So the fashion issue of the magazine, Label Style, came out today. Of which I happened to be acting editor for. It was, as we said in the editorial, 'our Label baby of fashion amazingness'. And it really was my baby. For this issue I was not only deputy editor and features editor, but I was acting editor, designer, writer, proofreader, illustrator, content chaser, crazed professional. I was in the office day in day out beavering away. I've never felt so proud in my life. It's made me excited that I've found something that I can get excited about, and more to the point, something that I feel passionate about, to a slightly concerning level of possessiveness!
The design aspect is really taking off for me. I've been a creative soul for as long as I remember, and finding another outlet for it makes me consider myself very very fortunate. I am yet to consider myself the InDesign pro, but I'm on my way. And with a little bit of practice, I'd like to think I could take it somewhere. It strikes me that now not only do I want to be a writer, but I want to be it all. Greedy greedy greedy. But being involved in every aspect of the magazine, and creating something that becomes tangible is just the most gratuituous feeling.
It also makes me appreciate the way that the magazine brings us randoms together. People that you would never stumble upon in your day to day business, little gems that make you reassess who you are as a person. The quiet little designer with the most amazing, dry sense of humour who has been overlooked his whole life because he's just that kind of guy. But truth is, he's an absolute genius. And legend. And friend. Pretty cool.
Deciding that I don't want to be a reporter has been a pretty big step. I don't want to join that rat race of fabrication, hussle, stress. Not that I'm saying I'm not willing to work hard - anyone that knows me knows that I work very very hard. I love that I get passionate and determined about everything I do. But I play mighty hard too. I'm loving this editorial business. Can't wait to get out thereand live it, day to day! I've probably got some seriously optimistic ideas about what it will be like, but we shall see. Shame about the small matter of the 10000 word dissertation standing in my way. The one that I'm supposed to be writing right now...
Friday, 18 April 2008
It's all about Me...
For the twenty years that I have ‘graced’ (some people may question that word choice) this earth, the amount of time that I have so far spent in education is unavoidable. Before you switch off, I do realise there are few that will be suitably regaled by my sociolinguistic analysis of The Devil Wears Prada. It’s safe to say that my current location isn’t exactly the hub of the UK. “Fashion” and “Loughborough University” aren’t two complimentary concepts along the catwalk of people’s imaginations. There’s a reason we don’t see “New York, Paris, Loughborough” on the pages of the latest glossy. Unfortunately it’s more about fancy dress and trackie b’s. A sleepy midlands market town that (begrudgingly) awoke one day to an invasion of students, Socialite Central it certainly ain’t. Despite this current lack of immediate fashion inspiration, it dawned on me that my life could be rather interestingly defined by…Shoes. Aside from stating the obvious (show me a person that leads a life sans chaussures), there’s more to this than first thought would presume. Join me as I delve into my shoe-punctuated little life…
I feel something every time I pick up the tiny cream satin ballet shoes that I wore as my auntie’s bridesmaid. Being only two years old I don’t remember the day, but apparently I shocked many-a-guest by talking so much at such a young age. Clearly starting as I meant to go on, this occasion for me marks the beginnings of who I am now. Put simply, there’s more to me than meets the eye. Which I guess makes that sentence a paradox. The fact that speaking, writing and communicating are now what I live for makes this particular pair of shoes quite special.
Tammy Girl. I know, I cringe at it now but aged ten, it was heaven. It’s also the source of my first pair of heels, which I now recall as the ugliest, chunkiest things ever invented – Christian Louboutin has nothing to worry about. But, having always gravitated towards people who were older than me, these heels were very important. The girls around me had everything that I was yet to possess – namely a bust. But in my chunky rubber heels, I was ‘trendy’. Shudder.
School memories make me giggle. This wide-eyed, innocent eleven year-old (thankfully) quickly ditched her Play-It-Safe Uber-Horrific Kickers. You were nobody if your excessively high heels weren’t from Faith. Then suddenly it was all about loafers…the girls descended four inches as we opted for the shoe of the moment, and the teachers breathed a sigh of relief. Ironically my loafers gave me more pain than my heels ever did. Added to the pain of trying to figure out whether James from 11E thought you were hot, us girls had it tough!
