1. Glitter and face gems

No self-respecting party girl goes to a festival or Ibiza villa party without at least a smattering of facial sparkles these days, and if you know me IRL you’ll also know that I don’t like to do anything by halves. This little haul is a collection Andy and I (‘cos men like to shine too, yanno!) have built up over recent months from various sources, including Primark and New Look, although my absolute faves for quality and sparkle have to be Dust And Dance and The Gypsy Shrine:

2. Headdresses

Some people are of the view that wearing full-on feather headdresses is cultural appropriation, and disrespects Native Americans. I disagree, although I don’t necessarily fancy a debate about it when I go out partying, so rather than go the whole nine yards with a full-on traditional headdress I have worn a smaller feathered headpiece. If you want to play it safe, this little feathered headband is a gentle nod to the trend without ruffling the feathers of the party-pooper PC-brigade:

3. Feathered accessories

So if you like the idea of adding feathers to your outfit but want to stay away from hats and headdresses, the other option is to add a cute feathered bag or cape, like these fluffy little fellas from Topshop. I just had to get the bag, to be worn cross-body of course, for hands-free raving:

4. Sequins

I’m like a foraging magpie when it comes to all things sparkly, so I’m certainly no stranger to a sequin. This look may not be the height of understated sophistication, but is perfect for a fun day/night (and the next day?) of partying. My recent purchases have been this white irridescent dress from Pretty Little Thing and a bargain mint green one from Zara in the sale. Makeup in complementary shades by Kiko, my newest beauty crush. The Ibiza Nights jacket is from Pink Boutique:

​
5. Metallics

If glitter and sequins are a bit in-your-face bling for your liking, a hint of metallic looks party-ready without requiring sunnies to reflect the glare. Me, I’ll wear glitter, sequins and metallics all in one outfit, but if you prefer a more subtle approach, why not simply add a metallic bag or platform wedges to your usual look? Mine are from LilyLulu online:

I am also crushing on these rather special orange, purple and silver heels from And Other Stories, another fave Regent St haunt of mine (fine for dancefloors, not fields, mind):

Sooo now you’re all dressed up and ready to party like it’s 1999. If things get too hot in all that sparkle, just strip down to your Matthew Williamson bikini (orange of course, seeing as the party I’m attending next is the Clockwork Orange Ibiza weekender) from ASOS and shake what yo’ momma gave ya!

Enjoy!

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post My Festival Festi-haul  appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

I’ve always liked the idea of being an ‘IT Girl.’ That’s IT as in rhymes with fit, not IT as in Information Technology. As a teenager flicking through the glossy pages of Vogue (in the newsagents, before putting it back and buying More magazine), my secret ambition was to be an It Girl (well I didn’t want my grammar school education going to waste, did I?).

I had visions of being an effortlessly chic and stylish siren, wafting in and out of parties, dry martini dangling from one perfectly manicured hand, on a cloud of Chanel number 5. It all sounded so glamorous, such fun – and so easy. You simply loitered casually around the swankiest bar you could find, primped and bouffed to within an inch of your young life, and your Prince Charming would appear in a puff of smoke (well, through clouds of cigarette smoke at least – you could smoke in bars in those days) and sweep you off your stiletto-clad feet…and into a life of elegant luxury.

Only that never happened. The slight flaw in my plan was the fact I lived in Bexley and not Bayswater, and the swankiest bar in town was….The Polo Bar. Where the men were chavvy rather than chivalrous. And not even men, it turned out. They were mostly pimply boy-racers named Dave or Steve, driving pimped-up Escorts and sporting snyde Ralph Lauren polo shirts with the collars turned up. You know the type: more no money than new money. The hours spent getting ready for a night out felt like a waste of make-up as soon as you got to the bar and had a quick scout about, talent-spotting. Jeez, the totty sure was thin on the ground. The fellas I seemed to attract like drunken moths to a flame were more Mr Potato Head than Mr Head of Finance.

