fleetingly) explaining why I couldn't wear a leopard print stetson and team t-shirt. This was quickly evicted from my conscious mind on a number of counts;

1. Career suicide
2. There was a best dressed team award and I do not like to lose.
3. Everyone needs a leopard print stetson in their life....don't they?

NB we did win best dressed but despite multidisciplinary champion Denise Lewis issuing Olympian advice on the quality of the 3 legged race knot I had tied, we came last in our actual event.

And so the vault was born. An legendary place in which all items of clothing accidentally acquired between now and the 1st July 2011 will be stowed. Currently this vault is the boot of my Rich's car although I will soon be forced to consider a more permanent residence for treasured yet forbidden items when said stetson is retrieved. Although this was not a problem that I had considered in the settting up of Hanger Strike, it strikes me that this may be a relatively common debacle. Only yesterday I was forced to shun Company magazine for offering me a free t-shirt with my purchase......hmph.

Day 8: I have no idea why I look so alarmed.

The best dressed team at sports day.

In the hive of activity which was the weekend I ventured no where near a shop, a veritable victory for Hanger Strike and, interestingly, my challenge was relegated to the back of my mind during indulgence in super amounts of fun in the lovely town of Cheltenham.

Day 9...extraordinarily excited about the weekend ahead, celebrating in my granny cardi from the ever faithful M&S.

Day 10: A beer festival in the loverly Cheltenham, Topshop maxi, some heart sunnies and my fave partner in crime....AWESOME

This is my official Day 10 picture courtesy of the loverly Square Jim! What a marvellous chap!

Day 11: A BBQ on a hill Abercrombie shorts and the perfection of my frisbee technique....not a shopping related thought in sight.

So there we have it, a week of fun. But fear not, as the weekend wound on, wifi free, I did not cease my relentless clothes related ponderings. Spending the weekend in a different city is never fails to fascinate, only 119 miles away (according to my trusty TomTom) yet a million miles away from Manchester in the fashion stakes. The North South divide exists not only in culture but also in style. That is not to say that one is superior to the other, but it is astounding how such a small distance can give rise to such a vast chasm of ideals.

The North, a land plagued by a distinct lack of reliable sunshine, is an area in which fake tan and the sun bed reigns supreme. My lack of tan, or general lack of pigmentation is the foundation of many a firm stare when I dare step out bare legged. Down in the South, the sun is plentiful and the tans are light but real.

Similarly, the styles of the towns are as different as the retail outlets of their streets. Manchester is filled with high fashion, glitter and LBD's galore, the Nam on the flip side sports an array of high end casual retailers. Jack Wills takes centre stage alongside Joules and Cath Kidston as leggy young girls sport natural tans in shorts and gilets. If one transplanted oneself to the streets of Manchester you would find similar groups of girls, looking similarly stylish yet diametrically opposed in harem pants and glads with a smattering of well placed maxi's and considerably more bangles.

How strange that it may be possible to successfully guess at an individual's hometown merely from the style choices that she makes. I am tempted to hypothesise that we are subtlely displaying not just our personality but our origins within the choices that we make. I wonder if I could do a science experiment about that!!! Ooh how exciting

Day 5 & 6 and the beginning of photo fatigue

Today I have been thinking in more detail about the task at hand and have come to an unforeseen conclusion . I think I find having my photo taken daily in my chosen outfit considerably more stressful as a concept than not buying clothes for a year. The reality of this has dawned upon me over the course of the last five days as I find myself using complex diversionary tactics to put off the inevitable event.

Of course these diversions do nothing but extend my nervousness for protracted periods at the same time giving the morning's delightfully applied makeup a chance to migrate down, or in fact off my face. So today, as I bounced about asking people to take my photo and then making up ridiculous reasons to 'just do it later', I got to wondering why this may be. The reasons for this I suspect are multiple;

1. By taking a photo of what I am wearing I allow myself to be abstracted from the outfit and see it as I would the 'streetstyle' pages of many a highstreet magazine. As a dedicated critic, sometime cynic and occasional bitch I fear that one day I may have my photo taken only to upload computer and think....'Sweet Jesus did that girl get dressed in the dark?'.  The thought is almost to painful to entertain.
2. I have already spent five days mortally concerned that the above comedic situation is almost certain to become a reality at some point. I am also afeared that if this does happen, I am then obliged to load said heinous fashion crime onto this blog for the delectation of the masses. Would it be cheating to omit an entry? Would I be dishonest to pretend a whole day of Hanger Strike just didn't happen? Its a lot to think about and a conundrum I have yet to solve.
3. Finally, and this is what causes me the most stress. Everyday I have my photo taken in flats I am forced to acknowledge that I have the shortest legs in Christendom. I mean for heavens sakes, this is NOT fair. I have long known I am almost hobbit like in proportion, however I struggle to understand why I would have consigned myself to an entire year of being gently reminded of this sad fact.