I got the job at Schuh three days after I started college, and three days before I had my offensive braces removed - not the desired accessory of choice. Suddenly, at sixteen, I was ready for the world. My wages frequently went back into the company as my shoe obsession grew. Schuh for me marks the start of my adult life, a job that I held on to with relish until I left for university. I loved Schuh. The other part-time staff were all in the year above me at college, and they were my ticket to a new social scene. A whirlwind two years that I still consider to be the best of my life so far.
At university, flip-flops are for some reason accepted as suitable footwear 365 days a year. Complete this stunning look with compulsory university hoodie and a battered pair of Primark joggers and you’re good to go. N.B: I bypassed this look. NOT desirable attire in a public setting, even if you are still drunk from the night before. Three more months until I step out of this bubble, and one thing’s for sure – there won’t be flip-flops on my feet.
I feel something every time I pick up the tiny cream satin ballet shoes that I wore as my auntie’s bridesmaid. Being only two years old I don’t remember the day, but apparently I shocked many-a-guest by talking so much at such a young age. Clearly starting as I meant to go on, this occasion for me marks the beginnings of who I am now. Put simply, there’s more to me than meets the eye. Which I guess makes that sentence a paradox. The fact that speaking, writing and communicating are now what I live for makes this particular pair of shoes quite special.
Tammy Girl. I know, I cringe at it now but aged ten, it was heaven. It’s also the source of my first pair of heels, which I now recall as the ugliest, chunkiest things ever invented – Christian Louboutin has nothing to worry about. But, having always gravitated towards people who were older than me, these heels were very important. The girls around me had everything that I was yet to possess – namely a bust. But in my chunky rubber heels, I was ‘trendy’. Shudder.
School memories make me giggle. This wide-eyed, innocent eleven year-old (thankfully) quickly ditched her Play-It-Safe Uber-Horrific Kickers. You were nobody if your excessively high heels weren’t from Faith. Then suddenly it was all about loafers…the girls descended four inches as we opted for the shoe of the moment, and the teachers breathed a sigh of relief. Ironically my loafers gave me more pain than my heels ever did. Added to the pain of trying to figure out whether James from 11E thought you were hot, us girls had it tough!
I got the job at Schuh three days after I started college, and three days before I had my offensive braces removed - not the desired accessory of choice. Suddenly, at sixteen, I was ready for the world. My wages frequently went back into the company as my shoe obsession grew. Schuh for me marks the start of my adult life, a job that I held on to with relish until I left for university. I loved Schuh. The other part-time staff were all in the year above me at college, and they were my ticket to a new social scene. A whirlwind two years that I still consider to be the best of my life so far.
At university, flip-flops are for some reason accepted as suitable footwear 365 days a year. Complete this stunning look with compulsory university hoodie and a battered pair of Primark joggers and you’re good to go. N.B: I bypassed this look. NOT desirable attire in a public setting, even if you are still drunk from the night before. Three more months until I step out of this bubble, and one thing’s for sure – there won’t be flip-flops on my feet.
Xmas-Virtual Insanity (From my uni column)
Being a writer is a paradox because you never have to pick up a pen. I’ve pushed enough buttons to satisfy a beered-up rugby team (I haven’t, by the way) but barely do I ever, pen and paper in hand, actually write.
We’ve become so busy living our virtual lives that our real ones get left behind. Even Christmas, a tradition that dates back long before electricity (let alone Facebook), is unable to defy the gadgets and gizmos of 2008. Amazon has just this second invaded my inbox with its fantastic list of gift ideas, all available at the touch of a button. Ironically, it is books that they trying to dazzle me with.
Happily I think that for students it is different. Being away from your roots changes the point of Christmas for the better. The worry of how you are going to afford presents when you can’t even afford food is rapidly suppressed by the unstoppable force that is fairy lights, woolly hats and advent calendars. Not only do we get a whirlwind final week of celebrations avec course buddies and housemates, we get to swan off home and relish in a glorious four weeks of festive indulgence with a completely separate social circle. It may not be Christmas everyday, but it’s Christmas for quite a while. As we get older, it’s less about the latest Barbie/Action Man, and more about using the festive season as a social whistle-stop tour. Lunch with Friend A, cinema with Friend B, drinks with Ex 63 (but who’s counting? As long as Current One doesn’t find out…)
The festive period is a chance to get off Facebook for five minutes and, although you may not pick up a pen, you can at least pick up your feet and enjoy the social high of Christmas.
