"Hello, can I help you at all; would you like a basket?"

MARTHA CASEY

This is the story of how a simple shoe-buying mission became a rage-inducing heap of customer service fail.

I had found my dream shoes online, and more or less had my heart set on them already but, to be on the safe side, I decided to bring a friend to the shop to make sure they looked fabulous. (Spoiler: they did!) The point is, this should have been a nice, simple, straightforward shopping expedition. It was not to be.

We entered the shop and were immediately pounced upon by a trendy-haired, chunky-trainered sales assistant with the general demeanour of a Blue Peter presenter on laughing gas. "HELLO!" she sang. "CAN I HELP YOU AT ALL WOULD YOU LIKE A BASKET DO GIVE ME A SHOUT IF YOU WANT ANYTHING". The experience was akin to being hit in the face with a glow-in-the-dark chair. Had I not already had my heart set on the shoes, I would have walked out then and there.

Don't judge a woman by her dress size

ALICE LINLEY-MUNRO

I think I’m the last person you’d expect to be sticking up for models but I am and I believe quite rightly so. They may be in another universe from my plus sized figure but I’m happily going to put my head above the parapet on their behalf this time. I have a real problem with the term ‘real women’ and the connotation that if a woman is skinny she is therefore somehow not a real woman. It’s batted around a lot during campaigns for ‘real women’ to appear on the catwalks and in magazines and I’ve reached the stage where I am offended on behalf of women everywhere.

People don’t accept anti-fat propaganda and insults so why WHY do we denigrate a section of female society? When people don’t accept anti-fat propaganda why on earth should skinny women cop it? I find the insult ‘skinny bitch’ just as offensive as ‘fat bitch’. Can’t we all just agree, for the love of women everywhere, to move on from insulting someone’s size?

There’s more to Essex than vajazzles

LAURA DEMETRIOU

It’s back. You’ll either love it or hate it. No, I’m not talking about Marmite. I’m talking about the reality TV show The Only Way is Essex.

If you’ve not seen the show, it’s about a group of orange 20-somethings who live in Essex showing us what they do best. Namely, partying at Sugar Hut Village, applying vajazzles/pejazzles, dressing up in leopard print mini-dresses and saying ‘shuuuuup’. Basically it’s trash TV both at its very best and worst.

Give up my elasticated waistbands? Pull the other one!

MADDIE YORK

I start this new year with an admission, which I hope you might applaud in the manner of a group therapy session: I’m Maddie, and I wear trousers with elasticated waistbands. I’ve simply never managed to be comfortable in actual trousers. Leggings, yes; tracksuit bottoms, natch. But actual fitted, designed trousers with buttons, a zip and proper seams? Definitely not.

I have a very bad history with trousers. I hate them; they seem to hate me in return. Shopping for them brings me out in a rage that ain’t pretty. And if I do actually buy any and get as far as wearing them, I become so uncomfortable I end up crying ginfully and ripping them off my poor compressed torso which sports the red marks left by buttons and bands that have dug into it all day.

Yes, I’m only 25 and I am already showing a preference for the elasticated waistband. And this is not some sort of ironic ‘young fogey’, geek-chic fashion statement – I don’t live in Shoreditch, you know – but rather a strategy that has come about by necessity and concern for my health: I physically can’t get through a day wearing any of the trousers that are on offer in shops these days. I can’t breathe properly in them, and I can’t sit down without them digging into my reproductive regions. I don’t care enough about fashion (I don’t actually care at all about fashion, truth be told) to give up my right to get through my life being able to breathe, eat, sit down, and one day bear children.

Modern trouser design shows a flagrant disregard for women’s real shapes, persisting in pushing the infuriating notion of the ‘hipster’ waistline, which fits and flatters precisely no woman who ever existed. The anger I experience as I shop for trousers – trying on pair after pair and going up and up and up the sizes, still not managing to get the blighters to go over my hips and actually do up without gaping at the back – is not caused by feeling bad about my own body, but by the outrage that the poxy shops are getting away with flogging us their stupid, unfeasible designs season after season.

 

I’ve given up attempting to align myself with any sort of retail-friendly dress size, because they’re all bollocks – especially with trousers and skirts and any item that has anything to do with the bottom area. I’m a completely different size from one idiotic shop to the next. Standing in front of a mirror in my birthday suit, I’m not unhappy with what I see; I’ve got some curvy bits and some bulgy bits, quite thin legs and a bit more going on in the upstairs area, but generally I don’t wince or weep or start thinking of drastic diet plans. All in all, I’d say I’m quite slender. This translates, ridiculously, as an 8 or an unfathomably vague ‘small’ in some shops, and a 12 or a ‘medium’ elsewhere. And that’s for the tops and shirts. For trousers, I’ve tried on anything from an 8 to a 14 and still not worked out what the hell my size is supposed to be and, no matter how many sizes I try, I still leave the changing room almost in tears and clawing about for the nearest cocktail.

When are shops, or designers, or buyers, or whoever is responsible for these matters, going to change the sodding record and try something new for us – something that allows for the fact that a woman has an actual stomach, some hips and a reasonable desire not to reveal her underwear every time she sits down? Until that happens, I’m left with no option, if I want to preserve my dignity, my ability to breathe, and my fertility potential, other than schlumping around in leggings with elasticated waistbands. Here’s another admission for 2011: I’m Maddie, and I think modern trouser design for women is a load of tosh. Read more by Maddie.

Tidings of discomfort and nausea

ROSIE MCGEE

Not content with the trauma of getting married this year, I decided to do the double and go ahead and start breeding. Initially shocked at my own fertility and the fact that all those naff Sex Ed videos they showed you at school weren’t lying, I’m now slowly managing come to terms with it and accepting that it is actually a wondrous thing.

While I am definitely enjoying looking limply at heavy shopping bags waiting for someone else to offer to carry them, my new condition still comes with some well-publicised pitfalls made even worse by the business of Christmas.

For starters, I can’t drink. Aside from not wanting to cause my unborn child brain damage, the smell of anything alcoholic turns my stomach with such uncharacteristic violence I have to look in the mirror to check it is actually me and that no Quantum Leap-style body swap has taken place.

This does mean I can forgo standing around on cold train platforms or shivering outside bars waiting for taxis as now, for the foreseeable future, I am the designated driver. Yes, I get the heady pleasure of watching everyone else get tight, red in the face, generally bellicose and/or licentious while I sip on enough sugary soft drinks to ensure I’m toothless by the New Year.

I’ll never understand those weirdoes who make disturbing statements like: “Oh I love not drinking; you’re the only person who can remember it the next day.” Why, out of interest, would I want to remember and an evening of other people breathing their foul booze stench breath on me and confiding in me about the affair they’re having/the fact that they’re looking for a new job/filing for bankruptcy? Delete as appropriate.

