Pippa's tan scares children

My feet are currently an odd shade of orangey brown, my legs are streaky and I smell like a tin of stale Digestives. That adds up to one thing: I’ve been fake tanning again. Badly. I’m an occasion tanner; most of the time I don’t bother, or when forced to bare my legs, I might slap on some Rimmel instant tan and pray for no inclement weather. Occasionally something will come up that requires less of a slap-dash approach, like the wedding I’m going to this weekend. My dress is far too bright to go au-natural without me being dubbed ‘the pasty one’ in the photos. Also, I’m ashamed to admit, I don’t want to be the odd one out; these days faking it is so ubiquitous, a tan is an accessory in its own right (I blame The Only Way Is Essex). I might be on the ‘tanwagon’ this weekend but the process makes me very nervous – here’s why:

1. It’s so easy to get wrong - There’s a very fine line between ‘healthy glow’ and David Dickinson orange. The cruel fact is, most people will only notice the bad tans. And even if you get the hue right, there’s streakyness, pooling and patching to contend with. Also from the comfort of your own home, it’s hard to judge what will work; the plethora of pics of golden-limbed celebs don’t help. What looks good on Victoria Beckham in Hollywood, probably is going to be a tad OTT for, say, the grey streets of Camden. Take the media darling du jour, Pippa Middleton – yes her frock looked nice at the Royal Wedding, but her skin was terracotta. Next to her lesser-tanned sister she looked radioactive. Luckily for Pippa, she has the looks – and the bum – to style it out. I fear a normal-assed girl, without a Prince for a brother-in-law, might not be so lucky.

2. It’s a messy business - Fake tanning is such a faff. There’s all the exfoliating and moisturising and rubbing in, just to get the tan. Then inevitably, you’ll end up with stained hands, sheets and whatever else you’ve rubbed up against – one of my mates says he gets genuinely worried that girls’ tan is going to transfer onto him in bed. Even if you pay someone to do it for you, tanning can be just as traumatic. A couple of months ago, for another wedding, I forked out for a professional spray tan. Due to a scheduling clash, the salon decided they would have to do my tan in the bathroom. I stood naked and cold next to the cistern while the girl sprayed me at close range with what looked like a fertilizer can. “It’s broken so it might drip a bit, but I’ll do my best not to get you,” she announced merrily as dark brown, concentrated tan dripped on to my feet. I then had to stand there, still naked, drying while a lady desperate for the loo tried to force her way in. Once I’d paid them 30 quid for this uncomfortable half-hour, I had to navigate the bus orange-footed and braless (to avoid lines) and then spent 12 hours panicking that I was going to end up the colour of a garden fence. I didn’t, as it happened, but one of the other bridesmaids who had been spray tanned did – the Ronseal jibes still haven’t worn off.

3. It creates unrealistic expectations - In preparation to write this, I did a very unscientific straw poll among my friends to find out how they felt about fake tanning. The girls all said that they felt they looked healthier and slimmer with a tan and faked it in the absence of sun. And the boys, without exception, said girls look better with ‘a natural tan’. Orange tans were derided as ‘embarrassing’, ‘Essexy’ and ‘look like they’ve just escaped from Willy Wonka’. So sunkissed and natural wins the day. Great. Herein lies my problem – I don’t tan in the presence of the actual sun. The skin that catches the sun goes red and peels and my legs aren’t worth exposing to the rays; even two weeks in 40 degree heat in Greece has failed to budge my pins from alabaster in the past. If I’m very lucky, my face and shoulders might go slightly fawn-coloured, but that’s about it. Therefore, for my legs to have a ‘natural tan’ is an entirely false construct. I’m not sure that’s something I want to buy into for, well, every summer for the rest of my life.

Basically on the tanning front, I am damned if I do (to a lifetime on Oompa Loompa watch) and damned if I don’t (to forever being ‘the pasty one’). If I was pale and English-rosey (and a supermodel) like Lily Cole, the latter might work and if I spent more time tanning, the streaky, orange situation might improve, but I’m not sure there are enough hours in the day for that.