I think what this boils down to is the issue of comparison. If we are honest with ourselves (I mean REALLY honest), we like to compare favourably. Women are subconsciously programmed to want to look not just nice but better. Better than we did yesterday, better than the girl beside us. Not, I repeat NOT to showcase legs shorter than the average ant.

By having my photo taken everyday I am forced to face up, not to how I look in my mind but to how I really look, how other people see me day, by day, by day. To judge myself by the standards I set for those on the pages of fashion magazines, short legs and all. I don't really like sitting on the other side of that make believe fence, I don't like the vulnerability that I feel as my own take on fashion is thrown into sharp relief. That sets me thinking on why we have set these standards for ourselves and what they are actually based upon. But I think that is for another day.

As some light relief, here is what I wore on days 5 & 6;

Day 5. A little bit of a funny day weather wise but my favourite T-shirt brightened things up.

Day 6: chilled out and dressed down, short legs and all

Day 4: lazy Sundays and guilty friends

Mainly I had hoped to manage my fashion cold turkey by living vicariously through others. Shopping with my friends rather than for myself, and accompanying them on their multiple expeditions over the course of the year was how I was going to cope, how I planned to get through the dark, cold months without collapsing in a heap of deprived,  sad grumpiness. Other people's shopping was not something that I was aiming to detach myself from, far from it, I hoped to enjoy it, to revel in the delight of a new frock as much as they did themselves.

Unfortunately, such is the horror at what I am doing to myself, my friends seem unable to share their shopping experiences with me without being afflicted by some form of guilt. I can only imagine they view what I am doing as some warped form of self harm and as a result feel they must keep their quite normal weekend shopping activities as far from my consciousness as possible. Just as it is impolite to eat hugenormous slices of chocolate cake in front of someone on a diet, it is deemed inappropriate to talk about the wanton consumption of fashion in front of me.

This is a NIGHTMARE and these delightfully honourable intentions must be swiftly nipped in the bud if I am to cope with my year of self imposed, self harm.

Despite the potential personal distress that this could result in, the very fact that the reactions of those around me are so extreme is surely testament to the depth with which shopping has infiltrated our culture. Shopping, or maybe the ability to express oneself through fashion is tantamount to a rite of passage in 21st century Britain. I expect many, if not most young women can easily remember what they wore at key moments in their lives. I can remember where most of those clothes came from, when I bought them and how much they cost (is that weird?). Nevertheless, clothes in some way define the life I have led, the twists and turns of my extraordinarily twisty path.

Maybe what is the most alluring about buying new things is the possibility of almost infinite reinvention. Shops like Primani allow us to redefine ourselves on almost a weekly basis, maybe in a way that has not been possible for generations before us. In this culture of rapid change, the concept of remaining the same for any period of time appears truly terrifiying. My voluntary removal of myself from the highstreet, my abstinence from the opportunity to reinvent apparently strikes fear into the hearts of even the most cool, calm and collected ladies I know. Maybe thats because there is a perception that I have relinquished some of the control that we have come to take for granted?

Only time will tell how it will really affect the way I feel about myself, after all I have yet to run out of new clothes to wear. This Sunday evening saw me sporting a new maxi as we listened to the not particularly dulcet tones of those partaking in an open mic evening over a glass or two of pink wine. I had hoped to wear my new flip flops but it seems I am in desparate need of practice prior to wearing them outside of the confines of my home;

Day 3: loss aversion kicks in

Its true what they say, one wants the things one cannot have. If you are on a diet, you inevitably crave pizza, chocolate and in my case fondant fancies, busy people crave time to stay still and bored people crave  a busy life. The poor believe that the world would be an infinitely better place if they were rich beyond their wildest dreams, despite a strong body of evidence suggesting excessive quantities of money are a one way ticket to rehab. And so it is that I find myself, one week after a shopping trip of mammoth proportions, with clothes in my wardrobe that I have yet to wear, worrying about not being allowed to shop.

Now I don't actually really want to go shopping, in fact I'm not sure I could afford to if I wanted to, but nevertheless, the fact that I have lost the option to shop is playing upon my mind. The learned scholars of the day describe what I am suffering from as loss aversion. The fear of losing something is, apparently, much stronger than the delightful feeling of gain. I struggle to determine whether this means that my sadness at not being able to shop outweighs the delight of purchasing a new item, however, if this is the case then I quake in fear of what the next year may hold for me.

