tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88006319489500626552011-09-21T18:12:05.958+01:00Etymology: 19c French, literally 'clear seeing'.<br> Elucidating Everyday Wonder Made ManifestGlamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.comBlogger1601100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-10232508739598050352010-12-24T15:21:00.002Z2010-12-24T15:30:53.117Z

It's late; a long day in the office. As ever, I turn left out of the train station and hurry past the little parade of shops, keen to get home, get warm, get some supper. The window of the charity shop is full of bric-a-brac that I scan habitually, always on the look out for something deemed superfluous, redundant in one life that might come in handy in mine. I spot it, sitting back from the

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-71059718222090908262010-03-25T14:57:00.000Z2010-03-25T14:58:26.994Z

‘Surely,’ I think to myself, ‘If you walk down the same street enough times, the memory fades, supplanted by new experiences, new moments to treasure, memories that don’t tug at my heart and remind me of him.’ But it hasn’t happened yet. This morning I passed an old lady, stepping out of my path so she didn’t have to. She looked up at me from under her headscarf and smiled a smile that was no

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-389900369641360962010-03-14T18:37:00.003Z2010-03-25T15:02:05.856Z

I see the same woman on the train every morning. Her hair is greying, cut in a style, I suspect, she has worn since the 1980's, a 'Lady Diana' it used to be called. She doesn't wear make-up. Her clothes are plain; navy or black jacket and a series of inoffensive, pastel-coloured tops. I can't see the bottom half of her as she sits in her train seat, but I expect her shoes are sensible and her

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St. Martin's Lane is a one-way street. I'm walking in the same direction as the traffic, hurrying along the gutter, keen to get home. I feel the loud, heavy bass as much as hear it pumping from the stereo of a car behind me. The music is aggressive - overtly masculine, hip-hop - and I turn to look behind me, expecting a large black SUV with tinted windows and personalised number plates. Instead

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-87367513433852151372009-10-25T12:08:00.001Z2009-10-25T12:09:15.147Z

I've started a new blog; The Pole Affair II.You can click through to it from my profile. In the wake of the current court case, I'm going to leave the original offline for a while.

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-79476265132987824632009-10-09T14:58:00.002+01:002009-10-09T15:11:40.066+01:00

After four months of unemployment, I go to sign on for the last time. The woman who calls me to her desk is new and full of bright, apologetic smiles that try to convey in the brief five-minute time slot her empathy and that I am a person in this system designed to shame me back to work. I let her go through the motions of checking my job search record book and asking about my Jobseekers'

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-74931370166198348622009-10-09T11:59:00.003+01:002010-03-25T15:04:39.375Z

After two days of steel skies so heavy with relentless rain, I awake to sunshine. At first, I can't quite believe it or shake off the dark, compressed mood that settled, bedded in and held my head down. Driving under the bright blue sky, past a carnival of autumn foliage, I still can't bring myself to feel anything but crushing sadness and disappointment at the path life has taken. Eventually,

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-86682723614791931042009-09-27T17:38:00.003+01:002009-09-27T17:45:01.194+01:00

My little yellow car comes home. A man with a round belly in a tight, red polo shirt and a puffing smile lowers her from the back of a large truck, a grumbling but good-natured commentary his soundtrack. As he hands over the keys he asks me if I've broken a window recently. 'No.' I reply, puzzled. He thinks for a moment and then asks me if I use a lot of glitter. What can I answer but 'yes'?

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-17322166957811530152009-09-23T12:53:00.003+01:002009-09-23T13:03:47.606+01:00

The house is so quiet I can hear my heart beat. It's the dead of night. Insomnia and the maelstrom in my head rage on and I stare into the darkness, unseeing, numb. How can I explain the pain, the guilt, the confusion and the despair of this illness? How can someone ever truly understand? How can I be anything but alone with this affliction? I am angry with him for judging me. I am angry with him

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-39512165435354066982009-06-17T15:18:00.003+01:002010-03-14T17:00:22.156Z

The route to and from the doctor's surgery is familiar 'though less-travelled these days. As I walk along familiar pavements I consider his words; 'If there's one thing I've noticed about you in the months I've been seeing you, it's that you're one hell of a fighter. I have no doubt you'll sort this out.' He was referring to my recent redundancy but it is not that which I think of as I walk home.

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-83292411348491309662009-05-11T11:26:00.004+01:002009-05-12T11:34:52.351+01:00

I unpack my basket of shopping at the checkout and just as I finish, a man queues behind me with a lemon, a bottle of white wine and a bag from the fish counter. Looking at his three items, I ask him if he would like to go in front of me. He accepts, surprised and pleased at my thoughtfulness. Looking at him square in the face, I realise we've met before, but I can't place him. As he completes

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-39525929141323854682009-05-11T10:36:00.002+01:002009-05-11T10:44:17.510+01:00

I am on my best behaviour, grateful to him for rescuing me, mindful that we are meeting on Sunday - at my request - to discuss ending things for good. We climb into bed and lie stiffly beside one another. He turns to me, pulls me towards him and asks me to kiss him. I have my reservations but I still say 'yes' and the past and the horror melt away at the first touch of his lips. As his kisses

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-82027201830850800432009-05-10T16:11:00.002+01:002009-05-10T16:15:24.421+01:00

As the afternoon advances, the laughter from the garden next door grows louder. My neighbour's grandchildren and their parents are visiting; the voices of generations criss-crossing the light breeze. I strain to hear the radio and eventually rise to close the window. More than the interruption, the stark realisation of the kind of life I have built for myself disturbs me. It is hard not to cry.