It gives me no sense of power and lofty superiority knowing they’ll be feeling bad the following morning, worrying about what they let slip. For one thing, the chances are I’ll be just as sick and the secrets they imparted really weren’t up to much anyway.

Then comes the day itself. I’m counting down to it with a building sense of dread. The moment I discovered I was with child, I instantly developed a nasty aversion to chicken of any sort. At the moment the thought of being within six feet of a roasting one brings me out in a cold sweat. And what, may we ask, is going to be on the menu come 25th December? A huge, poultry-stinking, cousin of the chicken, turkey, most likely cooked for double the time necessary and another hour just to be on the safe side giving it the texture of cardboard. Delicious.

So as you’re all sitting down to your Christmas feast wearing new trendy jumpers and tucking into a glass of Champers, think of me in clothes which are rapidly getting too small, sipping on an Appletise, or maybe even a Shloer if I’m lucky, waiting for the contents of my stomach to begin a riotous surge up my oesophagus the second I see the centrepiece of a traditional Christmas lunch emerge from the kitchen and head my way.

But it’s not all doom and gloom. I’ll still get presents ... right? What’s the betting that instead of something that might actually cheer me up through the next few months of hormonal insanity I’ll get gifts for when the baby comes. Great. And what’s the betting that the nice sparkly something the husband might once have bought seems a bit too decadent as now all spare money should be saved for, you guessed it, when the baby comes. Oversized 100% acrylic cardigan from Primark it is for me then.

From now on I’m going to have years of Christmases that are not about me, that begin at 5am with little voices shrieking, that see me in Mothercare buying creepy children’s Christmas outfits or in drafty churches watching terrible nativity plays complete with inadvisable live donkey. And while I’m sure a part of me will love every moment of it and say afterwards that I wouldn’t have changed it for the world, is it too much to ask to want one last one for myself? Read more by Rosie.

Exploding the myth: not all women are obsessed with shoes

ROSIE MCGEE

Despite the vicious rumour perpetuated by Carrie Bradshaw, Imelda Marcos and the like, not all women love shoes. Many, including myself, are markedly indifferent to them and endure with a grimace the effects of this popular misconception.

For starters there’s the commonly held erroneous belief that a man can get any woman into bed by complimenting her shoes. I have visions of this new gospel being whispered from one wide-eyed gullible Romeo to the next. Whoever started this falsehood must have brainwashed his disciples with the following logic: praising a woman’s footwear must mean that a) you’re in tune with what’s important to her and b) you’re the sort of bloke who notices the little things and, supposedly, girlies love that.

Well, yes, we do like it when you pick up on small details. However, any headway made is then negated when the best you can offer is: “I like your shoes”. Please, not that old chestnut. When men have made a big fuss over my footwear I have assumed they either had terrible taste or were plain lying; my shoes are routinely the worst part of my outfit.

Chaps, listen, there’s no such thing as a fits-all compliment or holy grail of the chat-up line. Getting it wrong actually makes you look worse than saying nothing, as then we only suspected you were a moron.

But what I really dislike about current shoe mania in popular culture is the tacit subliminal suggestion that any old frump with no knowledge of the matters of style can suddenly become a trendy fashionista by saying “Oh I love shoes, I can’t resist a pair of gorgeous shoes.” Oh, so wrong.

If you don’t believe me, I’ll defer to higher authority. Coco Chanel nicely put it by saying: “Elegance does not consist in putting on a new dress.” Just as sex appeal and instant femininity cannot be achieved by suddenly cooing over the latest creation of Manolo Blanhnik.

Not only that, it’s also becoming the most god awful cliché. We’ve seen it on the TV shows and now accept it as an unwritten lore. Rather than stressing how individual you are it has quite the opposite effect, announcing loud and clear to the world that someone else has to make these decisions for you on what you’re supposedly passionate about.

Call me a fat fascist if you want but I can’t help noticing that this phenomenon is more common amongst larger ladies. I understand that feeling - to some extent. When you’ve gained weight, nothing fits and the shops are full of gamine size six assistants glowering at you, the solace found from a non-judgemental sling-back can be very comforting indeed. But it’s a sticking plaster on a broken limb.

Hiding behind shoes that bolster your confidence won’t give you the impetus to lose a few pounds, which will undoubtedly make you happier when you look in the mirror. It’s fine for Sarah Jessica Parker to prance about drawing attention to her feet as the rest of her body is pretty much perfect. She’s not using them as some sort of diversion. And if that is your goal, think about how realistic it is. Large body, small feet. It’s going to have to be some pair to disguise your entire frame.

So can we, please, all drop the pretence that irrational behaviour around impractical footwear is an essential characteristic of being a stylish woman? I don’t care if this makes me sound like my mother: killer heels, narrow toes and other instruments of podiatry torture aren’t very good for you. They damage your back and in some cases have a most unfortunate effect on posture. Who hasn’t seen that girl walking down the street in incredibly painful looking shoes leaning so far forward it looks like she’s running away from her own bottom? There’s no way that can be beneficial to her long term health.

You only have to open a celeb magazine to see grotesque pictures of Victoria Beckham’s bunions caused by years of wearing shoes which deformed her feet to the point where she needs major surgery to have them removed. While we all wish Mrs B the best when she goes under the knife for the first time, ah-herm, we should remember that this injury is self-inflicted.

Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not suggesting we should all bin our stilettos in favour of a sensible lace-up pair from Clarks to be worn exclusively for the next 20 years of our lives. Statement shoes can be awesome, and glamorous as hell. Worn with a simple outfit, like any eye-catching accessory, they’ll look stunning. But this is the little secret no one tells you, they don’t have the power to miraculously halve your BMI or turn you into someone totally different. Read more by Rosie.

Wrap up warm: there's a nasty bout of underdressing going around

ROSIE DAVIES

You can just imagine the scene. The sky is a clear ice blue; the trees are stark and bare; your breath leaves your body in a little cloud when you go outside. The first leaf you step on when you leave your house crunches under your heavy boot, rigid with frost. You inhale fresh, icy air and think, with a wistful sigh, ‘at last, winter has arrived.’

At least, you think winter has arrived. You have become quite excited over the past few weeks, thinking about the upcoming annual celebrations, like Halloween and Bonfire Night, and the official start to the mulled wine and firework season (short though it is). Pulling out musty winter clothing from the attic fills you with - well, joy - and you can’t help emitting a little squeal of delight at the thought of ditching your summer clothing and climbing into a new wardrobe altogether. Out come the boots, and the gloves, and the many, many scarves. The possibilities are simply endless.