We’ve become so busy living our virtual lives that our real ones get left behind. Even Christmas, a tradition that dates back long before electricity (let alone Facebook), is unable to defy the gadgets and gizmos of 2008. Amazon has just this second invaded my inbox with its fantastic list of gift ideas, all available at the touch of a button. Ironically, it is books that they trying to dazzle me with.
Happily I think that for students it is different. Being away from your roots changes the point of Christmas for the better. The worry of how you are going to afford presents when you can’t even afford food is rapidly suppressed by the unstoppable force that is fairy lights, woolly hats and advent calendars. Not only do we get a whirlwind final week of celebrations avec course buddies and housemates, we get to swan off home and relish in a glorious four weeks of festive indulgence with a completely separate social circle. It may not be Christmas everyday, but it’s Christmas for quite a while. As we get older, it’s less about the latest Barbie/Action Man, and more about using the festive season as a social whistle-stop tour. Lunch with Friend A, cinema with Friend B, drinks with Ex 63 (but who’s counting? As long as Current One doesn’t find out…)
The festive period is a chance to get off Facebook for five minutes and, although you may not pick up a pen, you can at least pick up your feet and enjoy the social high of Christmas.
Shopgirl (From my uni column)
Working in a shop is not the most glamorous job, but it does provide quite the worldly insight. A mass throng of consumer need - old, young, smart, (very) casual, brought together by the need to fill a void. Endless customers all merging into one, each fading into insignificance by the time I’ve asked for the 633rd time, ‘Who’s next?’ An abrupt alert that it’s busy and I’m waiting, scanner in hand, ready to ‘beep’ our items into your possession. That’s right, the ‘beep’ holds the power, and I hold the power to ‘beep’.
I reckon there is a lot to be said about a man’s choice of sandwich. The Spanish get tapas, the Japanese get sushi; we get soggy bread and limp lettuce. There are the workingmen who have no shame in grabbing multiple ‘deep-fill’ beasts in order to satisfy their rumbling guts. Size six ladies that spend ten minutes picking up every sandwich to analyse its calorie content before deciding that Dr Atkins won’t allow any, much to the despair of Mr Kingsmill. It’s hard not to be enticed by Mrs ‘Chicken Tikka,’ or the cardinal sin of sandwiches: Sir ‘All Day Breakfast’. He’s King of the Cob.
Then there is the joy of the uniform. Admittedly, I’ve had to wear worse outfits (Bad Taste fancy dress springs to mind) but the attractive black and purple stripes just do NOT do any good for anybody, despite the fact that my latest copy of Elle tells me that purple is soon to be the colour of choice. To be fair, the number of you lot that happily stroll in on a Saturday morning in your pyjamas does make me realise I have nothing to worry about. I think a touch of Balenciaga would be kinda lost on the majority of the Loughborough student population who live in Jack Wills hoodies and Trackie B’s. Lovely.
Customers are quite depressing in their impatience to receive the ‘beep’ and be on their way. Few even register my face. I am nil but holder of the ‘beep’. I may receive a begrudging ‘grunt’ in response to my cheery ‘hello’, which admittedly becomes less cheery as I realise that it’s the ‘beep’ and not me that they want to hear. Transaction etiquette is amusing: you can be rude, but I have to smile in spite of this. I may have the power to ‘beep’, but the customer is always right. Even when you are wrong. So I smile and say thank you as the ‘beep’ lets you leave. What I really want to say is ‘Beep’ Off.
I reckon there is a lot to be said about a man’s choice of sandwich. The Spanish get tapas, the Japanese get sushi; we get soggy bread and limp lettuce. There are the workingmen who have no shame in grabbing multiple ‘deep-fill’ beasts in order to satisfy their rumbling guts. Size six ladies that spend ten minutes picking up every sandwich to analyse its calorie content before deciding that Dr Atkins won’t allow any, much to the despair of Mr Kingsmill. It’s hard not to be enticed by Mrs ‘Chicken Tikka,’ or the cardinal sin of sandwiches: Sir ‘All Day Breakfast’. He’s King of the Cob.
