Strops and Stilettos

It began with a concept, or actually the concept of coming up with a concept: the concept of the blog. I am rather excited about having the blog, but apparently it needs a concept and some sort of direction. Mostly my concept revolves around ME. Here are some things about me: one day I might go to a Michelin star restaurant for dinner, the next I might have to make myself baked beans on toast because, Lord, I spent every last penny on my scrumptious new amazing Marc Jacobs boots. I make it a rule to never pay for dinner out. Here are some bonuses about working on a fashion magazine: you can make rules about not having to pay for dinner out, everyone notices your new amazing Marc boots and tells you how clever you are for getting them. Some days I have to go lounge around a hotel suite waiting to speak to a mega-star celebrity. Some days it is all go go go, and running in and out of meetings, and I am ramming down that phone trying to pin down some dastardly music publicist or something, and then I am out the door getting to a party for a glass of champagne to calm me down. Other days I have to keep all my fellow fashion magazine workers amused by saying hilarious things and calling in some cupcakes. Then I might have to go and see what nice shoes we have in the cupboard or maybe get a new lipstick from the beauty department, and then I might go back to my desk and try out my new lipstick. And then when I am fully made up I might write something entertaining to go into the magazine. I find that mostly I can’t write a thing without some lipstick on.

Generally I like to have something to be vexed about. I am currently perturbed by the onset of gentrification in the Shoreditch area. This came from my research of a new and exciting place which has opened. It is called The Boundary, it is by Terence Conran and it is mostly tremendous. It has a proper restaurant and a café and a bar and soon there will be a roof terrace. For the local resident such as myself it is an exciting prospect. I went there for brunch on Saturday, although by the time we had crawled out of our beds someone strict might have pointed out it was almost past lunch. It is very jolly in a reassuring Conran-esque way. It is all very austerity-chic, there are tin jugs with ‘cold water’ written on the side, and you get your coffee in a proper red tin coffee pot and you can order things like kedgeree and crackling with apple sauce. It is resolutely British, and pared down: I might like to weather out the recession here indefinitely. So I was sat feeling very smug and pleased with myself and greatly enjoying my fish-pie when I looked up and realised something. Everybody else in there was a grown-up. There were even children sat at the table next to us. Actual children, in Shoreditch. Who knows where they might have come from. It then occurred to me that I had not seen a ridiculous hair cut all day. Or even a pair of very tight skinny jeans. I had to put down my knife and fork and steady myself – it was all starting to look very Chelsea. Very yummy. I was instantly aghast. On the stroll home I noticed an upholsterers and a new French furniture shop on the high street. I shuddered as someone walked past me wearing a pair of Ugg boots. At this rate I am going to have to go up that junction and move to Dalston.