Week in, week out, writing inspiration evades me. I gleefully digest article upon article, op-ed upon op-ed, listicle upon listicle, lapping them up like Augustus Gloop at the chocolate river (hashtag goals), before kicking myself real hard in the shin for not having the brain power to think the damn piece up first. What a simple idea! What great insight! What exquisite prose! What witty wordplay! What the fuck am I doing wrong!
Answer: reading articles 24/7 and not, y'know, LIVING.
So. In lieu of any actual, usable life experience - the likes of which could provide me, and therefore you, with anecdotal giggles and maybe a lesson or two - I appear to have racked up a whole lot of nothing. Except for, that is, clothing orders. Yup. If life experience were measured in Zara parcels, I'm, like, Maggie Smith? (Sure. Why not.) With that in mind, and a smorgasbord of box-fresh goodies on my back, I decided that the only gift I could give you this week would be * drum roll plz * me! Just me! In the aforementioned accoutrements! Posing! Smiling! Content! (Albeit potentially grappling internally with the realisation that my life isn't mounting to much. No biggie.) Without further ado, allow me to introduce you to ...me! Complete with enlightening captions.
Big is beautiful.
Call me Sully. Call me Big Bird. Call me crazy. Call me what you like, but this technicolour dream-coat stopped a man in his tracks. Bemused and bewildered, he kindly requested that I stand beside a nearby skeletal iron bullock (it's a word, despite my initial insistence to the contrary) and allow him to take a photo. I obliged. He asked me to point towards the bullocks tail. I obliged, gesturing to it with all the enthusiasm of Bruce Forsyth revealing an ace in Play Your Cards Right. He told me that he'd email the photos to me "if they turned out good". (Sorta rude, but OK.) That man now has several questionable photos of me at the bollock end of a bullock, as well as my personal email address. I expect to be blackmailed any day now.
Think pink. Or don't. Whatever.
What's pink, cold and hairy all over? ME IN THIS CANDYFLOSS CREATION! Pink because clothes. Cold because lack of the former. Hairy because legs. Oh and scarf, I guess.
Windswept and sort of interesting.
You can chalk this one up to Storm Doris. Thanks, D!
Photos via my 'gram, babycakes. (cough follow me cough)