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-15104190257535300522009-02-26T15:22:00.005Z2009-05-10T17:23:54.904+01:00

A grumpy strawberry blonde flumps down in the train seat opposite and begins her morning maquillage. First out of the cat-covered make-up bag is a small pot of green sludge and a cat-shaped compact mirror. The green sludge is dabbed onto rosy cheeks and followed by foundation, concealer, eyeliner and frightening blue eyeshadow. To be honest, when she's finished she doesn't look that much better

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-27167681366666577032009-02-12T17:49:00.002Z2009-02-12T17:54:21.087Z

In a hurry and late as ever, I steam swearily along the A21, bullying slower drivers out of my way. The weekend has been resolutely wet and grey but as I crest the hill, the clouds suddenly part to reveal sunshine. The road is illuminated and the autumn trees sing as I pass Gracious Lane. Gratitude hums along and I arrive with a smile.

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-8110248928485554792009-02-02T13:59:00.002Z2009-02-02T14:11:42.722Z

Outside Wateringbury there is a road sign. For as long as I can remember, a sad bunch of flowers has been tied to it, marking the scene of an accident, a possible death, of which I am entirely unaware. The flowers must wilt soon after being placed there, their slow death echoing the short, sharp eclipse that robbed someone of a loved one, their presence on the verge heavy as grief and maybe heavy

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-26276755327832992242009-02-02T13:44:00.003Z2009-02-02T13:59:32.066Z

The street is filled with shrieking children and the odd delighted dog. Their footprints bruise the fresh-fallen snow amid a volley of snowballs. Laughter and pink cheeks bring colour to the bleached scene while the snow continues to fall.

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-79522535586078552902009-01-20T14:31:00.002Z2009-01-20T14:48:45.873Z

The sky is clear and icy blue as we walk across Waterloo Bridge on New Year's Day. It is so, so cold we hurry along, heads down, unable to feel our fingers, ears and toes. A comfortable, deeply hungover silence sits between us and is broken only by a silver MG parked by the side of the road. We both stop, turn, and stare at the car as it emits the most peculiar noise; a loud, shrill keening,

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-15754902207613790722009-01-20T14:25:00.002Z2009-01-20T14:31:53.217Z

The smell has bothered me for months. It's very unpleasant - some days worse than others - but I can't place it. True, lots of people smell bad, but it's none of the usual suspects; not body odour, halitosis or Athelet's Foot. When he stands near me I want to cover my nose and mouth but politeness forbids that, so I bear it, try not to breathe too deeply. I had assumed it was just incompatible

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-50425187918765148872008-11-06T10:56:00.002Z2008-11-06T11:01:03.957Z

Up the slope that leads from the platform to the station concourse a swarm of commuters bustle. In their midst, I spot a small boy, dancing along, his gait an exaggerated strut that frequently breaks into a run as he struggles to keep up with his father. The man who holds his hand is a giant; well over six feet tall and almost as wide. His hand swallows that of his son, and his long, low, loping

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-65643822203216588932008-11-06T10:48:00.003Z2008-11-06T10:51:09.233Z

Annie is formidable. Despite her advanced years, she walks to the shops early each morning and we pass each other on her way home as I’m running down the hill to the train station. We greet each other warmly, exchange pleasantries about the weather, and however much of a rush I am in, I always slow down to talk to Annie.Annie belongs to another age. She has lived on the street for many, many

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-85893949495146629022008-10-28T17:16:00.003Z2008-10-28T17:51:05.247Z

The streets are unusually quiet as I make my way to the train station; half term and no clouds of noisy schoolchildren to fight one's way through. Instead, when I reach Waterloo, there a children everywhere. The cafes are full of them chomping their way through burgers, sandwiches and pastries, and the concourse is spotted with miserable faces and upstretched arms, as parents drag them off to

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-69403714318932235572008-10-24T11:40:00.003+01:002008-10-24T11:45:35.804+01:00

Two policemen stand on the corner of Victoria Street, talking. They sport day-glo yellow waterproof jackets, waterproof trousers, and cycle helmets. Each holds his police-issue mountain bike by the handlebars and looks serious, but only one is wearing sunglasses – the sporty kind beloved of outdoorsy types. The day is dark grey and damp, the sunglasses are unnecessary and incongruous, making PC

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-1837436427840229792008-10-15T18:01:00.004+01:002008-10-15T18:12:27.438+01:00

Suddenly, it seems, the leaves have fallen. Green, gold, orange and brown, I step across a carpet of beech and sycamore, heart thumping and breathless. Looking down at the leaves, focusing on their colourful deaths keeps me steady as I make my way to the doctor's surgery. I ignore the steely sky. I ignore the stares of passers by wondering at the wheezy, twitching woman who stumbles along so

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-29266874041026518512008-09-25T21:05:00.003+01:002008-09-25T21:26:10.826+01:00

At 6pm, nerves frayed by the braying South African freelancer, I scuttle out of the office wrapped tightly in a red shawl. I call a cheery 'goodbye' to the lovely, Polish receptionist. She jumps and, laughing, tells me 'I thought you were Little Red Riding Hood.''Well,' I giggle, 'Let's hope I don't meet the Big Bad Wolf on the way home.''Oooh, Puss, you're so naughty!' she exclaims in a

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-29220202372356891002008-09-16T13:49:00.002+01:002008-09-16T13:59:52.088+01:00

