It's been the summer of weddings, not mine but others. I'm at that age when everyone is getting married. They're climbing the career ladder, got the right car, got a mortgage, tick, tick, tick and now they're ready to say I do, just in time before they look back with regret at their wedding pictures. I on the other hand got married more than seven years ago, when I had not a wrinkle to my name or a stretch mark. As a guest, I now get to sit back and enjoy the festivities, whilst relishing in the thought that I'm not paying.
After careful planning, accessorising, and far too much matching, I'm always amazed at how many get it wrong time and time again.
Religious or not, if you're attending the ceremony early afternoon don't mistake church lighting with that of a nightclub. God doesn't want to see you in all your glory, some things should remain between you and your maker. If you must flaunt it, wear a tailored coat to the ceremony. It's much more dignified. And remember if people are gawking at you, it's not in awe, it's in horror.
Staggering in six inch heels up the altar is never a good look. So if you can't make it to the car then be in no doubt, you will be mocked. Birds nests' too are hard to pull off. If you think it's too much, well it probably is. Remove promptly, less is definitely more. Styling yourself on the likes of the TOWIES or wags, never has or will, earn you many admirers. Think of all the great heroines who've done all the hard work for you: Audrey Hepburn, Katherine Hepburn, Jackie O, Grace Kelly to name a few - oldies but goodies. Would they have ever slapped themselves in Fake Bake? I think not. Decide on a look, 20s, 30s, 40s, and my favourite the 50s but most definitely not the 80s. Don't forget who was running the country then, and she was hardly known for her fashion, she was far too busy crippling the country.
One must never wear leggings to a wedding or in fact, outdoors. Leggings have made a comeback but unless you're pregnant or under the age of five, there really is no excuse. Big or small these are the most unflattering, cheap and pitiful garment you can attach to your body.
Looking like you've been licked with a paint brush from the top of your head to the tips of your toes is quite simply wrong. You're in danger of looking like the Queen Mum, showing you lack imagination as well as style. Like make-up, feature the eyes or the lips, never both. This rule should apply for accessories too. And yes, we all make mistakes but there's no need to go on repeating an eyesore.
Do not buy a complete outfit from an over eager sales assistant who is lying when she tells you that 'you look great'. Not only is she lying, she's earning commission by feeding you these fibs. After watching in horror as some unsuspecting customers succumbed to the sales patter, I took a sales assistant on as her next victim was my mother. Have you seen the matching bag and scarf which compliments those shoes, madam? I interupted and added my sentiments, much to the disgust of the assistant.
I could go on. It's mostly common sense though. When going to see someone say I do, you should say I won't distract from the happy couple by committing these sins, instead I'll let the bridal party shine in all their glory or not.
Friday 23 September 2011
Wednesday 21 September 2011
Money doesn't only corrupt, far worse than that, it produces some god almighty results
Where was I before I was rudely interupted by having to work for the last day or two, oh yes, I was off to investigate. My school years at one of the city's leading educational establishments gives me quite a bit of insight into bad taste.
The upper class in this city like to speak through their nostrils, it's a West End thing, hard to describe and quite put on. I like to think of it as a fluctuating drawl. Looking down their noses takes on a whole new meaning when they're speaking down their noses too. Don't get me wrong I often like to pick up the kids for not pronouncing their T's, and they in turn like to pick me up for slipping up on mine. And having lived in Inverness, where they speak with a lilt in their voice, I'm well aware of my own dulcet Glaswegian tones.
Again I'm procrastinating. Whilst looking for inspiration for this blog, and sticking with the theme that women with too much disposable income to squander often get it wrong, my twitter followers, friend or foe, provided me with all the ammunition I needed.
Take one successful entrepreneur for example; not content with millions in the bank, she's embarked on her own PR campaign. Mirror, mirror on the wall who's the fairest of them all? And at that level of exposure you'd like to think the neediness for admiration wouldn't be wanted, let alone sought after. Money doesn't only corrupt, far worse than that, it produces some god almighty results. Leopard print is making a renaissance in these parts. Yes, leopard print. Head to toe leopard print ensembles, and I can't think of any woman of any age who would look good in this? Limit the print to one item only is my advice, if you must.