Despite my increasing feelings of trepidation that I may have bitten off more than I bargained for, I do feel, for girls at least that shopping has come to represent far, far more than a mere purchase of a necessary item. The complexity of reasoning we apply to the shopping that we do and the 'savings' that we make along the way are quite incredible. Unfathomable in fact was the word used over dinner the other day. I hope to a certain extent to unravel the unfathomable along the course of this blog, to lay bare the reasons that we act as we do. In the meantime here is what I wore yesterday;

A pair of hollister jeans accompanied by a top I found in the inventory.

I would apologise for the half eaten curry in the corner of the picture, but I argue that it grounds the picture in the reality of the evening. Laura, Debbie and I found ourselves with no enthusiasm for the night aehad following an excellent takeout and whiled away our evening on the sofa watching Carrie and co in SATC series four. ACES. Sometimes the best Saturday nights are spent in with friends.

Day 2 and a shoe casualty later

Day two went largely undramatically, at least that's what I am endeavouring to tell myself in order that I don't have a meltdown.

The day started like many others, in panic at the lack of suitable items in my extensive wardrobe. Following the completion of my exhaustive, and arguably lengthy inventory I now recognise this as fallacy rather than fact. Opting finally for a pair of khaki shorts courtesy of 'the last shop' I got to work at 7am and was swept into a day of presentations. It seems that this sort of day may be a boon over the coming year as it represents a marvellous diversion of attention from the fears that are faced by a girl with no prospect of retail therapy.

As the working day drew to a close, the tell tale, spine tingling sound of metal on pavement, the sound that tells a girl that the heel has come off her shoe rang out across the work carpark. Now, on any normal day, this is a relatively stressful occurence, let alone the second day of a year of frugality. Whilst I can of course have my shoes reheeled it did start me thinking. Back before consumerism engulfed our very beings, one would have been more  careful to ensure that more attention were paid to the care of belongings. Just because we can buy new things, it seems our we have forgotten that broken is not necessarily the end. Just because an item has a little ailment doesn't send it winging it's way to landfill.

Yes, if my shoes were Jimmy Choo or Manolo I would have exercised levels of care akin to that enjoyed by the Queen's corgis. Yet, for my beloved yet bargaineous M&S shooboots, I just didnt pay any attention, in the subconscious knowledge that they could easily be replaced. Why, and when I wonder did we completely forget that worth has little to do with value?

As I am sure you can imagine, such depth of thought forced me out to the pub to continue my musings over a glass of pink wine....

Day 1: deep breath and I'm off

It's the end of Day 1 and so far so good. I have had a mere four shopping related thoughts and as of yet no panic attacks.

I admit that buying Look magazine on the way home from work was probably not the most sensible idea, but once I remembered that there was little point in looking for where Chezza procured her gorgeous anchor jumper from, I relaxed into the celeb gossip with little thought.

Overly ambitious as per usual, I had hoped to put together a marvellously thought through outfit for my first foray into the 'no-shop zone'. Sadly my hideous lack of forward thinking struck again and I found myself sitting bolt upright on the eve of the 29th June, in bed, two days out, remembering not only that I was leaving for two days in London in the morning but that I had not actually considered that I have no tights.

Thus it was that tights, rather than my first outfit consumed my thoughts as I packed my bag the next morning. I mean for heavens sakes, how could I have forgotten to purchase such a basic item as part of the preparation period? The journey to London passed by in a haze of complex maths, how often do I wear tights? How many wears per pair? How many pairs did I therefore need and where on God's Earth could I get tights between yesterday and today with not a shop in sight? And now my friends, we must all hail the wonder that is the mobile world wide web, or really Steve Jobs and his revolutionary i-phone. He may have the worst temper in Silicone Valley, but yesterday he saved my life.

Sat on the bank of Dorney Lake, watching Adam and Chris locked in an excessively athletic, triathlon based battle, I shopped at M&S online for a multitude of tights,  pairs of stockings and (on impulse) a pair of legwarmers. Oh the wonders of life in 2010. Granted I failed to fulfil my duties as chief cheerleader but this role rather paled into insignificance when I considered the very real prospect of a winter in the North of England with only 3 pairs of black opaques. A thought so heinous I would not wish it upon anyone.

Crisis averted, I turned my attention this morning to The Outfit. Due to aforementioned crisis it wasn't very exciting but I went for simple, grey jersey dress, little black cropped tux jacket, and my most favourite shoes EVER.

Tomorrow I will endeavour to do better on the outfit front. Aside from that tonight I will mostly be wondering how on earth a potential lack of tights could possibly have had such a profound effect on my inner calm.