The train is crowded but I bag a seat and once settled, look up to see the man sitting opposite me. His navy blue suit is a little too big for his stooped shoulders, and his earnest expression, furrowed brow and wire-rimmed glasses leave him looking like the new boy at school. His blonde hair is combed carefully, the side parting straight and neat. His shirt is pale blue and his tie, also navy,

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-37779454332869685122008-09-16T13:39:00.002+01:002008-09-16T13:49:20.654+01:00

Just under four weeks ago, I was diagnosed as suffering type two bipolar mood disorder. The news shocked me, distressed me, and confused me. Since then, life has been a process of piecing together the shattered fragments of my identity, and this blog was one of the casualties of that process. The frame of mind I adopt when writing these posts encompasses many of the symptoms of hypomania, and as

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-72737771294959503332008-08-01T15:13:00.004+01:002008-08-01T15:17:35.310+01:00

The familiar sound of the catflap announces Mitzi Sparkle’s entrance. I pay little heed as she strolls into the living room and takes up a favourite spot underneath the rocking chair. But then there’s a commotion and she pounces. I think she must have caught a spider and bend down to see dun feathers and the cat’s jaws clamped around a young thrush. She moves towards the wall, out of my grasp,

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-84213320545949246962008-07-30T14:52:00.002+01:002008-07-30T14:55:08.404+01:00

A short man in a tweed jacket stands with two full carrier bags in the middle of a shop walk way. He’s staring intently at the shelves in front of him as I move to slip past him. Suddenly, he turns and not seeing me, knocks heavily into my injured right shoulder, squishing my right breast in the process. I cry out in shock and pain and am just about to say ‘excuse me’ and smile when he tuts.I

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-78283245809075189522008-07-14T10:47:00.002+01:002008-07-14T10:57:26.879+01:00

It's too early for cake. Regardless, the rather geeky-looking man sitting opposite me on the train stuffs a large slice of Victoria Sandwich while watching a film on his laptop. The bites he takes are enormous and ungainly, vulgar even. He struggles to chew them, open-mouthed, and I wonder what the hurry is as I note his wrinkled brow. He is unself-conscious, staring intently at the screen, so

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-80216325274077695772008-07-11T16:22:00.002+01:002008-07-11T16:28:02.121+01:00

A tall, slender, young black woman stands on the railway platform with two young black guys and a white, middle-aged bloke who never stops talking. His constant chatter is peppered with expressions such as ‘I’m not being racist like, but…’ that are only ever uttered by people who are, in fact, racist. Most of his attention is focussed on the young woman, who is beautiful, and at one point, he

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-41681274151550879992008-07-11T15:32:00.002+01:002008-07-11T15:35:51.864+01:00

Looking up at the now blue sky through the train window, I spy a long, high trail of cirrus cloud that resembles nothing so much as a feather boa. Laughing softly to myself, I imagine the celestial striptease artist, peeling to the music of the spheres while an appreciative audience of angels look on.

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-88619897777284117822008-07-09T15:17:00.003+01:002008-07-09T15:26:19.584+01:00

After an elegant breakfast in one of the best tea salons in Paris, we head out along the Rue Rivoli. Two men in excellently-cut suits stand on the broad pavement. Both move back to let my friend and I pass. One of them looks me up and down, slowly, appreciatively, catching my eye as his gaze meets my face. I look away, a little embarrassed by such unapologetic appreciation but as I pass him, I

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-87170330883213400672008-07-08T18:32:00.002+01:002008-07-08T18:38:22.734+01:00

The managing director walks over to my desk. I push my chair back and turn to face him in my black, drop-waisted dress, a long string of pearls knotted about my neck.'Hello!' he says loudly, 'You look like a slapper!'I'm confused, embarrassed, and as the whole office erupts into laughter, it twigs:'I think you mean a 'flapper',' I say, 'You need to mind your consonants!'He face drops and he turns

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-72917851030714404252008-06-29T15:21:00.002+01:002008-06-29T15:24:27.929+01:00

London Underground offers the zenith of British passive aggression. Despite not having lived in Kentish Town for a decade, habit has me turning right to the northbound Northern Line platform as I wind my way through Embankment station. Turning to walk against the flow, I correct myself and head south, stepping on to a train where a woman with shiny, black cowboy boots and a brown handbag scowls

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-78716936815382498942008-06-27T14:29:00.001+01:002008-06-27T14:32:06.980+01:00

The concourse at Victoria station is a bustling muddle come lunchtime; I pass an earnest group of young Orthodox Jewish men beside a stroppy-looking group of young Muslim women in a variety of burkhas and headscarves. Dodging the tourists with suitcases on wheels and undeterred, I stride on in search of French bread. As I near my destination, a man with a shaved head and a football shirt

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-90136348761030173262008-06-10T12:34:00.001+01:002008-06-10T12:35:45.652+01:00

The Powers That Be have placed netting across the inside of the station concourse roof to prevent pigeons nesting in it. It’s a glorious Monday morning, too nice to be commuting to work, and I am groggy from a poor night’s sleep. Waiting for my train to arrive, a sparrow flits down onto the platform in front of, hops about, then flies up, pausing momentarily to aim his little, brown body

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-37916973410162997182008-06-10T12:33:00.004+01:002008-06-10T13:03:44.107+01:00

The circus is in town; there are posters everywhere and flyers come through the letterbox announcing the ‘number 1 circus with animals’ is here for one week only. Not agreeing with the humiliation of lions, tigers and elephants for human pleasure, I do not attend and throw the flyers away. Then, ascending the hill after work the other evening, I see a group of young girls in school uniforms

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-85522650217766915612008-06-10T12:33:00.001+01:002008-06-10T12:33:52.580+01:00

Two little boys are playing at the bottom of my street.‘Edward!’ cries one in exasperation, ‘Haven’t you got a brain?’‘I think so,’ Edward replies, dreamily, ‘Somewhere.’