Blondes too, and I'm partial to a little bleaching so I can say this, but there comes an age in everywoman's life when you should tone it down. Being wolf whistled when you're a granny may give you a confidence boost, however it could cause a pile up when your admirer realises he's just tooted his mother. I'm not sure when the right time is to dispense with the California Bleached Blonde look or rather Glasgow's national colour, but there is a time. Perhaps it's when your skin has turned maghonomy and you're not the spring chicken you once were.
The upper class in this city like to speak through their nostrils, it's a West End thing, hard to describe and quite put on. I like to think of it as a fluctuating drawl. Looking down their noses takes on a whole new meaning when they're speaking down their noses too. Don't get me wrong I often like to pick up the kids for not pronouncing their T's, and they in turn like to pick me up for slipping up on mine. And having lived in Inverness, where they speak with a lilt in their voice, I'm well aware of my own dulcet Glaswegian tones.
Again I'm procrastinating. Whilst looking for inspiration for this blog, and sticking with the theme that women with too much disposable income to squander often get it wrong, my twitter followers, friend or foe, provided me with all the ammunition I needed.
Take one successful entrepreneur for example; not content with millions in the bank, she's embarked on her own PR campaign. Mirror, mirror on the wall who's the fairest of them all? And at that level of exposure you'd like to think the neediness for admiration wouldn't be wanted, let alone sought after. Money doesn't only corrupt, far worse than that, it produces some god almighty results. Leopard print is making a renaissance in these parts. Yes, leopard print. Head to toe leopard print ensembles, and I can't think of any woman of any age who would look good in this? Limit the print to one item only is my advice, if you must.
Blondes too, and I'm partial to a little bleaching so I can say this, but there comes an age in everywoman's life when you should tone it down. Being wolf whistled when you're a granny may give you a confidence boost, however it could cause a pile up when your admirer realises he's just tooted his mother. I'm not sure when the right time is to dispense with the California Bleached Blonde look or rather Glasgow's national colour, but there is a time. Perhaps it's when your skin has turned maghonomy and you're not the spring chicken you once were.
Sunday 18 September 2011
Gypsy Bow: The School Run
Gypsy Bow: The School Run: There were more tears and tantrums from the parents at the gates; that was until my four year old tugged on my hand and my heart and said, '...
Friday 16 September 2011
The School Run
There were more tears and tantrums from the parents at the gates; that was until my four year old tugged on my hand and my heart and said, 'mummy, I love you', followed by a squeeze so tight. If I'd asked for it, I'd never have got it, and the tears sprang to my eyes. I joined those I'd just being mocking seconds earlier. This is love. He'll probably never remember this, but I'll never forget.
Rocco on the other hand had to be pried from my arms wailing as he's carried off, mummy's boy was not impressed. Letting go is hard. It's a stark reminder that they're not going to be mine forever, and even worse the realisation that I'm getting older. Following the tears of one of the mums as she walked away blowing into her hankie, I did wonder whether she'd come to the same realisation. Was she worrying about the crows feet she'd developed too? Probably not.
I wouldn't want a mammy's boy as I'm married to one. There's nothing worse than a near thirty-year old going weak at the knees over his mammy's meatballs, his mammy's everything. The difference is mine are only two and four, so it's acceptable for now. But perhaps there's no difference at all.
There's nothing worse than feeling guilty for not being at the school gates, there's nothing worse than being there. Overcrowding, irrate parents, hundreds of weans and four-by-fours. My new pet hate are these beasts; monstrosities. If they could drive through the gates, knocking a few children on the way I think they would. Maybe it's because my little car is a mere shadow of these, and a shadow of the price. And if that wasn't bad enough, their owners are worse. Descending from their elevated position, before going to the gym, lunch or whatever these people do, I can't help noting that there's nothing worse than a woman in this town with a little disposable income to spend.
Glowing from a distance head to toe in fake bake, one too many diamonds, VB jeans, which I have to say are a little noughties, and finishing off the look complete with their mini me's, the school run has its politics. Harris, Angus, Algernon, Pearl, and Primrose, their names are all so twee. There lives as rip off dentists and lawyers carved out for them at such a tender age. I'm definitely onto something here but I feel more investigation needs to be undertaken, McIntyre style. To be continued.