Maybe, after this weekend, I’ll just ditch the tan and stock up on slinky, bum-skimming frocks. If it worked for P-Middy….

Bunting: a RW fanatic's best friend

Come Friday, at 11am, I won’t be watching the royal wedding. Instead, I’ll be on a train down to Cornwall to take advantage of the bank holiday. This isn’t because I’m taking a stand against Wills’ and Kate’s Catherine’s ‘magical union’, it’s because I didn’t care quite enough to get an earlier train. On the Big Day, I’m firmly in the silent majority: Camp Mildly Interested.

I’ll admit, I’m a bit annoyed to be missing the big moment; enough to take Royal Wedding Top Trumps for the journey (my flatmate’s ‘ironic’ purchase), there’s talk of donning (equally ironic) William and Kate masks and we might have a celebratory plastic cup of fizz to get in the spirit of the day – I’m all for an excuse to get pissed before lunch. And I’ll be watching a rerun of the service, yes to see ‘that dress’; to monitor Wills’ ever-growing bald patch (will he have slapped on the Regaine?); to see if Pippa Middleton’s toned down the Ronseal tan; to check if Dave’s in his morning suit after all and for a perv on Harry. But  I won’t shed a tear. I shall probably, involuntarily crack a smile and get the same sort of brief, warm fuzzy feeling I do when I watch any couple I don’t know get married (it happened last night during a particularly poignant service on Four Weddings).

I’m interested mostly in the comedy value of the day. To an extent. I’ve noticed that half-arsed position is not fashionable. It seems one should either denounce the whole thing, noisily, or, approach the wedding with the excitement and eye-for-detail usually reserved for your own wedding. India Knight, a RW fan, summed up the divisive nature of the day, first tweeting about putting up ‘external bunting’ – who knew there was internal bunting? –  then adding “it’s also probably time to unfollow me if you plan to spend Friday lying in a darkened room with a cold compress.” The dark room option would be my dad’s favoured approach. Over the Easter weekend, Mum and I dared to switch on Britain’s Royal Weddings. It was a BBC documentary that mostly involved  Sophie Raworth in a beguiling pink cashmere number interviewing some characters with increasingly tenuous connections to royal weddings over the years; from the woman who did Fergie’s cake to Charles’ stable hands on getting their inside legs measured for their suits, no stone was left unturned. But before Sophie had even uttered her first word, Dad stormed out saying he didn’t want to hear another word about the “bleeding wedding”.  Twitter is awash with royal naysayers declaring things like “I’d rather drink a cup of cold sick then have to look at Kate Middleton for more than a nanosecond.” The Anti Royal Wedding Celebrations group on Facebook has 3304 members and counting,  and for those keeping an eye on the ‘merch’ you can pick up some charming t-shirts.

Then there are those like Knight who are hanging up the bunting, hosting a street party, heading  to Camp Royale or lining the procession route – hell there are some keenos already in place for Friday as I type. There are people snapping up the likes of the Sylvanian family Royal Wedding Celebration Set NON IRONICALLY who have lost actual sleep over who’ll be designing the dress. Both the anti-RWs and the RW fanatics will enjoy Friday in their own special way, either in the midst of it all or as far away as possible (the famously anti-royal Independent have have helpfully suggested spending the day supporting Save the Frogs Day or err, watching X Factor runner-up Olly Murs). Both approaches seem like a right royal effort to me.

So, to sum up my feelings on Friday’s goings on, I’ll use the royal merchandise to illustrate my point: I wouldn’t waste money on a £35 commemorative tankard, but I’d drop £3 on a Royal Wedding sick bag or some ‘Crown Jewels’ condoms, for posterity you understand. Whatever I do, I won’t be shouting about it.