And then you go for a little walk, or you meet some friends at the pub for a drink. Or, to get the weekly shop, you nip down to Sainsbury’s, dreaming of the delicious winter soups you’ll be making. Hmm, root vegetables. A glance in the wrong direction rudely interrupts these scrumptious thoughts. You screech to a halt in your tracks. A person, around your age, has just walked past you. You quickly glance down at yourself, checking to see that you really have donned thermal leggings, tights, woollen socks and boots (amongst other things), and that you haven’t jumped the seasonal gun. You look up and crane your neck to see the said person walking off in the distance, just to get a second look. No, you weren’t mistaken. They were indeed wearing FLIP FLOPS.

What is it with people who wear summer clothing, and, might I say, the most extreme summer clothing, in the depths of winter? What, I ask you, goes through their minds as they are getting dressed to leave the house? Can’t they see the frost on the pavement outside, or the icicles hanging from the drainpipe?!

I first came across this phenomenon at university, where I witnessed fellow (mainly male) students lolling about the campus in late November dressed in t-shirts, joggers and Havianas. Despite the fact that joggers are hardly the most flattering items for a man to wear at the best of times (can I apply the words ‘swinging about’ here?), it was even more ludicrous for them to have barely anything on their feet. Didn’t they get cold? Didn’t they get wet? Did wearing a selection of coloured Brazilian flip-flops really make them that cool? It’s tempting to think that the reasoning behind all of this is comfort and convenience.

I can understand the need to pop to the corner shop and back for a pint of milk in your pyjama bottoms and sandals, simply because you can’t be bothered to change and they’re the easiest things to slip on. I’ve even owned a few pairs of jogging bottoms in my life, and if they didn’t make me feel like a small, walking bin-liner with a saggy behind, I’d wear them outside all the time. They’re probably much warmer than a pair of jeans. But flip-flops, hot pants and vest tops? Ho-ho, you must be kidding.

It is precisely the thought, rather than the lack of it, that goes into all this that really rattles me. I appreciate the need to look attractive on a night out, but when I’m standing in a queue for a nightclub surrounded by girls in flannel-sized skirts, skin-tight vest tops and absurd heels, I’m torn between shouting at them and running home to grab my duvet in order to cover them up. It’s almost worst when the ridiculously inappropriate summer clothing is teamed with winter favourites; last weekend, on the way to watch a fireworks display, I spotted a girl wearing a t-shirt and a pair of flowery, cotton culottes, which just reached past her bottom. She was also wearing Ugg boots (shudder) and a very over-the-top faux-fur hat, with bobbles. This wasn’t comfort. It was called freezing your knackers off for the sake of fashion. A good combination it was not.

Perhaps my feelings over this issue stem from long-given advice on the part of my dear mother, who, when I was growing up and looking with mild envy at much cooler girls with miniature jackets, assured me that wearing the winter version of a crop-top would inevitably lead to a ‘chill on my kidneys’ and other assorted illnesses. I have occasionally dabbled in risky clothing decisions in the winter just to rebel, look nicer, or be a bit more original, but I’ve always come to the same conclusion. Blue lips, goose pimples, and chattering teeth? No, thank you. I’d rather have my circulation, and feel my toes at the end of the night. Read more by Rosie.

It's October, can we turn down the heat a little?

ROSIE MCGEE

Am I the only person wondering if the weather is currently on acid? We’re well into October and yet temperatures are hovering somewhere around the mid-20s in Celsius. Bearing in mind that this time of year the average maximum temperature is 14˚C but the mercury can easily dip as low as 6˚C, that’s insane.

Maybe this is the point where we should be blaming global warming or thanking our lucky stars that, after an August almost completely bereft of any sunshine, we now get to top up our vitamin D levels before the long dark winter begins. But still, whatever the reason, however pleasant it is, it’s starting to really annoy me. I like summer but it doesn’t get me all mushy and sentimental the way autumn does.

Autumn is my favourite season and from the moment the new season winter coats appear in the shops I feel a little tingle of excitement as my little mind fills with fantasies of me walking in parks with golden leaves falling, wearing oversized hats and drinking hot chocolate topped with marshmallows.

However I cannot get on with my saccharine love affair with autumn if what is ostensibly summer weather persists a good six weeks after it was due to leave. Of course it’s highly probable that at some point in mid-January, stony broke, half a stone overweight and suffering from acute SAD I’ll be craving sunshine and warmth so badly I’ll consider booking a week in the Canaries or something else equally close to lunacy.

Right now, with serotonin levels normal I can think of nothing more pointless than putting myself through all the horrors of international air travel to go somewhere that has average January temperatures of 19˚C: also known as room temperature. If I wanted to feel the heat of room temperature then surely I just go into a room. In fact I have several in my house negating the need to schlep all the way to an island in the Atlantic Ocean.

If it’s the highly paradoxical ‘Winter Sun’ you’re after then you will simply have to go somewhere where it is not winter. In short, the Southern Hemisphere or places very close to the equator. Nothing further north than 12˚N is not going to be warm enough. To be clear, it’s not the heat I dislike, quite the opposite; I would just like it in the appropriate places at the appropriate times when I am expecting it and accordingly prepared.

Due to the overly clement weather such matters are not yet a pressing concern. No, now is when I want it to wear my new boots especially bought for autumn weather in different russet shades. Instead I can only look at them longingly as they patiently wait, the aromatic waft of new leather filling the room as I’m still comfortably wandering around in flip flops.

It’s not only the boots, but my entire wardrobe that has been thrown entirely out of kilter. For although this freak weather is wonderfully mild, it has also been predictably, Britishly, wet. So each morning as I take the dog out to the woods for his hour of terrorising something that is not me, it’s a case of wading through bogs of rotting leaves, mud and puddles presumably filled with mixture of dirty water, left over canine slobber and the tears of fellow dog-walkers. For these expeditions into the forest of darkness I’m togged up in jeans (to protect my legs from muddy, leafy mulch) and a thin waterproof coat (to protect my torso from the onslaught of dog paws covered in muddy, leafy mulch).

Good preparation, you might be thinking. And yes it would be if the weather wasn’t still so temperate that even before 9am doing anything more than standing still in this get up causes me to turn an unflattering shade of puce while sweat bursts from my every pore, liquid rolling down my face and body in such fast flowing rivulets that I start to worry about dangerous levels of dehydration.

Back at home my post-walk cup of tea is more to cool me down than warm me up. I look longingly at the ready stocked woodpile. No fires will be lit for a while yet- aside possibly from a few more barbeques to capitalise on the late heat wave. And it all fills me with a sense of sadness. Summer, like all good things, should come to an end, and let us move onto the natural next phase of chilly mornings and dark cold evenings followed by the further pleasure of the grumbling about how much we miss the warm weather. Read more by Rosie .

