So, let’s start the New Year by appreciating Cath Kidston’s new window display.
Imagine the marketing meeting behind this throwback window;
‘We need to target women, we need to get them to come to our sale, we need to draw women in with our first window display of 2013;
What does the modern woman like? What is going to make this sale irresistible to her? How can we reach out to her?
Let’s call it ‘the big clean up’ The modern woman will utterly relate to that, because she loves cleaning, and to really add to her excitement we’ll pop a few dishcloths and dusters that are covered in cute little flowers in the display. What woman doesn’t want to look at pretty floral things when she’s got her hand half way down the shitter?’
Fuck me senseless.
I tweeted about my fury at this twatty Cath Kidston window display btw, and it cost me about 15 followers, bit of a shame, but to be perfectly honest those sort of people can feel free to fuck off back to the 1950s
It’s my birthday; we go to the local country village pub for lunch. One of those ‘London companies’ has bought this pub. It was a beautiful old pub, running alongside a canal, beamed ceilings, faded Farrow and Ball* scuffed walls, open fires. For reasons best known to themselves this London company have felt the need to refurbish this beautiful old place. Major tastebreaker, but apologies to the landlord because I didn’t mean for him to overhear me gasp ‘Oh shitting hell, it looks just like Eastender’s Max n Tania’s ‘lounge / diner’ .
I read that *Farrow and Ball have called one of their new colours ‘Middleton Pink’. They can fuck off too
First day back on the school run and my blouse ‘does a Judy Finnegan ‘ in front of Bubette’s teacher. Crikey, I am never going to be invited onto the charity committee organising the Dad’s on Donkeys race fundraiser now…
Yet another celebrity who cannot function without being dressed by her stylist is ‘designing’ her own clothing range in ‘collaboration’ with a high street store. I am sniggering hard at the use of the words ‘designing’ and ‘collaboration’ here btw whilst simultaneously wondering if this high street retailer really thinks it’s customers were born in a barn.
This celebrity turned up at a party I ‘organised’ a few years back. She stood staring at me flanked by ‘her people’. Being such an accommodating PR (ahem) I asked her if she would like a drink, or for me to find her a table. She just stared at me then looked at the dance floor. So I asked her if she wanted to dance. She turned to ‘one of her people’ and said something.
‘……………….. would like to dance’ her gimp informed me.
This really confused me on two levels,
1. Was I not supposed to address ‘the artist’ directly and
2. Most crucially if she wanted to dance why not just do so; what did she expect me to do? Move her arms and legs for her?
5am: I’m woken up by the sound of a cockerel crowing. Oh no. Furious I go down to the garden to check on Pat, Sue and Pauline, our hens. Pauline seems to have developed a bright red cone and MASSIVE spurs and a beautiful blue / jet black plume of tail feathers, Pauline is also cock a doodle doing. Crikey, Pauline is a bloke.
In the afternoon I take my puppy Shih Tzu for a walk. He spies another Shih Tzu and they start wagging their tails at each other and bounding towards each other. How sweet. Then I hear this from the owner
‘No dear, your dog is too muddy’
‘Your dog is muddy darling, I don’t want my dog to get muddy, she can’t play with yours’
Remember, you cannot make this shit up
It has been decided that Pauline has to be dispatched. Various locals offer to come and wring his / her neck, but in the end no one can face doing it and so our Pauline is taken to the vet to be humanely dealt with.
I do what any grieving pet owner would do under these circumstances and go and get my eyelashes tinted.
The beautician comments that I look more tired than usual. I tell her about the early mornings due to the cockerel. She tells me about a rather fabulous sounding woman in a nearby village. This woman has a huge farm and cannot bear to see animals die, so her farm functions as a kind of chaotic sanctuary. Orphaned lambs hang out in her kitchen and there is a field full of unwanted cockerels.
Perfect. Pauline can go there. What a brilliant life he’ll have.
I frantically phone the vet, but sadly it’s too late, Pauline was dealt with straight away
Total. Heartbreaker. Sorry Pauline.