Monica's apartment: set my standards a little too high

Those Friends have got a lot to answer for, haven’t they? Not least for giving us girls of a certain age (25) unrealistic expectations about where we’d be living in our mid twenties. Monica, Rachel and Phoebe were sold to us as normal gals, just like we’d be when we were older. I imagined that by my quarter-century, I too would have got miraculously thinner each year, had my hairstyle copied by millions and would be holed-up in a funky purple-walled apartment – comprising of two spacious doubles, large bathroom, open-plan sitting room and big balcony perfect for perving on the neighbours, no less – with my best friends across the corridor and a lovely coffee shop downstairs. All in the best part of town, obviously. And money wouldn’t be a problem, right? I know Monica inherited her gaff from her Grandma but Joey never did any work and he still could afford to live in the building. And Rachel was a waitress, for God’s sake.

How cruel it was to discover that life does not imitate art (or US sitcoms). In London life is expensive; the chances are, if you live in a nice house, it’s probably not in the nicest part of town. And if you live in a nice/cool/central part of town and have an averagely paid job, then you’re lucky to have one spacious room. Eventually the Friends-induced unrealistic expectations fade and you learn to deal with it. I’d come to terms with the fact that my current bedroom is smaller than Monica’s bathroom, our open plan sitting room’s only wide enough for one sofa and our skinny balcony is only fit for smoking and ‘intimate’ barbecues where guests have to stand in a line – but hey, it’s ‘coveted outdoor space’. And who needs a coffee house when you’ve got a Phil Mitchell-esque garage opposite and one of those ‘saunas’ across the street? Plus, the kebab shop next door sells kebabs, fish and chips and pizza, Joey would love it. And, I do live with great friends, even if our next closest mates are about a half-hour walk away.

Yep, I’d accepted my lot, purple apartment or no purple apartment. Then last week, NatWest came along and spoilt it all for me.

I’ve found that dealing with the bank is never a pleasant or efficient experience so I usually try and avoid it. But when I’d waited two weeks for a new debit card to arrive, I was forced to give them a ring. When I explained, the exchange went like this:

NW: Oh yes Mzzz Newall, we tried to deliver your card.

Me: You tried? What happened? I never saw a calling card.

NW: Hold the line please Mzzzz Newall (cue irritating muzak for ten minutes).

NW: (A little too brightly considering the bombshell she was about to drop) I’ve consulted our notes and  the courier didn’t leave a calling card because he considered your house to be…unoccupied.

Me: I don’t understand.

NW: Mzzzz Newall, he didn’t think you were out. He thought the building was unoccupied.

Me: What?

NW: He thought the building was unlived in, derelict, abandoned..

So it transpires that NatWest’s courier looked at my only slightly delapidated building and deemed it derelict. I admit, it’s no palace and there is some building work going on, but it’s not a bloody squat. If he’d cared to look beyond the skip, he may have noticed that there are six working buzzers, connected to flats, all with bona fide council-tax paying occupants. If he’d taken a second to peer through the glass-panelled door – not exactly clean, but clearly in working order – he would have spied the six mail boxes and the stairwell that is actually scrubbed clean every week. The courier obviously did none of those things, then NatWest didn’t think to inform me that my listed address is actually an abandoned shit hole. I had to call them at my own expensive and waste an hour of my life to hear the crushing news. Then it took about six more lots of transfers and muzak to arrange for a new card to be delivered to my local branch – I was terrified that another courier would make the same mistake again, there’s only so much a girl can take.

The whole sorry incident has renewed my Friends life envy. Why don’t I live in lovely purple apartment? Where did it all go wrong? This would never have happened to Monica in her Manhattan palace. And I can’t even go to the coffee house for a consolatory mug and a hug. It’s a wolf-whistle from one of Phil Mitchell’s cronies and a fishy kebab for me.

As the Friends would say, life sucks.

LFW: They love it. Good for them.

London Fashion Week finishes today. And I hate to admit this, but I feel a little bit relieved. Please don’t hate me, fashionistas.