Put them away, love

ROSIE MCGEE

Oh, Maddie ... I thought I was the only person who had noticed the striking similarities between bikinis and the standard knickers and bra combo worn by most women, most of the time, underneath their clothes.

Nevertheless, I do like the sun, and with age I am getting fonder and fonder of flopping around in it with a cold beverage and a book. For this activity, the bikini is perfect for exposing human flesh to the UV rays, while being, hopefully, devoid of uncomfortable fastenings and restrictive seams. Still, it is also borderline indecent. So I only sport mine in the privacy of my own garden (and close friends’ - at a push, provided the number gathered there does not exceed four) and specially designated areas eg. the beach or poolside of a holiday resort.

It’s part old-fashioned prudishness and part genuine fear that if I did just amble out into the street or wander around my local recreation ground in a revealing two-piece, small children would run screaming from the sight. Despite my moderate commitment to watching what I eat and engaging in vigorous exercise, the overall of effect of me in one of these outfits is not an aesthetic joy.

And I’m not alone. Unless you are incredibly, incredibly lucky (or blessed with a suntan which, admittedly, can do wonders), the chances are you will not look at your best with your wobbly bits covered with only small triangles of stretchy fabric trying to battle gravity and other repeatedly proven scientific principles.

I’ve just arrived back from a beach holiday and have sufficiently topped up my people-watching to feel like an authority on the matter. From my lounger I watched all creatures, great and small, in their swimwear, rubbing in lotions and bravely showing scars, imperfections and the badges of age. While many of these people wouldn’t be chosen to grace the cover of glossy magazines, there was nothing offensive about them going about the business of suntanning and general beach relaxing.

That is with one exception, the one sub-group of sun worshipper at which I draw the line: the topless sunbather. This isn’t about age, weight or general quality of breast. I don’t care if you could be the next WonderBra model due to your perfect bosoms; I still don’t wish to see them wobbling around the place as you bob in the sea or, even worse, order drinks from the bar.

Yes, I know in some cultures it’s traditional for women to be bare-breasted but last time I checked that didn’t extend to the Brits. It’s far too cold here for that behaviour. I’m pretty certain these ladies don’t whip off their bra at the park, but get them on their holidays abroad and it becomes perfectly acceptable to them to have no clothing on from the waist up.

Live and let live, you may say. What does this have to do with me anyway? Technically, nothing. So why does it bother me so? Because it is just so unnecessary: the shops are packed with all sorts of strapless swimwear this year, so the most dedicated tanner can get a decent colour without worrying about lines. It’s not uncommon or offensive to see sunbathers lying face down with the back of their bikini undone, ensuring an even tan on their back.

Furthermore, it makes you wonder why these women require such comprehensive tanning. Excluding glamour models, strippers and all others forms of sex worker, the average person won’t be able to show off their gloriously bronzed breasts, so really, what is the point?

Instead you’ll just have two weeks of making people uneasy. The gawky poolside waiter who doesn’t really know where to look as you vigorously sign the bill, the beach hawkers wrapped up from head to toe to stop any sunlight getting at them and therefore think you’re mad, and the all the others who, while engaged in totally innocent activities likes daydreaming as they paddle in the waves, suddenly and unexpectedly come face-to-boob to with you.

Possibly the thing that encourages topless sunbathing is just exhibitionism; a chance to feel freer and less repressed in a different place where people don’t know you. However, I can’t help but wonder: would it still feel so liberating if you knew it made so many others downright uncomfortable? Read more by Rosie.

Image: Suat Eman / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

No, we will not be frollicking in the park, thanks

MADDIE YORK

I so agree with Sam: summer is so difficult. I really cannot be doing with it. For starters, it’s too hot. It’s TOO HOT. How am I supposed to function when it’s like this? Oh yes, I’m supposed to eat silly too-cold food, wear silly clothes that look like underwear, and I’m supposed to do a lot of silly lounging around in public areas.

Forgive me, but if you sat about on a bench in winter, just lounging, even on your day off or on a bank holiday, you’d be distinctly frowned upon. People would think you were a tramp, frankly. But when June rolls around, the whole of Britain suddenly has twice as much time and starts lolling about eating 99s or freeze-pops (or, if you’re posh and called Sebastian or Tilly, strawberries and bubbly). And everyone’s suddenly spending four hours spreadeagled on a lawn, as though hot weather gives us a licence to to behave like we’re at Glastonbury. (Don’t even get me started on Glastonbury – or festivals, generally.)

I am just not someone of sunny disposition. Not by any stretch. I get a buzz from heavy rain, especially when it starts with that end-of-the-world-ish darkening of the sky and then – KABOOM! Fantastic! I like being inside, see, either all curled up with a paper or book or something, or at my desk. I actively choose that sort of indoorsy lifestyle at all times of the year, so it’s not as if any so-called ‘bad’ weather’s going to get in the way of my life. If anything, bad weather helps me function.

So, when TV weatherpeople start warning us in their pretend-sad voices to ‘carry an umbrella’ or ‘remember to pack the fleece this weekend’, I don’t react in the way we’re supposed to. I don’t feel remotely disappointed that I won’t be able to skip off to the park and eat lollies, wearing flip-flops and later cooing ‘Ooh, typical me, I’ve caught a bit too much sun’. Instead I think: perfect, I’d prefer to stay inside anyway, and now I’ll get that rainy-thunder soundtrack that I have actually considered buying on a CD because I love it that much.

Those inevitable invitations that come flying at you from all sides at this time of year, to go and relax in your bikini in a park on a Sunday afternoon, just because we can, are awfully hard to say no to – you just end up sounding like a total happiness-hating freak.

And if you start to address your reasons for not joining in, you come across all repressed and awkward. Try confessing to any of the following: I feel uncomfortable sitting on a lawn for that many hours because I tend to get lawn bum and lower back pain; I don’t know how to arrange my legs without ending up lying down completely which seems quite anti-social; I don’t like using public park toilets; I get squinty in the sun but don’t like it when everyone wears sunglasses because that inhibits my reading of facial expressions; all my summer trousers are white and they’ll get grassy; I’d rather have a normal lunch at home than eat silly dippy-sticky food I would never normally choose.

Exactly! If you say any of that your friends just laugh at you – believe me, I’ve tried – and make withering, superior comments such as ‘Oh, you really don't know how to live, darling.’ So you end up having to make lame excuses or pretending to be busy, all the way through to the end of summer when everyone comes to their senses and realises they’ve been lying about in public wearing garments that are not actually, when you think about it, any more decent than a BRA AND PANTS.

