Now, before you get the fear and think I have taken leave of my senses, please be assured that my lack of style and in fact a clue, is (I hope) not a new trend but a result of extreme end of year exhaustion accompanied by a rather fearsome lack of warmth in the deep dark North.
Now we have the honours over and done with I feel I should regale you with Hanger Strike trials and tribulations from the festive period. Let me assure you, things have been quite eventful on the wardrobe front and I have, I believe reached a seminal point in my challenge. I have gone beyond the stage at which I feel like a truculent and hard done by toddler denied chocolate, and into the unknown. I have faced, over the last few weeks a number of serious difficulties, some of which I have managed to chronicle and many as yet untold.
I must start with the saga of the shoes. Following a post a few weeks ago in which I detailed some shoe based struggles, I am sad to report that things have frankly been going from bad to worse. I am having a complete crisis and have narrowly averted a number of tantrums. My flat black boots have holes in the soles and need to see a special man before they can be worn. My beige peep toe lovelies had an accident in some ice and need emergency reheeling before they can venture out again. Having finally managed to get the sole glued back onto a much loved but long time ailing pair of ankle boots, the other sole promptly fell off (naturally). Following this I found some industrial strength UHU in the drawer downstairs and managed to stick it back myself. Triumphant, I ventured to work only to have yet another frosty precipitation based incident and lost a heel. For the love of God I hear you cry.. but wait, it does not end here. With dwindling supplies of footwear I took to the street last weekend to do my Christmas shopping in my trusty grey knee highs. Yet again I was blighted by a horrendous snow storm which may have been the end for them. Photographic evidence pending. Finally, my famously bargainous black leather vintage boots have also suffered at the hands of the salt and seem to have got a swelling and have gone all weird. I am in serious need of a friendly cobbler and a milder clime, either that or I shall be barefoot well before flip flop season.
So, following this catastrophic depletion in functional footwear I turn to other Christmas problems. Parties in London seemed copious this month and I fear I am (yet again) not fully equipped for this 'straight from work, smart drinks but I could have a tequila too' sort of attire. I mean, it's the sort of focussed dressing that requires years of training and a level of discipline akin to that of the SAS. Those who do it well are remarkable and I could have done with a little help from the current high street. Alas, as the first party loomed I was forced to browse only within my current wardrobe and quickly panic set in. For the first party I resurrected an old Topshop number and found myself frantically rehemming in the dead of night. For the record, I believe my new housemates now think I am quite mad. This particular dress seemed to go down well with some people although I worry that the rehemming, whilst providing a fashionable update, did little for the general decency of the number and potentially little for my career (depending which way you look at it). Party number two saw me digging out an ancient little black thing but tragically I really didn't have the shoes for it, due to aforementioned multiple crises. Forced to don a pair of shoe boots and black opaques I am sad to report that it was a true fashion faux pas of which I was acutely aware. As a result I deigned not to go on from the party to which I was invited and sent myself home rather than attending the Microsoft Xmas party where The Pet Shop Boys were playing. Yes I am extraordinarily vain.
The final party was a triumph. I ignored any thought of my feet and found my highest and least practical red heels, introduced them to my tightest dress, back combed the living daylights out of my hair and reunited myself with my favourite vintage handbag. It was quite wonderful and the night was further enhanced by some true Northern drinking, I am not ashamed that I really do enjoy Blue WKD on occasion. I don't think there are any photos but rest easy that I excelled myself for the first time on the London circuit (phew).
Further to all of this drama, jumper issues persist. It is most confusing to me that I own nothing warm. I have no distinct memories of being chilly last winter. I know not what I wore or where it may have gone. These problems continue to be compounded by the persisting fashion for chunky knitted loveliness and I continue to find it hard to be around retail outlets. As my insightful friend Lucy recently pointed out to me, it is my favourite season. I love a little knitted jumper dress and a corresponding sparkle. It so hard to turn a blind eye that Christmas shopping felt, quite frankly like self harm.
In order to alleviate my stress levels I am off to try my hand at knitting. I have found some wool and am going to try to knit myself a snood. As the only way to actually bring myself out of this is to make stuff. I am going for broke and turning my hand to craft. Rest assured this is almost certain to have disastrous results.
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