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-9811157509469592462008-06-10T12:32:00.002+01:002008-06-10T12:33:13.877+01:00

The train passes over Borough Market and as I glance down at the hustle and bustle of the street below, I see a pallet piled with five enormous wheels of cheese, sitting in the road outside Gastronomica. A black cab drives past the unusual obstacle and I wonder how they’ll get it inside the shop.

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-18795344280827233842008-06-10T12:31:00.003+01:002008-06-10T13:05:59.177+01:00

I decide to wear the green dress. Truth be told, I’m not sure about it – bit too much cleavage on display, and I suspect the empire-line cut makes me look fat while the too-yellow green does nothing for my skin tone. But I arrive in the office and quickly receive two compliments on it. Then later, as I wait to see the physiotherapist, a woman asks, ‘Excuse me, where did you get your dress? It’s

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-37952601956508108942008-05-31T21:01:00.003+01:002008-05-31T21:06:41.449+01:00

It is my last lesson with my favourite tutee – until the autumn at least. As I make my goodbyes for the final time, wishing her luck in her exams, her mother asks me if I will do her a favour. Surprised, I say yes, of course I will do my best, and she hands me the stunning pink orchid I admired a week or two ago. Its lush leaves and brilliantly-veined blooms seduce me while she requests I look

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-71057547662218103132008-05-27T13:00:00.005+01:002008-05-27T22:03:27.441+01:00

I loathe confrontation. People are always surprised by that, believing that because I'm outspoken and confident, I can handle an argument. Sure, I can handle it, but I hate it. The thing is, I hate injustice more.Yesterday, I hit the supermarket, something I do as infrequently as possible. When I reached the checkout, I unpacked my shopping and watched the couple in front of me joylessly pack

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-50562247225046223212008-05-15T12:56:00.002+01:002008-05-15T13:06:01.649+01:00

Sitting in a fashionable Belgravia gastro-pub, I tune out of the polite conversation we are having over lunch with a client, and find myself noticing a young man at an adjacent table. He sits hunched, a motorbike helmet between his feet, acting like a sulky teenager despite being in his mid-twenties at least. He is handsome, but immature, and so not attractive – to me at least – and I find myself

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-72512258893746933192008-05-15T12:55:00.004+01:002008-05-15T12:56:23.095+01:00

Two teenage girls sit opposite me on the bus, talking loudly. One carries a Chloe handbag, wears a Tiffany necklace, has perfectly manicured acrylic nails, is young, slim, with good skin – despite wearing far too much make-up – and decent features. She wears a baggy vest top and very short shorts, and sits, knees splayed open, slack jawed, chewing gum, with round shoulders and slumped spine. She

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-19402146851694446132008-05-15T12:55:00.002+01:002008-05-15T12:55:36.637+01:00

An old couple make their way across Victoria bus station. They are both slow and stopped and he holds her arm protectively. She’s wearing a yellow coat with big, black, shiny buttons, an emerald green skirt, a furry, leopard-print hat, black tights and blue and white Nike trainers. She carries a plastic bag that matches the bright blue sky. In complete contrast, he wears a grey hat, a grey anorak

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-9625854019867903462008-05-15T12:33:00.002+01:002008-05-15T12:41:22.543+01:00

The three teenage girls, with whom I share a seat on the bus are talking overly loudly, full of the arrogance of youth. Their diction is worthy of a comedy sketch, being such a parody of London street speak and drawn-out, multicultural vowels.‘I nearly lost my virginity twice. Twice. I nearly lost it. My virginity.’ Says one.‘Who to? Who to?’ asks her friend.‘Once was to Jamael, right?’‘Yeah,

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-12379026248644794362008-05-15T12:25:00.002+01:002008-05-15T12:26:08.853+01:00

The plane trees rain seeds, filling the air with hazy irritation. Two young men in stripey t-shirts and shades stop at the foot of Lambeth Bridge for a quick yet tender snog, before proceeding down the steps to the riverbank. A middle-aged lady tourist cranes a scrawny, camera-laden neck to stare disapprovingly. But she remains unnoticed, the lovers, serene. Truly, love is blind.

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-73283446796216177702008-05-11T16:36:00.005+01:002008-05-13T16:08:59.084+01:00

It is a glorious afternoon and I whiz through the country lanes with the windows open and the wind in my hair. The smell of FCA* is dispelled by the strong odour of wild garlic, and the delicate yet powerful fragrance of bluebells in the woods. This, and the new buffoon of a London mayor, makes me think I won’t move back to London just yet.*FCA: Fresh Country Air, a childhood euphemism for the

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-45222967087497798982008-05-09T19:17:00.002+01:002008-05-09T19:20:12.461+01:00

One of the things I most like about the street where I live is that it is normal – neighbours chat, cats wander, and kids play out. One of the kids, a little boy who lives at the bottom of the street, is the cutest little munchkin I ever saw. The other evening, he and another boy were attempting a game of cricket in the middle of the road, itself a steep hill. Munchkin was bowling, but the ball