You see, like the lovely Lucy Mangan writing in Stylist last week, I do take an active interest in fashion; I read the glossy magazines, admire people who always look effortlessly stylish and make a mental note of what’s ‘on-trend’. But then I forget to do anything about it, or am too much of a coward to try out a new look. When I do take the plunge, I tend to jump onto a fashion bandwagon about two seasons late, just when things have been diluted into safe territory by the high-street.  For example, I just bought a pair of black suede wedge ankle boots in the sale. I’d had my eye on some for ages but became convinced that, with my stumpy legs, I’d look like a club-footed Shetland pony. When I finally got around to giving them a go – and the ones I wanted were half price in the sale – I discovered that they are the best shoes ever; they make my legs look longer, I can run around town in them and they don’t butcher my feet. If I had my way I’d wear them for ever. The problem is, anyone who’s anyone in the fashion world was wearing ‘em about a year ago, or more.

And herein lies the problem: you can’t be half-arsed or slow-off-the-mark about Fashion Week. Bear in mind that over the last week the designers have been showcasing their Autumn/Winter collections. This is a world that operates to its own calendar,  a separate, more stylish one. A year-old Topshop dress and two-season-old boots are rendered prehistoric. And it’s not enough to merely ‘like’ something. The fashion crowd are evangelical about their art. They will wax-lyrical about the fabrics, the colours, the make-up, the brows, the lashes or the hair with a shiny-eyed, breathless excitement usually reserved for new parents. Anyone following the #lfw hash-tag on twitter will be hard pressed to find a negative tweet. An industry notorious for its bitchy streak has a unanimously positive public face. For a naturally unstylish cynic like me, this can be exhausting.

Yet I’m aware this London Fashion Week has been declared as possibly the best ever. And that’s all to do with the passion of the people behind it. At a LFW party this week – I went for non-fashion related work – I stood in a queue behind two bloggers; they were snapping people’s outfits and could identify the designer/collection from ten paces away.  That takes dedication. I’m hard-pressed to think of anything I get that excited about (though at the moment Sainsbury’s hot cross buns are up there).

My point is, I like Fashion Week; I think some of the clothes look pretty cool and I might even go to the trouble to hunt down a cheap imitation (in about a year’s time, obviously). I just won’t ever be a real part of it. Yes that’s partly because I’m 5″1, size 10 and love carbs – anyone who claims these things don’t matter in fashion is lying-  but it’s also because I just can’t bring myself to care quite enough.

Luckily for me, I’m not a fashion journalist and there are a lot of talented, dedicated (and beautiful) people who do care. A lot. I’m happy to acquiesce to their better judgement, wave them off to Milan and tuck into another hot cross bun. Who’s with me?

One Palin's quite enough for me thanks

Bristol Palin is writing an autobiography, maybe. A listing for an ‘Untitled Bristol Palin Memoir’ was seen on Amazon and Harper Collins’ sites last week. It has since disappeared from both websites, but speculation is rife that she’s penning her life story as I type. I thought it was only fair that I offer her some advice.

In short: don’t do it, Bris.

You are 20 years old. I know you probably think you have a lot to say, what with living through your ‘Mama Grizzly’s’ failed vice-presidency bid; getting pregnant out of wedlock (shock! Horror!); having the baby; calling said baby Tripp (to go with your dad Todd and brothers Track and Trigg – I love a one syllable name beginning with T for a boy);  getting engaged and dumped twice by a fame-hungry boyfriend who’s now attempting to become Mayor of his hometown; doing surprisingly well on Dancing With the Stars – you came third, in case you forgot; campaigning as an abstinence advocate for unmarried couples (bit late, if you don’t mind me saying), and now you •might• go into politics one day. But I repeat my first sentiment: you are 20 years old.

I know you’re just cashing in your current ‘fame’ with these memoirs, I understand that – incidentally, well done on having the sense to try to trademark your name too, you clever thing- I just wish you’d realise that you’re not old enough for your story to be interesting. Yet.