Then, as a windswept Peter Cockroft (someone bring the poor fellow down from the BBC London roof, for goodness’ sake) strains to warn us that the nights are drawing in, I shall light the candles, pour a glass of blood-red wine and growl happily, ‘shut that door’. Read more by Maddie.

Short but not short of attitude.

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

It was with interest that I read the posts of my fellow Grumpy Youngsters, Shelly and Selina, who stand taller than the average woman. I already know what being short is all about, so I often find myself curious about what life is like for someone taller.

I have no problem with my diminutive height – the world would be a very boring place if we were all the same - but I get the distinct impression that other people are not quite as accepting as I am. In fact, it could actually be rather enjoyable were it not for the moronic behaviour of others; I’d be able to revel in the fact that people automatically assume me to be innocent, I’d lap up the ‘cute’ comments and getting asked for ID (Alright, I confess, it only happened a couple of times years ago, but it still counts). Instead, it ain’t even close to being a barrel of laughs because I have to deal regularly with being patronised.

Let’s leave aside all the clothing alterations that I have to get done. (I’ve accepted the fact that clothing manufacturers hate short women, as proven by the fact that petite clothing ranges are harder and harder to find.) At least my dry cleaner loves me (yep, I can’t sew; the shame!) The issue of clothes that don’t fit becomes positively trivial when someone, who successfully gives the impression of having a two-digit IQ, speaks down to you.

Not only do people speak to you like an idiot, but being petite seems to make people assume that you are a pushover who will happily take their nonsense. Though, I do get some pleasure from the surprise that results when I reveal the fact that I don’t suffer fools. Apparently, being small also means that I can’t speak for myself.

My theory is that, to many people’s minds, short equals young and young equals stupid. It’s called the Moron Theory.

All this is on the basis that I’m actually noticed. Of course, there are occasions when not being seen can be greatly beneficial, but its mostly just plain annoying. I can’t count the number of times that I have been walking along the pavement, my pathway clear and free from obstructions, only for someone walking on the other side of the pavement to turn directly in my path. I have had fully sighted people actually bump into me in broad daylight when I’m walking in a straight line on a wide pavement. Never have I wanted to punch someone in their face more than when the answer to “What do you think you’re doing?” is “Sorry, didn’t see you there.” Then again, I’m probably too short to reach: I could elbow them in the stomach first. I’m well aware that I’m shorter than average but I’m far from being the size of Tinkerbell.

It can even affect the mundane things like going to the supermarket, which becomes a hazardous pursuit. Not because I put myself in danger by clambering up to reach high shelves – it’s a risk I’m prepared to take – but because of how I hold my basket. The level it reaches is the perfect height for small children to run into as they tear around the supermarket without watching where they are going in an attempt to knock themselves out. It really is the final straw when you go unnoticed by people smaller than you.

I learnt very early on that making assumptions about people will often leave you with egg on your face, but I obviously went to a different school of life to many others. Today there is only one very easy lesson. Pens at the ready...don’t judge a book by its cover. Well done, you’ve passed. Read more by Shermaine.

Image: Marcus74id / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The trouble with shoes

ALICE LINLEY-MUNRO

All I want is a pair of new shoes. A pair of black peep-toe shoes without too high a heel, so that I can still walk at the end of the evening and don’t have to be carried home. Sounds simple enough, doesn’t it? However, as a woman with size 12 feet, shoe shopping is never a walk in the park.

My choices are either old lady loafers that you could imagine Hyacinth Bucket wearing, or shoes designed for transvestites, made from perspex and PVC with 7” heels which would make me 6’9” and unable to walk. I don’t have any desire to look like my name is Chardonnay Love-Honey and I swing round a pole at night, nor do I want people to think that from Monday to Friday I live my life as Alan from Accounting.

My friend recently took the plunge and purchased her first pair of Christian Louboutins, which now take pride of place in her expansive shoe collection, revered above all other pairs. The joy of such a moment will never be mine, unless I take the route of the ugly sisters in ‘Cinderella’ by the Brothers Grimm and start lopping off bits of my feet to fit the shoes.

At 28 I should be over the age where throwing a tantrum is viable, but whenever I enter a shoe shop with a small-footed friend I have to fight hard to resist the urge to slam my handbag and body to the floor and go mad. Why is it so impossible to comprehend that just as people are expanding, so their feet are expanding, and therefore there is a large market for bigger shoes? If I had even a modicum of artistic talent or business nouse, I’d start my own shoe line and make a killing.

My shoe rage isn’t just confined to the fact that I can’t skip about in pretty little shoes and that if I need a new outfit I have to start with the shoes and then hope I can find clothing that matches. I feel the shoe-related rage bubbling up inside me when I hear the ‘schlump schlump’ noise of hordes of girls, and some fashion-confused guys, schlepping their way round campus in UGG boots. It makes me want to screech ‘Pick up your feet, you slovenly harlots!’ before bemoaning that back in my day girls had the ability to walk properly and not shuffle about like they’d stepped in gum and their feet were stuck to the pavement.

I thought that particular branch of my shoe rage would be limited to autumn and winter, when people tend to want to clad their feet in dead sheep and be toasty warm, however the rage is starting to rise due to the dawning of the ‘flip flop slide’ where, yet again, people demonstrate their complete inability to pick up their feet. It’s as if they actually want me to screech at them like a banshee.

I think my only solutions are lobbying the university and making it a footwear-free zone, or carrying round a roll of duct tape and sellotaping shoes to feet. I appreciate that picking your feet up enough to avoid the shuffle sound when wearing flip flops might make you look like you’re wading through treacle or strutting your stuff down the Milan catwalks, but rather that than me attacking you with the sticky stuff, hmm? Read more by Alice.

Sandals, sweat and sunscreen acne. Oh, good, summer's here.

SAM PECZEK

It’s getting closer – you can see the signs seeping in through the cracked corners of your little world. That spring in the steps of the many as they saunter down the street; that extra little pinch of pep that whispers summer ...

Needless to say, I am not a summer person. I have no beef with the sun and all its lovely life-giving warmth. I like the flowers and the nature and things not being dead. What bothers me is excess; the sticky, dirty, clingy heat that plagues me between the months of June and September. The cancer-feeding UV rays can be a bitch as well, especially if you’re blessed with that kill-me-now skin type that’s simply begging to turn on you if you forget to reapply your factor 60 paste less than 38 times a day.

Yup, everyone hates sunscreen. Sure, I’m glad that it stops me from sizzling away in the sunlight, but why do they have to make it smell so godawful? All day, the sickly pseudo-coconut scent clogging up my pores and my nostrils until I can scuttle back home to a shower and safety.