Rocco on the other hand had to be pried from my arms wailing as he's carried off, mummy's boy was not impressed. Letting go is hard. It's a stark reminder that they're not going to be mine forever, and even worse the realisation that I'm getting older. Following the tears of one of the mums as she walked away blowing into her hankie, I did wonder whether she'd come to the same realisation. Was she worrying about the crows feet she'd developed too? Probably not.
I wouldn't want a mammy's boy as I'm married to one. There's nothing worse than a near thirty-year old going weak at the knees over his mammy's meatballs, his mammy's everything. The difference is mine are only two and four, so it's acceptable for now. But perhaps there's no difference at all.
There's nothing worse than feeling guilty for not being at the school gates, there's nothing worse than being there. Overcrowding, irrate parents, hundreds of weans and four-by-fours. My new pet hate are these beasts; monstrosities. If they could drive through the gates, knocking a few children on the way I think they would. Maybe it's because my little car is a mere shadow of these, and a shadow of the price. And if that wasn't bad enough, their owners are worse. Descending from their elevated position, before going to the gym, lunch or whatever these people do, I can't help noting that there's nothing worse than a woman in this town with a little disposable income to spend.
Glowing from a distance head to toe in fake bake, one too many diamonds, VB jeans, which I have to say are a little noughties, and finishing off the look complete with their mini me's, the school run has its politics. Harris, Angus, Algernon, Pearl, and Primrose, their names are all so twee. There lives as rip off dentists and lawyers carved out for them at such a tender age. I'm definitely onto something here but I feel more investigation needs to be undertaken, McIntyre style. To be continued.
The man across the road
The man across the road is dying. Cancer. And yes he's old but that doesn't matter. He doesn't know but I'm watching him; watching and waiting. I think we all are. I live in a fish bowl, well it's actually a crescent but it feels like a bowl. I'd been watching him before I was told, knowing something wasn't right. I don't know that much about him really. Retired, he does the usual things like going for the papers, walking the dog and the gardening. Last week the ambulance came for him and I thought it was the end. The street watched and we all waited. "Get down from the window", noses pressed up against the window shamefully. We've written a card and dropped in some chocolate but there's little we can do or say. He's been given a small window and it's a matter of weeks. Death is the only thing I can't accept about life. And it feels like it's living across the street from me. Every day I watch the curtains to see if they are drawn or not. I'm not related but I like him and already I feel sad that we're losing him. He's got a spring in his step, he's the neighbourhood watch and he takes an interest. It seems so unfair. I can't imagine how he feels and his son who stays by his side day and night.
My granny tells me the pearly gates are waiting for her and St Joseph, I think, is knocking on her door. At 92 she's very funny about life and death but I know she's scared. She is an angel. And what a life story she has. Born in 1919 in Northern Ireland, she moved to Paisley in the '30s and I'm not sure what was worse growing up in the North or living in the West of Scotland. I think they were both on a bigoted par. Granny Mary's life makes for a book and quite simply could not be covered in a blog. It wouldn't do her justice. An old lady now but still a tower of strength and wisdom. Though she definitely sees herself as inferior, an immigrant, years of being told she wasn't good enough. It's her ignorance of how remarkable she is that makes her so intriguing. That, and she's my gran which is enough.
My granny tells me the pearly gates are waiting for her and St Joseph, I think, is knocking on her door. At 92 she's very funny about life and death but I know she's scared. She is an angel. And what a life story she has. Born in 1919 in Northern Ireland, she moved to Paisley in the '30s and I'm not sure what was worse growing up in the North or living in the West of Scotland. I think they were both on a bigoted par. Granny Mary's life makes for a book and quite simply could not be covered in a blog. It wouldn't do her justice. An old lady now but still a tower of strength and wisdom. Though she definitely sees herself as inferior, an immigrant, years of being told she wasn't good enough. It's her ignorance of how remarkable she is that makes her so intriguing. That, and she's my gran which is enough.
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