It's so unbelievably tricky to track dresses down. I've just had to break the news to a lovely-sounding Glaswegian that the dress she was enquiring about wouldn't actually be arriving in America until late August, more than a month after the function she wanted to wear it to. Very sad. So, upon feeling very sorry for her, I've taken upon myself to track down similar dresses and email a list of my findings to her tomorrow. Wish me luck.
The day's going by very quietly, mostly because it's a beautiful day and no-one in their right minds would come and try on dresses. On a plus, the time is passing thoroughly quickly, because I've been on the phone to all kinds of people, discussing padded cups in dresses, how to spot-clean an evening gown and seeing if there is any chance of locating a last-season style. There's no chance of that, in case you were wondering. It was *so* last April of me to ask.
So I'm eating Skips and watching the mum-mobiles zoom past the window, circling the block looking for a parking space big enough to house their monster of a car. What's wrong with a Vauxhall Zafira, anyway?
Ah, the lunchtime swarm of school children. How lovely. There's nothing quite like seeing the innocence and naivety of our future leaders. Unfortunately, I'm still waiting to see these future leaders, because the only people that I see at lunchtime are what I like to politely call "yobs." Mostly the deliquent youth types; the kind that would happily drop-kick you in the face if it meant that they'd be able to steal your mobile, and then would probably video you with it afterwards. I cannot imagine what the country is going to be like in ten or twenty years, and I'm not even in my twenties yet, for goodness' sake! I'm talking about youth, from a youthful perspective. I grew up in fear and awe of elders. Being a first year at Secondary School actually meant something, and of course the sixth-years were the bees knees. Heads would turn when they walked through the hallway, and a hush would fall. Not anymore. I'm pretty sure I was called a "knob" by a young first year when I was a sixth-year.
There's just no respect. Of course, being the young rebellious type (cough cough), I understand slightly. Who is left to respect anymore? Bush is a joke, Blair was a disaster and Brown is even worse! All the world thinks about is themselves. I'm actually reaching the point where I'm glad I wasn't born a) male or b) in London, because statistically, I'd have been knifed or shot a long time ago.
Two strapping young men from my class at school just strutted past the window in their Sunday best. I wonder where they've taken upon themselves to work over the summer. Perhaps a lawyers office, or an estate agency. Maybe they're just out for a stroll and decided to neaten up. They look awfully old. They'll be carrying initial-stamped briefcases and canes tomorrow. How nonchalantly kitsch. Love it.
I had an argument last night with my significant other about doilies. We'd been watching "Location, Location, Location" (brilliant show) and were shocked that they could actually buy a 3-bedroom house for less than £100,000. No house like that would go for less than £175,000 around here. So, we were spurred to have a gander and see what we could actually find for under £100,000 in our area. Apart from the normal council houses and dingy flats, there was one house that I fell into its spell. I'm actually still in love with it. I'll see if I can upload the photo that did it for me, and the reason that we started arguing about doilies...
So the picture depicts my ideal living room. Old-fashioned, incredible stone-cladding and a vintage fireplace. I am in love with this property, but sadly, I can't afford it. I wish I could go out on a whim and try and buy the place, but I think they'd just laugh. Maybe I could convince my parents that property is the best place for our money right now. Anyway, so I told him that I loved the living room, he laughed and told me that if we ever got a house together, there was no way I'd get a room like that. And then I said I liked doilies, and it went downhill from there.
I still maintain that doilies are cool and acceptable additions to a kitsch house. Sigh.
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