You see, I’d argue that a good autobiography comes from someone who has lived, preferably through something momentous, and had time for reflection. Tony Blair’s A Journey became the fastest selling autobiography of all time, for good reason. Whether you agree with his politics  or not – I know your mum’s probably not a fan, but he is Catholic if that helps? – he added a personal perspective to world-changing events. Or consider Andre Agassi’s effort; when his book was published in 2009, he’d retired from professional tennis so could afford to admit to dabbling in crystal meth and wearing a wig on court. You have a bit of a dodgy past, but are there any hairpieces in your closet?

I can see where you’re coming from with this book. We both know there’s a market for these premature ‘life’ stories. Our own Katie Price – you might of heard of her, she’s famous for, err having big boobs  - already has four autobiographies under her belt at 32, and at least two of those made it on to the bestseller lists. With Katie there’s always the added excitement that by the time you finish reading her latest book, she’ll have got divorced/married again (a bit like you and those pesky broken engagements). The difference between you and KP is that she knows that in a few years people won’t remember who she is, so she’s getting as much dosh as she can now. But I don’t think this is the last we’ve heard of the Palins, is it? If your mum does run for presidency in 2012 and you do go into politics, you’ll have a rootin’ -tootin’ good story to tell. I think you, Bris, can perhaps afford to play the long game.

If you don’t believe me, consider the efforts of  Justin Bieber. You know him, right? He’s that floppy haired singing sensation. He’s 16 and his autobiography really isn’t up to much. I mean, consider this revelation:

“Singers aren’t supposed to have dairy before a show, but we all know I’m a rule breaker. Pizza is just so good!”

And:

“I love hockey, maple syrup and caramilk bars.”

I don’t know about you but I’m a bit bored. If you skip to the end, you’ll find the most useful passage in the whole book:

“This is just the beginning. Thanks for making a small town kid’s dreams come true. Never Say Never. Love you.”

Little Justin has it in one: ‘This is just the beginning.’ Exactly, so why not wait for the middle and see what happens? Bristol, love, let’s see what you can do. I might be interested to read your book in 20 years, but only time will tell.

Hope that helps.

Public libraries: use 'em or lose 'em

When was the last time you went to a public library? I’m ashamed to say I’ve lived in Camden since September and yesterday was the first time I’d set foot in my local one. I’m not alone; according to Camden Council, only 24 per cent of residents are regular library users, that’s despite the borough having 13 council-run libraries and a mobile service. Thanks to what’s an apparently UK-wide apathy, hundreds of libraries are at threat from closure because of government cuts to local authority budgets. Camden alone is set to see £2m less in its library services pot.

I thought it was time I took some action to support today’s Save Our Libraries Day. I reckon you should think about doing the same.

As a child, going to the library was the highlight of my week. I’d get ten books – mostly about ponies and girls called Jill, Jackie and Anne – I’d devour them, knowing that there were ten more new ones just waiting for me. Mum would try and get me onto the classics, but really it didn’t matter; I was reading, enjoying it and there was a never-ending supply of books about ponies that she didn’t have to waste money on. There’s no question that the years of library-going helped foster a love of books (I did eventually move on from the horsey ones). I firmly believe that my children should have the same access I had, yet unless we use what we already have, that ain’t going to happen.

People need reminding how useful libraries are, and books are only the start. I’ve realised that before today, the last three times I went to a public library were to i) rent a Mad Men DVD ii) to read a year’s worth of issues of a glossy magazine for a job interview iii) to use the wifi for work to avoid having to spend another day working in my bedroom. So you could say that the library saved me money, helped my career and preserved my sanity, all for free.

But it’s not Jon Hamm obsessed freelancers like me who will be the big losers if some libraries are closed, it’ll be those who rely on a library close to home for day-to-day support. Camden Town library doesn’t yet know its fate but it’s likely that the borough’s services will be consolidated into fewer buildings, meaning the elderly, venerable or time poor will suffer.

