Elizabeth Taylor is my Grandma

LOVE IS NOT SO BLIND

2009-02-19T09:20:00.000-08:00

My flatmate (the Actress) casually confessed to me over dinner that she had been illegally stalking a client whilst killing time working for a recruitment firm. I not-so-casually reminded her that such activities could see her red-faced and slapped with an injunction.

It transpired that a chance glance at his CV led her to believe he was The One. Snowboarder, check. Globetrotter, check. Jobless, check. The Actress saw a free-spirit, I saw a commitment-phobe terminally incapable of holding down a job. This did not bode well.

After much outrageous telephonic flirting, the pair arranged to meet for a drink, which as you can only imagine, opened up a whole can of worms. Where to go? Somewhere local, vibrant enough to hide any awkward silences but not wall-to-wall with pretentious fashion wankers that would inevitably have him paying more attention to Legs Eleven in her oil-slick get-up a table away. Easier said than done in Hackney. Conversation? Nightmare ex-boyfriends and any annoying but strangely satisfying habits are strictly off limits. Criminal records are also best kept under wraps at this point. I was especially strict with the Actress on this subject as her favourite topic involves happily reeling off all of the different places where she has been violently sick from booze. And there are many. Once I had managed to convince her that this was not actually as funny out loud as it was in her head, we decided to tackle the elephant in the room. Apparel. I poured us a brandy each and we got down to business.

My style suggestions of a sixties ingenue, part Francis Kray pre-suicide attempts/ part Jane Asher in her Paul McCartney heyday, were scoffed at with a mixture of bemusement and pity. The Actress finally met me somewhere in the middle with some Mod knitwear and a pair of solidly made brogues. As she skipped off into the night like a modern-day-Cinders-on-the-sauce, I got to thinking about acceptable first-date attire.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that dates – particularly those of the blind variety – are a sartorial minefield. Meeting a potential love interest in an intimate setting for the first time can throw even the best of girls ever so slightly off kilter, but gal has got to stay true to her fashion credentials. If day-glo headbands and wasp-waisted trophy jackets are your thing then there is no point living a lie for a couple of hours in pastel twinsets and nana-denier tights for the sake of pleasing a stranger. Months down the line he’ll have fallen in love with a Vera Lynn type and all the while you were secretly Debbie Harry, damnit. That said, a little goes a long way and I find piecemeal wardrobe introductions work like a charm. I refer to this as the Big Tease-y.

Big Tease-y rule no 1:
Fashion followers as a whole tend to divide into two camps: those who under-dress and those who over-dress. I always find myself veering towards the latter. But just because I wouldn’t give a second thought to Sunday supermarket sprees in mink and a matching tiara does not make it first date fashion fodder. Head for the middle ground in an outfit that is one notch up from your everyday skip-to-the shops attire. I, for one, look to Mia Farrow circa Rosemary’s Baby for failsafe first-date dressing. Thigh-grazingly short babydolls with a super-sweet floral pattern and peter-pan collar to keep me just the right side of slutty.

Big Tease-y rule no. 2:
Fingers crossed you make it past the polite hour mark without having to suppress an urge to flee the scene and throw yourself into the path of the nearest moving car. If you have decided your date is not of the weirdo variety, then you may well wish to up sticks to another venue together (I am not talking about his house). A pub, a club, a late-night lock-in at your local Tesco – we live in exciting times and your choice of footwear has got to prepare you for every eventuality. Personally, trainers bring me out in hives but if heels repulse you then show willing in some no-nonsense loafers or bejewelled flats. Mid-heeled Mary-Janes will always stand you in good stead.

Big Tease-y rule no 3:
Hair and make-up can make or break a budding romance and many-a-girl has overdone it in the slap-stakes. This is not a Miss World pageant so leave the body glitter where you found it, but for heaven’s sake meet beauty half way and remember to run a comb through your hair. If you’re a vintage vixen who worships the ground Bettie Page sauntered on then by all means embrace a victory roll or two with gusto. Best to leave the fetish footwear for the second or third date though, or I doubt there’ll be one.

When in doubt, I find that comparing yourself to your favourite tipple helps tremendously. As a gin and tonic lady, I’ve come to realise that first dates generally require pacing myself with one part gin, two parts tonic. In fashion stakes, that translates as a watered down wardrobe. Yes to leopard print coat – no to Myra Hindley hair. It’s all in the measurements. Second date, we’re talking doubles. If you’ve made it to the third, you can hit him with the hard stuff.

But what became of Hot CV Boy? Half an hour after her leaving the house I received a phone call from the Actress. Something was wrong.
The conversation was short, flat and to the point: “I’m on my way home now. He’s wearing blue tinted glasses.”