Then there is the joy of the uniform. Admittedly, I’ve had to wear worse outfits (Bad Taste fancy dress springs to mind) but the attractive black and purple stripes just do NOT do any good for anybody, despite the fact that my latest copy of Elle tells me that purple is soon to be the colour of choice. To be fair, the number of you lot that happily stroll in on a Saturday morning in your pyjamas does make me realise I have nothing to worry about. I think a touch of Balenciaga would be kinda lost on the majority of the Loughborough student population who live in Jack Wills hoodies and Trackie B’s. Lovely.
Customers are quite depressing in their impatience to receive the ‘beep’ and be on their way. Few even register my face. I am nil but holder of the ‘beep’. I may receive a begrudging ‘grunt’ in response to my cheery ‘hello’, which admittedly becomes less cheery as I realise that it’s the ‘beep’ and not me that they want to hear. Transaction etiquette is amusing: you can be rude, but I have to smile in spite of this. I may have the power to ‘beep’, but the customer is always right. Even when you are wrong. So I smile and say thank you as the ‘beep’ lets you leave. What I really want to say is ‘Beep’ Off.
Tuesday, 11 December 2007
Pave The Way
Will we ever stop chasing pavements?
On and on we go, but do we ever actually get anywhere? Where is the destination? Im in such a limbo state at the moment, everything is morphing, changing, moving. Am I really ready for all this? I think in the third year of uni, everything has really hit me. There I was humming happily in my Loughborough bubble...the bubble's about to burst. Which is good, I'm not sure how many more fancy dress themes there are out there that we haven't conquered. I was so stuck the other day that I just piled on a mix of past accessories, I looked like a fancy dress shop had thrown up on me - Fancy Dress Regurgitation. Nice.
I just don't see where I'm going to fit in this big wide world. It kills me to think I'll just end u as another anonymous cog in some divine scheme of labourious day in, day out mundanity. I'll just end up in another limbo of endless commuting on the depressing cage commonly known as a train. A time-warp of harrassed people, I-Pods and BO. What a combination. Can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be.
Maybe now is not the time to be worrying about such profound issues. It's the last week of term and town is a blinding array of lights, tinsel and christmas trees, so I'm gonna head off and enjoy it. Going home at the weekend and it's always a disappoint to realise that I'm back in a real town, where you can't take a tenner with you on a night out and expect to come home with small change. Loughborough does have some perks you see.
Right, I'm armed with an interesting array of fancy dress fun: black gaffa tape, face paints, pipe cleaners, a black tutu (probably not quite the intended use) and, of course, a pair of tights. Tonight Matthew, I'm going to be...a bumble bee. Why do I do this?
On and on we go, but do we ever actually get anywhere? Where is the destination? Im in such a limbo state at the moment, everything is morphing, changing, moving. Am I really ready for all this? I think in the third year of uni, everything has really hit me. There I was humming happily in my Loughborough bubble...the bubble's about to burst. Which is good, I'm not sure how many more fancy dress themes there are out there that we haven't conquered. I was so stuck the other day that I just piled on a mix of past accessories, I looked like a fancy dress shop had thrown up on me - Fancy Dress Regurgitation. Nice.
I just don't see where I'm going to fit in this big wide world. It kills me to think I'll just end u as another anonymous cog in some divine scheme of labourious day in, day out mundanity. I'll just end up in another limbo of endless commuting on the depressing cage commonly known as a train. A time-warp of harrassed people, I-Pods and BO. What a combination. Can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be.
Maybe now is not the time to be worrying about such profound issues. It's the last week of term and town is a blinding array of lights, tinsel and christmas trees, so I'm gonna head off and enjoy it. Going home at the weekend and it's always a disappoint to realise that I'm back in a real town, where you can't take a tenner with you on a night out and expect to come home with small change. Loughborough does have some perks you see.
Right, I'm armed with an interesting array of fancy dress fun: black gaffa tape, face paints, pipe cleaners, a black tutu (probably not quite the intended use) and, of course, a pair of tights. Tonight Matthew, I'm going to be...a bumble bee. Why do I do this?
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