In the time I was in the library, in no particular order, I saw: students revising for exams in the study area; a homeless man asking where he could go for guidance and using the computer; people of all ages reading the newspapers – they hold a week’s worth; a blind lady being helped with photocopying; an elderly man asking for the large print section; parents happily reading with their kids in the children’s area and a few people browsing the job-hunt-help section.

All around the room were notices and posters advertising other services, from ‘Under 4s Rhyme Time Sessions’ to courses to help new internet users. There’s a Bengali section,  a decent DVD selection (a few too many CDs too) and okay, while they might not have the biggest selection of books, there was some good stuff available – they had the 2011 TV Book Club books to borrow. Plus, anyone thinking that libraries are for luddites would be wrong, members can now download audio ebooks for free in Camden and other libraries offer ebooks too. On a cursory glance at the community notice board, I saw posters for a Chinese Community Centre, an Asian Women’s Centre and salsa dancing – just a hint at the diverse group who use Camden library.

Libraries can reach all parts of a community and help people from all walks of life, while still playing an important role in getting children (and adults) into books and improving literacy levels. Even if we can’t save every library, I urge you to use yours. You might be surprised what you find.

If you want to get involved, see CILIP‘s website for a few ideas.

If it looks too good to be true, it probably is

The January sales complicate your life. Fact. There is a common misconception that sales are there to make your life better, to save you cash and leave you smug in the knowledge that you paid less than other people for something you didn’t know you wanted ’til you found out it was BETTER THAN HALF PRICE! In reality a ‘sale’ is a byword for ‘shopping hell’.

When you go to a shop, generally you want to buy something new. Or at least last season’s stock.  So it’s very confusing, come sale time, to be confronted by rails of tat that have never seen a shop floor before. These are the bits that didn’t make it out the factory. It’s cruel that these offerings are usually just a slightly worse version than something you might buy. So it’s that skirt you admired but couldn’t afford, but the one you wanted was a chic black, not orange with green splodges. Or you spy a fabric you recognise, but oh no, it’s not the elegant maxi dress you had your eye on, on closer inspection it’s a flared-leg onesie that would only really look good at Glastonbury. Before you know it, you’ve snapped up the ‘bargain’, got it home and realised that you are going to have to take it straight back. Then, when you do, you find it’s been reduced even more, so you’ve lost money and are the proud owner of something only good for the fancy dress box.

Even if the stuff on offer is decent, sales are a great tormentor: you know that if you have bagged a bargain, the same item will go down in price at some point. This can be upsetting, particularly when you can check on the website. I write from painful experience as I just booked a last minute holiday. We trawled the web for the best deal, and left it as long as we could bear, but with less than two weeks to go, we got the fear and booked for what I thought was a very good price. It’s inevitable that in the nine days between now and our flight, the price of our holiday will go down. So far today, I’ve checked the website 10 times. That is not normal behaviour. Also, I’m concerned that once on said holiday I may not be able to resist asking my fellow holiday makers how much they paid. They will  hate me.

Apart from making you buy things you don’t want and inciting bargain envy, being a ‘savvy’ sale shopper can upset your friends. I recently bought a dear friend a lovely leather bag, it was gorgeous, butter-soft leather, the sort of bag that she knew at a glance was not within our usual birthday gift budget. We both knew I had got it in the sale, and yes, it was better than half price. While she loved the bag, I did feel a nasty sense of guilt. Does she now think I consider her a cut price friend?

So, my plan for January: walk past the (untidy, jammed full of ‘fancy dress’ items) sale rail and head for the beautiful new stuff. I promise in the long run this strategy will save you money, friends, and a fair few embarrassing facebook photos. If you do succumb to the sales, never tell anyone how much something cost. Ever.

Caveats out the way, I shall continue to write about anything that has been on my mind that week; whether that’s my take on a news story, or just regaling you with  something a bit silly that has happened to me. Criticism and comments always welcome….