A few years ago a very dear and much loved aunty of mine died very suddenly, which left the family shocked and bereft. At her funeral, her daughter put together a notice board filled with pictures of my aunty and the rest of the family over the years.
As we looked through the mad and marvellous fashions and haircuts; from cool 50s sophistication to the present day via the weird and wonderful decade that style forgot, the 70s, we noticed a common theme. Family holidays. Continue reading →
I hate exercise. I really do. I am a member of a gym that I hate going to. It’s filled with gym fascists, like the gang of twenty-something blokes who hog the weight machines or who congregate around the pull-up equipment with their bulging muscles trying to outdo each other with their pull-themselves-up-ability and the tininess of their vests.
The girls are no better. They usually appear in twos or threes in their Juicy Couture tracksuit bottoms, g-strings, tiny vests and of course the obligatory tattoo which I believe in some quarters is referred to as a tramp stamp. They carry 50cl bottles of Volvic and do very little in the way of an actual workout – it would ruin the carefully applied layers of make-up – but they do a lot of giggling when the boys in their vests do their pull-up exercises. Continue reading →