If only the smell was the worst of it, but no; there’s the delightful way it greases up my skin, giving me the wonder that is sunscreen acne. Needless to say, when your face is quite literally melting all over the shop (and anywhere else you dare tread) makeup is not an option.

"All the sandaly, flip-floppy crap I’ve tried has always ripped my feet to blood and blister-ridden shreds."

Don a giant hat, search for the shady side of the street; it’s not enough. Clothing is a major issue, one that I’ve never managed to resolve. Like most winter folk, I like wearing lots of clothes. Liken it, if you will, to walking around in an almost duvet. If I could get away with sticking armholes in a sleeping bag, don’t think I wouldn’t have tried. It’s happening already; girls everywhere sporting their floaty dresses and sandaly shoes. I tried to go with it, pretend to be okay with all the summer stuff, sneaking into a shop and looking at all the vintage dress-shaped garments. No hope; all the patterns were hideous – and this is coming from someone who at one point aspired to a granny wardrobe of ugly flowery dresses. Instead I left the shop with yet another plaid shirt, only to encounter throngs of those annoying skinny girls prancing about in their little dresses. Or worse, those odd characters wearing coats – I swear they’re doing it just to mock me.

Footwear is the mother of all summer evils. As I’m sure you’ve guessed, I’m about comfort over aesthetics, so it’s trainers all the way. Sadly, they are not the best option in hot weather. And yet all the sandaly, flip-floppy crap I’ve tried has always ripped my feet to blood and blister-ridden shreds. Even the ones not made from plastic and whimsy. Yes, even those.

Which leads us to the trauma of transport. We can rule out the underground straight away – we all know how ghastly being crammed into a tube of moist, hot, and odorous bodies with no clean air, praying that the train won’t stop in between stations for a perilously long (ie, more than half a second) moment. Time does not exist underground; you have entered (albeit voluntarily) an abyss where time and hope are sucked out of your feeble existence until you are able to crawl out into the godforsaken sun once more.

Buses, I have discovered, are only fractionally less painful. Sure, you get to look out the window and know that the world outside still exists, but those dammed rays of burning heat beat at your fragile skin relentlessly. Added to this is the maddening way that the radiators continue to pump even more hot air at the half of your body that is below the window. I remember once, being stuck in traffic on a remorselessly hot day, and thinking ‘yes, this is actually hell’ (the fact that I was also on Streatham High Road is purely incidental).

And finally – the workplace. I spend my weekdays in a very windowy room, which is lovely for the precious, soul-soothing daylight, but also rather apt at creating something of a heat trap. To resolve this, we open windows and employ the use of a very, very loud fan. Or close the windows and try the air con (also not so innocuous sound wise). This makes communication somewhat of a mission, especially when answering the phone. I’d like to think I’ve mastered the art of guessing what people might be saying, but alas, this has proven not to be the case. I shall spend my free time scanning ads for telepathy lessons… and flights to (and jobs in) those mythical cold places I’ve spied on a map; the sort of place where people understand the pains of summer and get how it’s you guys and your weird sun worshiping ways who are the freaks, not me. No need to wish me luck, I have a good feeling about this plan ...

Read more by Sam.

Out with the cold, in with stupidity.

NAOMI SAFFERY

Spring has sprung and I should be full of the joys ... but I am not. After a winter of distinct discontent and dark dreary days mired by recession, freezing temperatures and general hard bloody work, I was looking forward to enjoying – nay, revelling – in the mellow and sublime British springtime. What form does this revelling take, I hear you cry. (Those who know me understand that I am not a natural partaker in revelry.)

Well, it might include strolling past daffodils in the park, sitting outside a cafe sipping a cosy hot chocolate as I watch the world roll by or going for a brisk walk along the Thames. But all my attempts in this direction have been thwarted by the sheer annoyance that has risen up within and turned my innards into a writhing mass of knotted irritation.

This particular strain of annoyance was triggered when I was waiting for my friend on a pleasant springtime Saturday morning. As I stood outside Waterloo Station, I saw the most incredible sight: a trio of girls were walking out with no coats on. Not only had they failed to adorn their bodies in the vital warmth provider that is the blessed coat; they also had short sleeves and bare arms. By the time my friend arrived I was incredulous and spitting a rant on the subject of the madness of the British public.

But just consider for a moment the fact that this sight was not a one-off. Later that week I saw a woman hurrying past me with no coat and showing bare arms and legs. You might well hurry, lady, I thought to myself, but speed ain’t gonna keep you warm.

I keep seeing people behaving as though we are in the midst of a heat wave. I just cannot fathom why we go through this year after year. The moment a weak, struggling ray of spring sun descends upon Britain, the public goes mad. They discard their clothes and all rational thought along with them. They step out and display their pasty limbs which, frankly, should be kept firmly covered until there is no danger of goose bumps making their legs and arms look like chicken skin.

Is it just the British who suffer from this over enthusiasm for the sun? Are we the only nation that has no concept of temperature? Why are we so keen to display our flesh? It is unsightly, undignified and distasteful.

I will be keeping my coat firmly on my back until the temperature is at least in double figures. In the mean time, I am trying to avoid the ugly sight of pale chicken skin, so I am limited as to where I can go. The park is out. The riverside walk is out. And I can kiss daffodil-gazing goodbye. Please, people, I want to see the spring. Put your clothes back on. Read more by Naomi.

Image: Suat Eman / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Please: let's pull our socks up when it comes to getting dressed

ROSIE MCGEE

I looked at myself in the mirror this morning and decided that, unless partaking in physical exercise, I’m too old to wear trainers. Aside from actual sport, I’m taking exercise to include long walks, prolonged periods of standing, DIY and gardening. With persuasion I might even let long haul air travel onto the list, too. But that’s it. The rest of the time my feet will be in footwear appropriate to the activity I’m doing. Seems logical enough, yet I know I’m in the minority with this view.

I understand that people compulsively wear trainers at the expense of anything else because they’re comfy. Shoes, especially cheap ones, can rub and chafe, causing a great deal of pain. You have my sympathy; I’ve got odd-shaped feet meaning that every new pair of shoes I buy will draw blood before the leather gives in and we eventually get to a point where we can exist together in harmony. However, I persevere as I realise that looking respectable requires a little discomfort.

But the triumph of the trainer over the sensible shoe is just the tip of the iceberg. Tracksuits are next on my clothing hate list. It seems so few people can get it right. The clue’s in the name, folks. Loose trousers and tops in fleecy or jersey material are designed to be worn by athletes to keep them warm in preparation for or after physical exertions such as running around a track at speed or jumping over a high bar. Apparently that now includes the not-yet-Olympic sport of slowly pushing a supermarket trolley.

