Waging War on the Commuting Couples....

If you are privileged enough to not need to wade through hoards of plebs as part of your expedition from warm bed to cold hard desk each weekday morning then you can probably stop reading now. I have a small rant to let loose which I'm sure many fellow commuters will relate to if, like me, they've been wound up to screaming point by the  tribulations involved in getting from A to Office whilst trying to retain some sanity, a small degree of composure and (oh please God) without breaking a sweat.

My major issue here lies in a particular sub-section of Londoners who make me feel like I would rather not 'Mind The Gap' but instead use it as a disposal unit for these most annoying of people clogging up the transport system: yes, I'm looking at you COMMUTING COUPLES.

Don't even think about it you two....

Let me just start by saying what I have been dying to let out for almost half a year now: "Fuck you, commuting couples. Go home." You have tarnished countless mornings with your sleepy, weepy dough eyed fixations on each other. I've tried to ignore you. I've looked away, read the newspaper, dug my nails into my palms in an attempt to distract myself from the fury you induce. But whatever I try, as soon as raise my head there you are, clinging onto each other with fear as 8.24am looms with the intention of tearing you away from one another for eight, whole, heart aching hours. The sad longing in your faces is too much to tolerate: as if the working day was just a cruel idea conjured up by dark, empty souls who wanted to see early morning lovers torn apart.

If it looks this good (and the train is this empty) then it's ok....

Don't get me wrong: I'm all for the love. I'm the first to fling my arms around my closest of friends as we unite for post-work drinks, and with lucky boyfriends of the past I have had no reservations about sneaking in a little public weekend smooch should the moment take us (following the obvious rules of no tongues, no inappropriate groping and ABSOLUTELY no noises. Bleugh.) My main issue here is that to enjoy any form of physical contact on the tube is simply perverted. In an environment where there is a strong likelihood of having your cheek pressed up against a stranger's armpit whilst the guy behind you 'unintentionally' gets his hand wedged up against your derriere, to flaunt your pleasure at being squashed up against your commuting comrade is just sick. Think of the productivity you could achieve if you perhaps left the house 3 minutes before your partner? You could actually read something en route to work or you could use your un-held hand to text one of the many friends who you inevitably neglect or even just indulge in some independent thoughts perhaps?

Look at how shocked Boris was when I told him about the issue. Poor Boris.

 I'm not just idly ranting here, I actually have a well devised solution of this pandemic: TFL simply need to introduce a 9am watershed on romantic interaction. Perfect. They ban petting in public swimming pools so why not ban necking on the Northern Line? It makes perfect sense - anything that could help London's worker bees to be a little less tense has got to be worthwhile. I bet Boris would love it.

 So, Commuting Couples, snap out of it and stop tripping me up with your combined width when I'm racing though Victoria or the petition will be set into motion. If I'm expected to keep my porridge down in public then I expect you to keep you tongues to yourselves.

 You have been warned.

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Finally!! Sheer - without revealing your ta-tas. Cheers Topshop.

So I'm a big fan of the sheer blouse. To such an extent that when I showed a potential top half purchase to a friend recently they actually cocked their head to one side and came back with: "Yeeeah... but it's not very you... I mean, it's not even remotely see-through."

Something I do have a little trouble with however, is how to do sheer in the daytime. Or the work place. Generally anywhere you would not usually reveal your undies. Or nips, should the climate be approapriate or the flowing of G&T's be guarenteed.This little quandry was instantly remedied when I stumbled upon this little Toppers number, for a snip at £36. Strategically placed chiffon pleating.. thank you, you clever ladies and gents at Topshop, BRAVO.

I WANT TO GET ME ONE OF THEM

Apologies for how frequently I am about to mention vomit.....

I've been cursed with the seasonal lurgy. It caught up with me sometime last week between Euston and Camden on the Northern line. A hot flush and a dizzy spell in your twenties can only mean one thing - it's that time of year again when that bastard mid-week hangover meets the Decemeber chill and the two tussle over your immune system until you almost pass out and face plant the scuzzy tube seat next to you. Or vomit into the fake Louis Vuitton belonging to the woman squashed up against you. That's pretty standard though, those things are fugly and I fully intend to make it my mission to destroy each and every one of them in this city with my seasonal chunder.

Sorry, enough vom talk....

Anyhoo, so I'm ill and finding myself confined to my flat with only a pile of magazines and the www for company. For me this means the joy of an absolute blogathon: something which is usually confined to my eat-and-you'd-miss-it lunch break, I've been scrolling through hours of outfit posts, 'inspirational imagery', belated catwalk reports and in-store tip offs. Lovely stuff. But last night as I clicked the laptop screen shut before shuffling off to bed I didn't feel such gratification from my blog viewing binge. I was actually just pretty pissed off....

Personally, I adore fashion because it's fun. Yep, I know it is the architecture of society, it's one of the most significant ways of conveying the mood of a culture and it encapsulates the aesthetic of generations, but seriously guys, when did it loose its sense of humour? Fashion taken too seriously is just painful - it bites at your ankles and chases you around the room trying to strangle you with a pair of black leather-look leggings. Minimalism is beautiful and exudes control and elegance but if I have to see another photo of a sullen faced (yet beautiful) top-knotted girl in a beige buttoned up shirt I'm going to hurl (AGAIN. And this time all over a beige buttoned up shirt, which I'll take a photo of and post on my blog. HAH.)

Also, I totally get it that a large slice of the allure of the high-fashion world is that it excludes rather than includes: nothing would seem aspirational if it was smiling and dancing and asking for hugs in every other photo. And I suppose those who do embrace fashion in the whimsical, frivolous way get sideways looks on the street because people assume that you are a freaky colour clashing crazeee. But blogging is magical because it gives anyone who has an opinion a voice - even if it only gets heard by one person, at least its out there - so why not use it to make the steely stick thin fashion world a little bit more real and a little cosier? I'm probably getting pissy over a small minority of whats out there. Maybe I just stumbled across the wrong pages. Maybe I'm just too zoned out on pain killers and I've been removed from social interaction for far too long and I'm being a massive grouch..... PERFECT - I'm off to take a photo of myself looking moody, wearing something minimal and sucking in my cheeks. YESS I'M SO IN.