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-8763697011619814132008-05-02T22:19:00.004+01:002008-05-02T22:33:02.725+01:00

In the shadow of Piccadilly Circus and bleeding heavily a mere three weeks after my last period, I walk soggily to Charing Cross, past a Japanese couple arguing in the pink, neon light of a closed sushi bar. She looks upset, telling him she doesn't care about his job, that it only benefits her through the money it brings in, and her frustration at not seeing enough of the man she loves is painful

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-36178027629132941542008-04-27T14:47:00.004+01:002008-04-27T16:08:00.516+01:00

‘You have beautiful hands, Miss.’ He tells me. I laugh self-consciously – I’ve been waving them around again. Someone once told me I’d be struck dumb if forced to sit on my hands, but yes, they are fine hands; long, shapely fingers, long, slim nails, and whenever I look at them, I remember where they came from; I have my mother’s hands. As a small child, I well remember those hands, how I

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-88665250383839483212008-04-27T14:11:00.003+01:002008-04-27T14:35:13.103+01:00

We meet in a bar across the river. He buys me a drink, looking tired but as handsome as ever. We sit and talk about him, talk about me, talk about him and me, and then we talk about her. I tell him that it was no loss to me, that it always seemed that she was doing the things that nice people do, rather than just being nice. There was something calculated about her behaviour, a lack of immediacy,

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-64509895427755037942008-04-27T13:55:00.007+01:002008-04-27T14:33:24.469+01:00

It’s after the evening rush hour but the train is still full of tired commuters making their humourless way home. As the Kent countryside whizzes darkly past the windows, the refreshments trolley passes through the carriage, pushed by a blonde man used to being ignored. He navigates his way along the feet-and-knees-and-briefcase-strewn aisle, almost entirely without notice. ‘Teas, coffees?’ he

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-73686422960085650602008-04-27T13:32:00.002+01:002008-04-27T13:40:51.308+01:00

As I pass the Park Plaza County Hall Hotel, my eyes meet those of the hotel doorman. He stands outside, a picture of dapper athleticism, in his neatly tailored black coat, a bright, turquoise scarf and a bowler hat. Exuding easy grace, he shifts his weight from foot to foot and I imagine he might launch into a tap dance at any moment, accompanied by a crooning Irving Berlin.

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-59530552088463480652008-04-27T13:27:00.002+01:002008-04-27T13:31:17.746+01:00

A man with one leg sits on the bench beside the bus stop, crutches neatly folded beside him. He sports a rather natty moustache, a crimson blazer, a pale blue, floral-print shirt, round tortoiseshell glasses and a collection of tattoos. The vacant leg of his pale grey trousers is neatly folded across the other thigh as he watches the morning world go by, looking, for all the world, like a Vietnam

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-36477675658791902282008-04-25T17:46:00.003+01:002008-04-27T13:31:53.090+01:00

Meandering through the metropolis in misanthropic mode, I tut and snarl at the ill-mannered wretches who cut me up without a second thought. Stuck behind a small group of strutting schoolboys spitting homophobic insults at each other, my disdain shifts to mirth when their exaggerated machismo comes to rest outside a notable gay pub. They sit at the tables and benches outside the pub to wolf down

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-78413997707235027352008-04-21T15:37:00.002+01:002008-04-21T15:39:41.860+01:00

The waiting room at the CAB smells of poor people. I’m sorry, but it does. It’s after 10am when a short lady with long grey pigtails calls me for my 9.30am appointment, and I’m feeling rather grumpy.As we make our way through the process, she compliments my efforts, my approach and my person. She tells me I am obviously very capable and bright, that I am taking the right path and that I am doing

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-17148593931538553692008-04-15T14:30:00.002+01:002008-04-15T21:34:55.033+01:00

Another day at the office. The ‘phone rings and the man on the other end of line proceeds to ask me about a client we no longer work for. I am polite and as helpful as I can be and he gets chattier, throwing in a little French for comic effect. We get to the ‘thanks very much’ part of the conversation where he stops and adds, ‘by the way, you have a lovely voice.’ I tell him it’s sweet of him to

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-25055530765714024072008-04-06T15:43:00.005+01:002008-04-06T15:58:13.340+01:00

Teachers are not supposed to have favourites, but the rules are less clear where personal tutors are concerned. Usually, I keep a friendly yet professional distance, but there’s one girl I teach who is just such a sweetie, I made an exception. She’s from a far eastern country and attends one of the smartest public schools in the area. She’s bright and keen, sensitive and humble, and it’s clear

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-6114313071308076082008-04-06T12:05:00.003+01:002008-04-06T12:10:49.602+01:00

Sitting in bed with a hot, strong mug of tea and a small box of Laduree macarons, I watch the snow tumble from bright, dove-soft skies, and remark how its gentle rest renders even my unkempt garden beautiful.

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-60996206681976730152008-04-03T14:20:00.004+01:002008-04-04T10:17:06.640+01:00

We have great seats; three rows from the front and dead centre. To get to them however, we need to pass a small group of twenty-something Frenchmen who are conversing animatedly. ‘Excusez moi.’ I say to the fellow on the end of the row, and they all stand to let us pass. ‘Merci.’ I add as we pass them.‘Ne rien.’ replies the first fellow. And I chuckle all the way to my seat; his response was

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-24374829622383671982008-04-03T14:08:00.002+01:002008-04-03T14:11:00.874+01:00

The ladies behind the counter in Starbucks are supremely happy this morning. They greet each customer with a big smile and enough friendly, good humour to melt even the most resolute London froideur. Their banter is infectious; the customers respond warmly and although the queue grows, there is no tutting to be heard. There’s a lot to be said for courtesy.