“As soon as someone wanders out into the open wearing a fabric malapropos, then I have the right to complain about it.”

Of course I’ll acknowledge that many people own some form of what the Americans would call ‘sweats’, donned on lazy TV days, during periods of illness and other activities in which the wearer is restricted solely to their own home. What people want to do behind closed doors is up to them and certainly not my place to comment on.

But as soon as they wander out into the open wearing a fabric malapropos, then I have the right to complain about it. Shopping centres, cinemas and pubs are routinely filled with people giving the impression that they might break into a jog at any minute. The irony is that it’s so often larger individuals who are clad head to toe in athletic apparel, when in all probability their last bit of aerobic exercise was answering the door to the pizza delivery man.

Not only is it inappropriate, it’s unattractive and makes the wearer look plain ridiculous. Can you imagine slipping into some ski wear – salopettes and jacket, or maybe even an 80s one-piece – for a quiet drink with friends? How about some shooting wear for shopping? Cape and deerstalker for a wander down the high street?

Not keen? Why ever not? Well, I’d assume most people would feel a bit silly dressed in specialist clothing for an activity they’re clearly not doing. So why is the tracksuit any different? Only because it’s seductively easy to wear.

“Next time I spot someone in denim at a ceremonial occasion I won’t hesitate to suggest they get on with changing a light bulb or weeding a nearby border.”

It astounds me that the desire for personal comfort is so great that it justifies being seen out and about in something resembling an adult romper suit. Clothing has developed to become a lot more comfortable and a lot less restrictive in line with what people want for their everyday lives; starched shirts and corsets are now resigned to vintage clothing fans. With so much body-friendly apparel out there, I can’t fathom why people choose to dress as if suffering from all-over bedsores.

Then there’s the abandonment of formal attire. A little bit of me dies every time I go to a black tie event only to spot some idiot in a pair of jeans. Christmas parties at fancy locations, weddings and other formal parties are not the place to show off a total lack of understanding of clothing etiquette. Jeans, originally designed as heavy duty work clothes to be worn during manual labour, have no place at such occasions. Next time I spot someone in denim at a ceremonial occasion I won’t hesitate to suggest they get on with changing a light bulb or weeding a nearby border.

How a person chooses to dress makes a big statement about them to the outside world. Thankfully the old adage that it is ill bred to be overdressed is no longer true. There is now no excuse for being too lazy to spend the time and effort on dressing properly. Taking pride in your appearance demonstrates a certain level of self-respect and suggests an understanding of how the world works.

I despair of people who bitterly complain about not being taken seriously when they insist on wearing lurid logo-covered items which look as if they were designed exclusively for Kevin the Teenager. If you choose to dress like a child, don’t be surprised to be treated as such. Read more by Rosie.

Image (trainers) : FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Image (jeans) : Suat Eman / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Why is it so hard for people and shops to accept tall women?

SHELLY BERRY: There’s a widely held assumption in our society that women enjoy shopping. Apparently we love trawling the shops looking for a bargain or the perfect outfit for a special night out. I admit I do enjoy the odd trip to the shops when I don’t need anything in particular, but fancy treating myself to something shiny.

Then there are the days when I realise that my everyday black pumps are on their last legs, or I need some dainty sandals for a friend’s wedding. Ah yes, I hear you cry, the trauma of finding the perfect footwear to complement the perfect outfit. But that isn’t my complaint. My complaint is my whopping size 9 feet.

Those of you with the same predicament will understand. For those of you with average size 6s, let me explain: most shoe shops only go up to a size 8. Which means those of us who have been blessed with clown feet are decidedly limited on where we can turn to in our hour of need.

There is a handful of retailers who have cottoned on to the big-footed woman’s need to have pretty shoes. Next have saved me from granny-fied, over-priced shoe hell on more than one occasion. This week I acquired a pair of funky black sequinned ballet pumps and am hankering after some rather fetching strawberry-print wellies. I just need to justify buying them.

But this is not where my shopping misery ends. You see, not only do I have huge feet, but I am also 5’11’’. Which means I take an inside leg measurement of about 34’’. Oh, poor you, the petite among you may mock. But you forget it is a lot easier to take up a pair of jeans than it is to lengthen them.

Luckily when I was a teenager I discovered Long Tall Sally and at the age of 15 was able to buy a pair of women’s trousers that actually covered my ankles for the first time since I was about 11. 15 years later the number of stores with a “Tall” section has increased. There are now at least five I can think of, anyway (again Next gets top marks).

So when I do need a new pair of bootlegs, at least I only have a handful of shops I have to traipse around, and just keep my fingers crossed that one of them has a pair that fit me on the waist AND around the bum – a problem I think all women are familiar with.

So, I have big feet and long legs. And I have managed to find satisfactory solutions to these shopping challenges. But, alas, it doesn’t end there.

Last weekend Him Indoors very kindly offered to buy me some new underwear for Valentine’s Day. Although touched by the romantic gesture, my heart sank at the thought. Ungrateful cow? Not exactly. The thing is, not only do my feet and legs offer me dilemmas on the high street, but so do my boobs. I have a broad back, but little tits. Hopeful that the former had miraculously shrunk and the latter filled out since my last underwear shopping trip, I headed over to M&S to get measured, fella in tow.

“So, what are you wearing now?” the slightly harassed bra lady asked me.

“38A.”

With a sharp nod she whipped out her tape measure and got down to business. I held my breath.

“Well, 38 is spot on ... but an A might be a bit big for you.”

Whaaaaat? Are you trying to tell me my boobs have shrunk to near non-existent? This is the equivalent to telling a man that his willy has dropped off. And what is worse, finding a 38A bra is near impossible. A 38AA ... it ain’t gonna happen. You see, according to the lingerie industry, women with broad backs don’t have little boobs. I am officially a freak of nature.

I emerged from the changing room with a brave smile plastered across my face. Him Indoors looked at his watch. He was clearly regretting his romantic gesture. 10 minutes later I returned with every bra I could find in a 38A, praying that my bambino baps would fill at least one of them. Luckily, they did. Just about. No chicken fillets needed.

An hour and a half after arriving, we finally left the shop, Him Indoors officially shopped out, me officially with smaller tits.

So ladies, there you have it. Struggle to find a pair of jeans that make your arse look great? Unconvinced by the shoes in season at the moment? Can’t choose between a balcony and a push up? Trust me, it could be a hell of a lot worse. Read more by Shelly.

SELINA NWULU: OK so here’s the deal: I am tall. And while memories of childhood taunts are long gone, I’m often left wondering why people seem to have such a problem with it.

