Friday, November 25, 2011

The dice were loaded from the start.

It's cool and rainy today, as has been the case all week long, and so I'm realising afresh how deeply inculcated I am by lifestyle magazines and catalogues. Because what's my default setting when I see grey skies? It goes a little something like this:
1. I instantly reach for my definition of "comfort wear"- a trusty triad of worn-out jeans, a woolly jumper and a woollen accessory. Being a particular brand of fashion dork, the woollen accessory changes depending on, you know, my emotions and stuff. So what may one day be a boiled woof scarf the colour of jersey caramels might another day be a coalblack cashmere beanie- I'm spontaneous like that. The key ingredient here is WOOL. The softer and more figure obscuring the better. I ultimately want to feel like I'm being digested by a giant angora rabbit. That's the goal.
2. I regress to childhood, the duration of which I perpetually lingered around the kitchen in the hopes that Mum would churn out some of her amazing cooking, be it banana bread (hold me), simplicity chocolate cake (iced, with glacé cherries on top, obviously the only way to finish a chocolate cake) or a bottomless pot of soup, cold days were when my brother and I hit paydirt vis a vis freshly cooked deliciousness, courtesy of Mum. Unfortunately, such deliciousness now has to churn out of my kitchen by my own hand yet also unfortunately, cold days are lazy days, are they not? Days designed to make pots of tea and not drink them cause what you really want is a skim flat white but you're too lazy to go out in the rain and get one (when I say "you" I may, in fact, be talking about myself again.) Days measured by how many pages you've read in bed. And days where...
3. Throw rugs start to look like a good idea. I have a love/hate relationship with throw rugs. Sure, they look so casual-chic draped on your sofa but really, when you drag them up, they always disappoint. They do. They're too brief to cover you properly; in fact, the rule for all blankets should run along the same guidelines those for Victorian swimming costumes: nothing should be visible from from neck to ankle. Considering this, you might as well drag a normal blanket off your bed and mummify yourself in it. This, coupled with dot point 1. leaves you resembling a cross between the Michelin Man and a Mongolian on the Steppes in midwinter. This is a good thing.
4. Finally, I find myself becoming cheery, chirpy and homemakery. I want to nest in cold weather. I want to whitewash my grubby furniture and make stacks of books to rest my undrunk pots of tea on, organised by colour of spine, naturally. 

And so I pause like a deer in headlights, surrounded by scattered Penguin Classics, movement restricted by the fibres tripling the girth of my limbs, I realise what I am really trying to do...

 make my day look a little something like this.

The big question weighing on my mind, though, is how can plant holders possibly get more exciting?

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