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-52154051334690107612008-04-02T16:58:00.001+01:002008-04-02T17:01:32.323+01:00

At least once a year, I take myself off to the Sexual Health clinic for an M.O.T. An elderly lady, for whom everything is a palaver, sits at the reception desk, letting me know her martyrdom within thirty seconds. Then I am taken to see another woman, who ignores me while filling in my record form, and from there, I am told to sit in a huge but empty waiting room.A few minutes later, my name is

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-55285552523174033382008-03-25T17:06:00.003Z2008-03-25T17:32:02.325Z

Driving home through hosts of sunny daffodils, I smile. My newest tutee is bright, confident, and has a place at Cambridge. He attends one of the country's finest public schools and is set to achieve the highest grade at A Level. Despite this, he wants six to eight hours of tuition a week throughout the Easter holidays. I feel torn between taking the money and telling him I don't think he needs

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-21271390378111082342008-03-25T17:00:00.004Z2008-03-25T17:04:45.996Z

I often drive past a bespoke tailor's and have long looked for an excuse to go inside. The shop appears to originate in other times, when service and individuality mattered. Today, the traffic causes me to stop directly outside and I notice, for the first time, that the tailor's surname is De'Ath.De'Ath. A popular solution to the surname Death. It makes me chuckle, and wonder if he specialises in

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-51881569265709333542008-03-24T11:12:00.003Z2008-03-24T11:17:37.413Z

Sitting at my desk, devoid of inspiration with a pile of books to review, I stare out of the window and listen to Colette’s passion on the radio. Her lush, seductive prose washes over me, arouses me, and lost for a moment, in words and memory, I suddenly realise it is snowing. Fat, fluffy flakes fall gently, erratically into the garden, drawing me back to the present. I watch the Easter snow come

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-84238278710017652712008-03-21T17:15:00.004Z2008-03-24T16:15:21.995Z

I ummed and aahed over the flowers, not sure I could justify the expense of a bunch of orange tulips and a bunch of blue hyacinths. But then I remembered the bonus I wasn't expecting and I leave them in my shopping trolley. For days, they’ve sat demurely in the pale blue vase on the mantelpiece, but today, I come downstairs to open smiling faces and the sweet perfume of Spring. Inhaling deeply

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-21179664295857959182008-03-20T12:12:00.003Z2008-04-06T16:09:58.010+01:00

I telephone the German lingerie designer I met in Berlin. She’s made me a pair of knickers and I need to pay her before she can send them to me. After several failed attempts, we speak, and she is warm and friendly. We giggle with each other throughout our call, and she is obviously happy to hear from me. The pleasure of anticipating the imminent arrival of made-to-order knickers is enhanced by

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-66252225456768982632008-03-19T12:01:00.004Z2008-03-20T08:35:35.116Z

‘What about this one?’ I ask, emerging from the changing room in another black, satin pencil skirt and socks.‘No,’ says my Nigerian friend, ‘I don’t like it as much as the other one. The other one made you look like you have a bum.’‘I have got a bum. I’ve got a very nice bum thank you very much. And I think that one was too tight.’‘You may have a bum, but you haven’t got a proper African bum. At

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-75389617291819671112008-03-14T21:55:00.003Z2008-03-15T20:15:05.947Z

Wiping the rain from my beautiful handbag with a paper napkin, I try to conceal my tears. It’s all been too much, and sitting there, outmaneuvered at the train station, with both my parents, I just can’t deal with any more.‘What an exquisite handbag. It’s stunning. Just beautiful.’ Says a woman at the next table.I look up surprised. ‘Thank you.’ I say, smiling a watery smile. ‘It’s my pride and

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-84195422373363060222008-03-14T15:12:00.001Z2008-03-14T15:14:56.107Z

The numbness starts to lift as I pavement pound Orchard Street. Heading towards the Oxford Street thrum, I realise I am Grade A-Motherfuckin’-Pissed Off. An old lady steps into my path with a mean eye and an intention; she wants me to move out of the way, or more accurately, she wants to tut at me and engage in a conflict of wills. But I am in no mood for such shenanigans and I return her look

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-24551205108781244782008-03-11T11:25:00.003Z2008-03-13T17:40:22.256Z

India Rose is nearly four weeks old. She comes to trapeze class with mum and dad, and all the bags and baskets needed to keep her happy. Dad sets about teaching, mum meets the new students and looks after baby, but India Rose is fractious and hungry. I am asked to hold her while mum opens the dairy. It’s been a long while since I’ve held such a small child, and I take her from her mother’s arms

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-1224047125466664802008-03-07T15:05:00.002Z2008-03-07T15:07:34.503Z

A dear, old friend points out that I have a birthday coming up, and that at some point in the next year, we will have known each other for two decades. This fact is both shocking and uncomfortable, and he apologises for bringing it to my attention. I reassure him, ‘One cannot escape time – I need to face up to the fact I’m turning into an old spinster.’ In response, he sends me this.'My

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-45985463110022285482008-03-06T12:04:00.004Z2008-03-06T17:03:49.880Z

Standing on the corner of Grosvenor Gardens a woman sports black, high-heeled boots and a black, tailored winter coat, belt pulled tight around her not inconsiderable curves. In one hand she holds a black leather handbag with ornate brass fittings, and in the other, a plainer black leather shopping bag. She looks like a thousand other women on their way to work, with one incongruous exception; on