I am a tall lady and, shock horror, along with that I have a brain. You wouldn’t think that such a combination would be cause for concern. Maybe it could even be a cause for celebration, but sometimes I feel like I'm treated like some Frankenstein freak from the wild west.

Picture the scene: hundreds of small villagers running haphazardly, screaming: “Who’s that! She’s tall and has something to say! She’s broken the stereotypical mould! She’s not dainty and precious! She can open the jam jar by herself! Ruuunnn!”

I’m exaggerating, I know. But believe it or not, on some level this is true. I’ve managed to get over the same old tired wisecracks from the condescending family friend (“What’s the weather like up there, chief?”) and childhood nicknames such as Daddy Longer Legs (I lied – I’m not over it). But I do have a problem with the frank male friends who say things like “Selina, you’e OK, you are still a little under 6 foot so you’re not that bad ... just so long as you are not over 6 foot ... A woman over 6 foot? Ha! Now, that’s just weird!” I spoke to someone who actually shuddered at the idea. It seems to be this deep irrational fear that people, men in particular, seem to have.

Sure, equality seems all very good on well on the packet. “Men and women are equal but different” is the line. Man is strong and heroic while the woman is weak, dainty and mild. A Polly Pocket sized shape of loveliness. Suddenly here comes the modern age and that same woman can look you in the eyes because she is the same height as you and doesn’t need your protection and suddenly man gets all panicky and insecure. It’s really ridiculous!

And heaven forbid that I would want to wear heels. People look at me like I’m insane: why would someone like me want to bother with something like that? What’s the point, right? Never mind that those shoes go well with my outfit. I should spend my whole life glued to Croc pumps, it would seem.

I remember at school a woman actually suggested that being over 5’7” was unladylike. Is there some kind of underground network of ladylike, pearl-wearing dames who are handing out charts and posters full of this ridiculous and nonsensical information? Perhaps there is some kind of chart similar to the ape-to-man chart about human evolution – but instead of the ape there’s a picture of a tall woman (in my head I’m picturing someone like Vicky Pollard), rough and unkempt, and then the woman gets progressively smaller until we reach the other end of the scale where there is a pocket-sized, Joan Collins-esque woman?! It’s almost as though this silly woman was telling me that because I’d skipped the obligatory elocution classes that of course every young lady should have, being tall is some kind of punishment with which I now have to contend.

When I was living in Italy – maybe this is my fault for choosing to live in a country renowned for its short people – I was mid salsa class, watching the instructor teach everyone a new move. My dance partner, who wasn’t nice so he shall be named Short Arse, stopped the whole class and said “Excuse me, but how am I supposed to dance with her?” while looking me up and down with disdain. Well, I’m sorry, Short Arse, but if you had a bit of rhythm and a back bone it wouldn’t be a problem! Don’t blame my height!

The icing on the cake was at a night out, not so long ago. I was, stop the press, wearing heels, and I was getting my groove on and cutting a few shapes on the dance floor. A man came up to me – he wasn’t very nice either and so shall be named Short Arse Two – and said: “I was going to ask you to dance with me but as you are wearing heels, I won’t. How many people approach you in those heels?”

I think my stunned rage couldn’t quite believe the presumptuous gall of Short Arse Two, but I turned and said something along the lines of “keep walking, Shorty. I like being tall and, heels on or off, I wouldn’t dance with someone who looks like the third Chuckle Brother” and then I casually walked back to join some friends at the bar.

You see, that’s the thing: never underestimate the power of a tall girl’s strut, especially when she is wearing heels. Read more by Selina.

Fashion is a bitch

SELINA NWULU

I like fashion; I really do. I’m obliged to make this clear before I plunge into this rant and seem to completely contradict myself. But is it just me or do all clothes look the same these days?! I left the country for a year and have come back only to find millions of people looking like Adam Ant doused in glitter and spandex. All the high street shops seem to have turned into elitist havens designed for small-chested, small-hipped clones.

Take Topshop, with Ms Kate “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” Moss as their patron. Whenever I walk into the shop I almost feel as though sirens will go off and fashionable trilby-wearing daleks will come out, arms a-flailing, screaming: “OVER A SIZE 12! OVER A SIZE 12! DIRECT TO MATERNITY WEAR OR EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!” I mean, just look at the front window on Oxford Street. It’s actually ridiculous! Is the average Topshop buyer an extra member of The Darkness or are you really suggesting that I should wear a sequinned mini anorak to Tesco’s?

“It’s come to the point where we are being told exactly how to customise ... so now we’re all changing and ‘individualising’
our clothes in the same way. Marvellous.”

Now, before you start imagining me sitting here in a shapeless Bon Marché fleece and slacks, let me say again I do quite like fashion but all I am asking for is a bit of diversity. Just because the fashion elite, drunk on high quality champagne and (fat-free) caviar, click their fingers and say we should be following 80s trends, doesn’t mean we should all end up looking like Chaka Khan. I simply don’t want to be spoonfed clothes that make me look like a drunken 80s rock star.

We have all become one massive wishy-washy brand and, in this age where everyone supposedly strives for independent buying and individuality, we’ve never looked more similar. It’s come to the point where we are being told exactly how to customise ... so now we are all changing and ‘individualising’ our clothes in the same way. Marvellous.

I blame, in part, shows of the 10 years Younger/Extreme Makeover variety that chastise women who’ve dared to devote themselves to something other than the rise and fall of the shoulder pad. After these poor women have gone through the initial soul-destroying humiliation – something like standing naked in front of a magnifying mirror and counting their pores, etc etc – these ‘fashion rejects’, regardless of size, shape and personality, are then scraped, peeled, sucked and shoved into a pair of skinny jeans and the obligatory belt around the waist, and then somehow deemed ‘whole and acceptable’.

All these women want to hear is that they are enough the way they are. So, to see these fashion fiends standing on their Gucci soapboxes, pushing women down the fashionable factory line and prescribing Botox as the cure is incredibly irritating. And of course the average woman that goes on these shows presumably cannot afford to maintain the rat-poison-in-forehead and chemical peel lifestyle, so it’s only a matter of time before the shine begins to fade. Where will all the fashion gurus of the world be then? Already moved on to another victim with low esteem and shouting at her for using the wrong kind of conditioner, no doubt.

That’s why I do kind of (note my reluctance) like How to Look Good Naked, because at least Gok recognises that everyone should look the best they can but within their own means. And, although interspersed with outlandish bra fondling, the most important aspect of the whole thing is to show that we need to change our self-perception more than anything else.

Wow. I think I just praised Gok Wan. Does this officially make me a Gokette?! Disturbingly enough, I am not totally against this – minus the prancing down catwalks in underwear part. You do, however, have full permission to slap me if I start saying “You go girlfriend” without any irony. Read more by Selina.