I’ve written in the past about the need to smarten myself up. To confront my apathy towards shopping and to add a few, choice pieces a month to my – what can only be described as a, relaxed wardrobe. I often look back to a bygone era, to a time when the idea of leaving the house without a pair of slacks, a suit, even a tie was alien to men of a civilised world. As someone who plays bowls, it’s still commonplace for me to see a man, in a tie, who is not coming from a day’s work – who believes it to be normal to put that extra bit of effort in to the way they look. It might not shout cool
Style Archive
I’m a mess. With each passing week – with each frayed collar, each lost button – every load of washing (of which I am unlikely to have played an active part), it is clear. I am letting myself go. I can’t remember the last time I bought an item of clothing – can’t remember the last time I set up the iron without trepidation of finding another stain, another loose stitch – my favourite shirt giving up the ghost. It wasn’t always like this. I used to take pride in my appearance. I’d regularly siphon funds from various pay packets to ensure that I had a new work shirt at least once a month – had a new round neck, imported American t-shirt – sometimes
I love Italian food. I love it for its simplicity, its complex nature; the speed with which a dish can be prepared or the age it takes to eat a sumptuous feast. It is the often, contradictory nature that appeals so much – for there is a meal, a dish or a taste sensation for whichever mood you are in; whichever mood you want to be in. Yet even though my shelves are littered with Italian cookbooks, or draws stuffed full or magazines claiming to offer authentic Italian recipes, I’ve started to question if what I eat is truly of an Italian origin; or simply a base note diluted by years of non-Italian “improvements.” It all started with a piece of veal, progressed on to
So, do you find me a changed man? Did I have an epiphany in the Upper Circle? Am I a convert, or will I continue to struggle blindly over the opera based questions on a University Challenge? The answer to the first three questions is a resounding NO; but… The fact that I have left that sentence to hang could suggest that Opera North failed in their challenge; for a collection of bloggers not to feel indifferent about their latest production, Carmen. Though I don’t necessarily think they are to blame. It was a big, bold and brash looking production; full of positives running through the first two acts. I thought the stage design and lighting conveyed a sense of place – the hot, muggy
I’m going through what can only be described as a mid-hair life crisis. Or is that a hair’s midlife crisis? Either way, it’s not a midlife crisis. I’m not fantasising over expensive Italian cars, nor am I considering throwing my lot in with an employee who leans in seductively as we talk about the Petersen Account. The crux of the problem is simple – I no longer feel comfortable in my hair. The stuff on my head that is, not the creeping, vine like growth over the rest of my body. It started a couple of Christmases ago. A trip down to see the family got me thinking: “Everyone’s foreheads seem bigger than they did last year.” Then I noticed a scar on my own