I’m feeling a bit lazy pressed for time today, so like any good TV cooking segment, I’m using a blog I prepared earlier. Well actually it wasn’t really a blog, it was an entry for a competition in Stylist Magazine to have an article of your own published. Stupid idea really, entering I mean. For starters I have no style, and even if, just like the magazine itself, someone was handing style out for free at the train station, I’m sure I’d end up being given the dud copy. Personally I’m not suited to their magazine one iota, but I’m sure that kind of thing can be blagged can’t it, after all, a writer is supposed to have more of an imagination than most. I probably could write the way they wanted me to, extolling the virtues of the latest trend for bird poo hair treatments (look it up, it exists, in fact when I went to Pompeii a couple of years ago I saw proof the Romans were doing it a thousand years ago), but I’ve got my head stuck way too far up my own bum to write the way other people want me to.

So I told them I wanted to write a piece called Style-less. I told them I have so little style that if somehow it was the world’s dominant monetary system. I’d still be living with my parents. I’d also be studying things like their magazine with the sole intention of learning how to earn enough style so I could move out sometime before I became eligible for a senior’s pass. For food I’d have to raid my Mum’s wardrobe, scrimping together enough style to be able to buy one of those discounted sandwiches which languish unwanted on supermarket shelves each afternoon. Falafel and beetroot again? Blurgh. My Mum hasn’t got much style either bless her, but her wardrobe is full of 1970’s polyester shockers, so maybe some days I would succeed at passing this off as vintage, maybe even upgrade my sad sandwich to a meal deal with crisps and a drink. If I managed to accessorize successfully.

But then I stressed to them that I’m not anti-style. I don’t wear oversized t-shirts, combat pants, only own five pairs of shoes and teeter on the verge of a Hulk-like rage of fury every time I attempt to shop, just because I’m trying to make a statement against the fashion world. I would love to have some style, but after years of sartorial failures I simply came to the conclusion that it was something I’d never have, like hair in my ears or Michael Fassbender for my husband (I threw that in to appeal to the straight world as I didn’t think it would go down very well if I wrote my real husband wish – Famke Jannsen).

I even went all earnest and sincere and told them I envy women who need only hold up an item of clothing and squint at it for a few seconds to know whether it would suit their shape, their size, their style. I’d love to be able to pull something off a rack and know instantly whether it would accentuate my good bits, hide the not so good bits and stand the test of time in the fickle Ferris wheel of fashion. But no Gaga, I was not born that way, and my Mum’s wardrobe should tell them it wasn’t handed down to me either.

So I hit them with my great idea. Here I am, a grown up woman with no style and a giant phobia of shopping trips, born of so many failed attempts to find something that fits, something that I wouldn’t self-consciously be adjusting all day or just something that wasn’t a black t-shirt. And I suspect I’m not alone, so I told them that. I said – “I suspect I’m not alone”. I’m sure there are others out there sniffling their way through the same lifelong bout of the styleless as me, wiping their failures away with a bottle or two of Jack Daniels and a big old ugly hanky from Aunt Milly.

Then I told them my idea had hit me somewhere in the middle of a weekend marathon of “The Biggest Loser”, “How to Look Good Naked”, “Renovation Rescue” and “Extreme Makeover” (ok maybe not so much that one). That wasn’t true, I don’t even own a television, but I thought it was a clever demonstration of my point above. I said I realised I did have access to a savior and that they’re all around. They are blessed human beings who have dedicated their life to sharing their knowledge and spreading their belief in the greater power, teaching the unfortunate and helping them to help themselves. I’m talking about Stylists, evangelists of fashion, those with so much style know-how they make a living teaching those like me how to find their own.

I suggested they send me to a stylist and I could document what I was sure would be our farcical adventures together. I mean sure, I have a different style to the normal writing you find in Stylist, but I argued that’s a good thing, who doesn’t like a giggle in the morning? There can’t be that many girls being hit on by Peter Andre each day, the rest of us deserve a stomach workout that only fits of laughter can provide too.

So did they like it, did they notice how many times I wrote “style” in that thing? If nothing else, I thought I should have been able to hypnotise them with the power of repetitive suggestion.

Ahhhhh… that would be a no.

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