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-34153077726767238482008-03-05T13:55:00.003Z2008-03-05T14:06:19.739Z

Among a certain class of aspiring gentleman exists a fondness for brightly-coloured corduroy trousers, military cut, sans turn-ups. Eschewing the usual navy blue, lovat green and camel varieties, these men express a perceived English Eccentricity with mustard yellow, scarlet, and even a strong salmon pink. But today, as I passed Balls Brothers on the corner of Buckingham Palace Road, I spied a

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-61370843402785967662008-03-05T10:30:00.001Z2008-03-05T10:31:26.321Z

It’s low tide this bright February morning. Verdant algae glows green and fecund on the river bank walls while the sulky trees sit resolutely brown and spiky behind them. London basks in blues skies and sunshine, and even the passive-aggressive, insistent pressure of a short, fat woman’s bulk on my wrist as I struggle to stay standing on a packed bendy bus can’t stop my spirit soaring for Spring.

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-6481554034870523892008-03-04T16:58:00.003Z2008-03-04T17:02:52.088Z

At lunchtime, I enter a bubble of good fortune that sticks close to me for four days. My colleague offers to buy me lunch, I don’t get asked to pay for a train ticket, I’m not charged for checking my bag in on the flight, we find a taxi straight away and the address of our accommodation despite me leaving it in England. The rest of the weekend flows beautifully and the universe is generous and

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-16285109282890421062008-03-04T14:03:00.001Z2008-03-04T14:10:05.497Z

Two round old ladies amble towards me, bundled up in coats, hats pulled down against the cold. As I pass them on my way towards Oval tube station, I hear a snippet of their conversation, deep, rich West Indian tones that make me smile, feel warm and remember the shy, startled, too-young girl, alone in the big city, who lodged with a family from Trinidad, a family who watched her grow up and who

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-67849866557095012452008-03-03T14:50:00.003Z2008-03-03T14:55:25.941Z

My friend is at the bar. As I wait for her to return, a man taps me on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me. Sorry to bother you, but is that my pint?’ He points at a pint of lager on our table and wobbles.‘Yes, I believe it is.’ I reply smiling and pushing the glass towards him, 'Here you go.'‘Thank you.’ He says, ‘Sorry. You could’ve had that.’‘Ah, not for me,’ I say, ‘I’m a Guinness girl

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-58651407396684063682008-02-28T11:18:00.003Z2008-02-28T11:23:33.736Z

My belief that all Range Rover drivers are cunts is temporarily threatened when a gormless looking woman in a big black one graciously allows me to pull out of the junction in front of her. As we move slowly up the high street, screaming sirens are swiftly followed by flashing blue lights and two police cars approach rapidly. The car in front of me, and I, pull over to the side of the road, but

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-81082548188659446972008-02-28T11:10:00.005Z2008-02-28T11:31:33.436Z

With an astounding lack of self awareness, the short, fat, belligerent middle-aged man who pushed his way into the packed tube carriage, literally knocking me off my feet, starts to complain about how crowded it is in there. I am tempted to tell him it would be a lot less crowded if he hadn’t barged his way in so aggressively, disgusting, big belly and all, but I keep quiet, and listen to the

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-27240808225819285922008-02-19T12:01:00.004Z2008-02-28T11:30:02.305Z

A thick frost graces the pavements as I walk home from the station, which renders my steps slippery. It is late and the streets are deserted. With hands thrust deeply in coat pockets, I wait for the lights to change so I can cross the road. Looking up, I see a large fox on the opposite pavement. He, too, waits for the lights, and when amber comes, then red, we both start walking diagonally across

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-39539573029582053122008-02-15T12:10:00.003Z2008-02-15T12:19:56.085Z

A squirrel digs up his winter store as I pass the church yard on my way to work. He was there yesterday, too, the same spot, deceived by the sunshine into waking early. Beside him, the desolate branches of a fallen tree shelter stealthily defiant snowdrops, chattering crowds of crocuses, and the odd brave daffodil; an entire Spring unfolds in one bright February morning.

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Sitting at the hairdressers, I flick through a fashion magazine while Robyn cuts my hair. She and I agree on most things, and after catching up with each other, a comfortable silence has ensued. I see an ad for Chanel Coco Mademoiselle perfume and without looking up, I ask 'What do you think of Keira Knightley?''I think she's a twat!' answers Robyn loudly and emphatically.I look up from the

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-79955052562522243812008-02-14T15:15:00.002Z2008-02-14T15:21:12.747Z

Our office manager is large and very, very grumpy. Of course, underneath it all, he’s a real softie, and I’m actually quite fond of him. When he barks at me, I just smile serenely back, and whenever I ask a favour of him, he always obliges me.So, on a Valentine’s Day bereft of bouquets, he wanders over to my desk and throws a pink, foil-wrapped, heart-shaped chocolate at me. He mutters that the

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-55332707739521879622008-02-13T13:58:00.001Z2008-02-13T14:00:48.268Z

As a child, I read the same books over and over again. This had less to do with OCD and more to do with poverty. Books were expensive, and precious, and scarce. Most of my books came from jumble sales, so my library was eclectic and old fashioned. Books from the local library and the school library were quickly devoured, so being a prodigious reader, I frequently had to return to my own books for

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-722595261882612822008-02-10T13:53:00.000Z2008-02-10T13:54:19.449Z

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Her Most Noble Lady Glamourpuss the Lush of Pease Pottage Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title Strangely apt.