JUST BROWSING

2009-02-05T06:40:00.001-08:00

I have a confession.
I've developed a rather unhealthy relationship with my eyebrow pencil.
I don’t really know how it happened but things seem to have gotten out of hand and the truth of the matter is, I just can’t get enough of my Boots No 7 precision brow pencil in Blonde.
At first my brows loved me for it. They really perked up and couldn’t quite believe I’d noticed them, let alone lavished an ever-increasing amount of quality time on them in the mornings. But now things are turning nasty. My brows don’t talk – they shout. Abuse. At innocent passers-by mostly. They grew in confidence winking at handsome bar-folk but now they hurl obscenities like a tanked-up good-time-girl who doesn’t know when it’s time to go home. And the worst of it is, I can’t even remember the last time my brows and my tweezers had a conversation. Dietrich must be turning in her grave.
I’m considering a trial separation – hell, a Witness Protection programme if I have to.
All I can say is: Carine Roitfeld, I hope you’re happy now.

WHY WORKING FROM HOME GETS YOU NOWHERE

2008-12-03T13:38:00.000-08:00

8:30 hrs: I surprise myself with a relatively early rise and one swift shower and cuppa later, I take to the mirror to put my face on – a girl can’t motivate herself if she’s looking her worst.

9:00 hrs: No sound from flatmate’s room – suspecting a pulmonary embolism, I furiously powder my nose. I’ll check on him after Jeremy Kyle.

10:45 hrs: Phil and Fern’s riveting line-up of Strictly contestants and a cameo from Maureen Lipman mean I’ve all but forgotten my comatose flatmate….how long will it take for the paramedics to arrive – and do I have time to apply more eyeliner?

10:48 hrs: Panic over, simple case of uncharacteristic oversleeping and I’m guilt-ridden for having looked forward to that ambulance ride, playing Bette Davis to his Joan Crawford. The stress drives me to cigarettes – a sly menthol on the balcony and then it’s time for work.

11:02 hrs: Delay tactics in the form of ‘urgent’ hand-washing find me in the kitchen. Hands in sink, I daydream I am Carol White in Cathy Come Home.

11:15 hrs: Wrinkled fingers, I’ve been cursing my imaginary husband for leaving me housebound to look after our two unruly children while he pretends to find a job. As thoughts turn to imaginary divorce, I decide some fresh air will do me good. I’ll take some old clothes to the Cancer Research and come back invigorated for work.

12:00 hrs: Three quarters of an hour rummage later and I’ve been duped by a wily octogenarian into buying an incomplete jigsaw puzzle and a tin of talcum powder. One swift detour via Woolies to purchase Mama Mia DVD (Xmas gift) and come hometime I’ve narrowly avoided a pile-up at the pic-n-mix – I’ll have to have a 10 minute sit-down to steady my nerves.

12:30 hrs: I take my borderline-racist elderly neighbour up on her offer of a sweet sherry and we eat our way through the best part of a quality street tin. We discuss the merits of the Loose Women. One by one.

12:56 hrs: I admire said neighbour’s latest crochet efforts - a Gloria Hunniford doll for the church fair tomobola - in between tales of her marriage to a con man and listing the reasons as to why exactly she suspects her cleaner is stealing tinned rhubarb from her kitchen larder.

12:30 hrs: We conclude that the cleaner is clearly an untrustworthy sort with a rather nasty rhubarb habit and I bid my farewell to the strains of the Christian radio - after buying seven raffle tickets for the Church fair tombola.

13:00 hrs: The post is here – albeit late – but the good news is my Neil Sedaka’s album has arrived!! One song and it’s back to the grindstone.

13:15 hrs: I’ll do a playlist now for my birthday (in January) it won’t take 5 minutes.

14:00 hrs: Lunchtime and I’ve notions of Nigella, convinced women can be both domestic goddesses and high-flying career gals. A roast will prove this.

15:00 hrs: I have burnt all but two of the parsnips and decide that a M&S chicken korma is a much safer bet – clean up operation commences before either flatmate comes home and asks me what I’ve been doing.

15:30 hrs: I spend the entire hour of countdown trying to work out Carol Vorderman’s real age before getting the conundrum wrong and feeling worthless.

16:30 hrs: Deal or no deal, and the sight of a be-whiskered Noel Edmonds pushes me further towards slitting my wrists. I don my housecoat in disgust and settle down to Doris Day circa Midnight Lace with a cup of tea and a packet of digestives.

19:03 hrs: Flatmates home – we discuss the highs and lows of our workload over a small lasagne and a large bottle of wine. I lie. Slightly.

21:15 hrs: Channel 4 and The Queen’s Coronation: Behind Palace Doors is unmissable TV. I pay homage to my fave royal (Princess Maggie) and accessorise with a cigarette holder and marble ashtray. This is research dahling, I tell myself.

22:15 hrs: One hot toddy chaser and I’m repeating Scarlet O’Hara’s mantra tenfold. Nothing like a good night’s sleep to stay focussed.