Yesterday I got sick, puked all night long and stayed in bed feeling awful today.
As I languished, feeling sorry for myself and hoping my phone would ping with sympathy, I heard a light scramble at the front door. I felt too hideous to see what the kerfuffle was so I pulled the duvet over my head and groaned to myself, debasing online shopping deliveries for never being convenient. (I know, it’s the very reason they’re supposed to exist – Convenience! Argh!)
I fell asleep and a bit later, when I needed fresh oxygen, I ventured to the front door to see if there were any signs of a little red ‘Oooops we missed you’ delivery card. There was nothing there but a handwritten note from a friend saying she hoped *the following* cheered me up and that it was what her mum used to do for her in a time of crisis. Aahhh.
On the other side of the door was a pink paper bag swinging on the brass knob with a large bottle of Lucozade and the Spring edition of Vogue!
I felt momentarily like a 10 year old and thought of my mum, then settled back into my lair with my cosiest dressing gown, a glass of sticky orange glucose and at least an hour of top quality escapism. What good friends I have!
I hadn’t had time to read a magazine in the longest of times and it was hard at first to adjust to the hardcore indulgence of it all but, nevertheless, I persisted. I didn’t even mind the first hundred pages of advertisements because I hadn’t funded them. I looked at every detail of how they were cleverly put together and appreciated the art of rhetoric anew.
During my luxurious half hour some things I noticed were:
Alexa Chung has still got it. Wide leg jeans are back in, which is great because I still have some from last time they were ‘in’ (maybe they don’t mean that kind). Brightly coloured mascara will be making an appearance in my makeup bag this season. Twiggy still gets her picture in Vogue.
I also noticed that the experience of reading a magazine, not just any magazine, the cream of fashion of course, was an entirely pleasant thing. I didn’t feel terribly jealous of the models’ lack of ‘problem areas’ (I must finally be secure now I’m in my mid-thirties), I didn’t order a credit card just so I could get ‘that coat’ and I have a picture of the hair I want when I go to the salon on Thursday. Bonus!
Having recently watched that documentary about Alexandra Shulman, I thought about her genius, and then felt proud of women everywhere before I slid back down into my pillow in a self-medicated, slumpish, slumber.
Back to work tomorrow – thanks to the wonders of Vogue and glucose and really, really kind friends.
Sx