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-47342861120196077562008-02-10T12:11:00.000Z2008-02-10T12:32:16.924Z

On a Saturday afternoon, Waitrose supermarket in Sevenoaks is the apex of comfortable, middle-class smugness. The mummies are yummy, the children are all called 'Olivia' and 'Henry', and in a few years time, the daddies, tired of their city jobs and shabby-chic, domestic goddesses, will wear a sprinkling of sugar as they embark upon extra-marital affairs. I'm wandering the aisles, my basket full

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-82832641991616083452008-02-07T12:49:00.001Z2008-02-07T12:57:40.947Z

As the first snowflakes of the year fall hesitantly on Westminster Bridge, I watch three women, muffled in hats and scarves, walk along the pavement. At the head of the group trots a small, white Chihuahua. Sporting a blue and red fair isle jumper, he leads his human harem across the Thames, head high, stride purposeful, spirit soaring.

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-80510310188710695172008-02-07T12:39:00.000Z2008-02-10T13:05:21.026Z

He kisses me on the cheek and I walk with him, out to the front of the house where the Ferrari is parked. Three young men surround the shiny, red vehicle, and use their mobile 'phones to take photographs of one another standing in front of it. At our approach, they start, look guilty, caught out, and begin to apologise, but my friend takes it all in his stride and assures them there’s no problem.

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-73642251207110531622008-02-07T12:29:00.000Z2008-02-10T13:06:22.341Z

There’s been a curious absence of snowdrops. And seeing yellow crocuses last weekend, I am convinced I must have missed the snowdrops this year, which makes me feel very sad and somehow cheated, for I love them so. Everywhere I’ve travelled, I’ve looked for snowdrops, and today noticed them everywhere. It seems I have not been as inobservant as I assumed; the snowdrops are late this year, and the

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-39026804405104767272008-02-07T12:19:00.000Z2008-02-07T12:58:33.389Z

It’s a cold winter’s night and I hurry along Jermyn Street, past antique windows filled with the gentlemanly luxuries of another age. Passing Abracadabra, I see a man in a harlequin costume and a black woolly hat standing in the entrance to the restaurant, arms wrapped around himself to try and keep warm. He looks ridiculous and fed up, and as our eyes meet, he flashes me a look that says, quite

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-63039990107412276902008-02-04T17:40:00.000Z2008-02-04T17:41:08.544Z

We step towards one another, his leg rests between mine, my leg between his. Our thighs touch. Our stomachs touch. His chest presses mine, his arms snake around my waist, first one, then the other, pulling me deeper into him, into the eternity of this moment. Cheek to cheek we softly voice thoughts into ears. He hasn’t shaved but the stubble is surprisingly soft and I lean into it, into him,

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-62469950671046567892008-02-01T16:28:00.000Z2008-02-01T16:32:54.094Z

It’s been a long week and I am tired. Standing on the train, my vacant gaze catches sight of a large, pink globe in the train door window. At first, I think it’s a reflection, but leaning forward and staring, I realise it’s the moon. She looms low and large in the sky, just brushing the rooftops as we glide into town, but best of all, most miraculously of all, she is pink. Enthralled, I recall

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-88510481014876724822008-01-21T12:50:00.001Z2008-01-21T12:50:33.031Z

He’s tall and skinny, she’s short and dumpy. They both wear green, waxed cotton coats – the type that stink, leave oily marks on all who touch them, and that are best left to those who farm or shoot. They stride up the platform, pushing a high-tech pram with the smug demeanour of new parents. I find myself wondering at what point in our evolution we came to believe that fulfilling our biological

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-4074666205594816042008-01-17T14:38:00.000Z2008-01-17T14:39:21.504Z

People throng in the ill-tempered bustle outside Victoria Station, commuters dodging and weaving their way through clouds of smokers and bewildered tourists. In their midst, I see a small black boy asleep in a pushchair. Profound peace sits as lightly on the child’s sweet face as a mother’s kiss, and spotting him feels like a bright moment of grace on another grey winter’s day. Behind the

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-20940296164659505912008-01-10T16:38:00.001Z2008-01-10T17:05:58.478Z

Half in a daze, my senses are suddenly flooded by the unmistakeable scent of Terre D’Hermes, and the olfactory memory unleashes a flood of remembrance of the man I knew who wore it. His voice, his words, his desire - I recall them all fondly, and although I have forgiven him, I can’t help but wonder whether his wife has yet. I hope so.

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-70575116391750084562008-01-10T14:18:00.001Z2008-01-10T14:21:31.783Z

In my new, blue, sparkly shoes, I’m making a cup of tea in the office kitchen. One of my colleagues admires them, then points out that they are the same colour as bluebottles. Laughing, I respond that, no, they’re not; bluebottles are more turquoise-blue, whilst my shoes are definitely purply-blue. He concedes the point and we return to our desks. An hour or so later, I receive an illustrated

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8800631948950062655.post-35932077090129027352008-01-09T10:37:00.000Z2008-01-09T10:40:13.048Z

Out of the train window, the Kent countryside runs past. In the thin morning sunshine, the world is made anew, and I see rich earth contrast with the emerald hue of fields, the stark shapes of bare tree branches, and brickwork that speaks of time and seasons past. I’m listening to a favourite song, Fallen, and as the lyrics* wash over me, resonating wildly, I realise, with absolute clarity, that

Glamourpusshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01450175254756849062noreply@blogger.com5