I had a go at hanging around the King’s Rd for a while in my late teens, but the cliquey Hooray Henry’s seek out their own, and the Sloane Rangers could sniff out a Cockney (or Mockney, in my case, having been born in Kent) at a thousand paces – even (especially?) if it’s doused liberally in Erith Market knock-off Chanel. Or perhaps it was my Joker-style attempt at a brick red pout that put them off (I was channelling Heath Ledger’s interpretation of The Joker long before he was even a twitch in his dad’s pants).

So my plan backfired.

By my early twenties I began to wish I’d studied IT instead of Latin, as any hopes of living in a penthouse in Knightsbridge with a gaggle of daschunds and an oligarch began to evaporate like my cheap synthetic fragrance. It was looking like I was just going to have to fend for myself. How very modern, I sighed. I still dressed up like a Disney princess on a night out, ever the optimist, but alas I was just a donkey making an ass of myself in a sea of Shreks.

Since I wasn’t interested (or capable, probably) of being a doctor or a vet, and had zero interest in horticulture (I was more interested in hotty-culture), it quickly became apparent that Mr Chandler’s Latin classes would be as much use in my future endeavours as a chocolate fireguard. The other occupation best suited to a Latin speaker is a Latin teacher, and judging by his rhino-hide skin, horn-rimmed glasses and miserable downcast expression, Mr C’s career path wasn’t a line of enquiry I was inspired to pursue.

So it was an endless merry-go-round of beauty and make-up artist jobs for me. Yes, Dear Reader, I’m afraid I ended up working in Harvey Nics instead of shopping there. Ah, the irony! I think I was subconsciously hoping some of the wealth would rub off; that by making up the faces of the It-girls, one day I’d meet a sister-from-a-richer-mister whom I’d instantly bond with; she’d whisk me off to Bond St for shopping and cocktails, before introducing me to her trustafarian brother and heir to the family fortune, Tarquin.

But alas, it was not to be. Oh I met many a Tarquin, for sure, but he usually had a bejewelled Tamara on his arm, looking down her perfect aquiline nose at me with smug condescension. She’d give a visible shudder as I thanked her with my weak vowels (chucking in a bit of gratuitous rhyming slang just to watch her wince), before snatching her bag of pricey products and turning on her Valentino heels to clip-clop off for a (liquid, fizzy) lunch on the 5th floor (because eating in public is sooo vulgar, sweetie).

Fortunately, life on the shop floor doesn’t call for IT skills. There’s no need to be tech-savvy when your day-to-day business involves comparing the merits of various caviar face creams. We specialised in soft skin, not software. By evening we were out clubbing, not poring over computer manuals: I prefer techno to technology. I’m more familiar with fish ‘n’ chips than microchips…and if you mention gigs I picture music concerts. Which is why I come unstuck in the modern world.

I love to write, but when it comes to code and formatting – forget it. You may as well be speaking in Japanese. My eyes glaze over and I zone out. If I’m having trouble sleeping, I whack an Excel tutorial on YouTube and I’m snoring quicker than if I’d swallowed a fistful of Valium. You know you’re a technophobic dinosaur when your two-year-old nephew takes the ipad out of your hands with a sigh, before expertly flipping through the apps to find the one he likes.

My mind boggles when I’m blogging and I have a technical issue. Whenever someone praises my blog, I laugh nervously, terrified they’ll discover I’m a fraud: one-finger tapping it out on an ancient Amstrad. That’s a joke, by the way. I have a beautiful baby named Mac – well, her full name is MacBook – and she’s been keeping me awake all night just like the real thing. I look blankly at her while she makes noises at me, wondering when I’ll learn how to look after properly. These things don’t come with a manual, you know (oh no actually they do – I was confusing her with a real baby for a moment there).

Somehow, amidst the travelling, the partying and the chaotic noise of life, I forgot to tick the achievement box marked “PC literate” on my CV (Curriculum Vitae – see, fluent in Latin). Anyone will tell you I’m the most un-PC person, in all senses of the term. I’m a 40-year-old I.T virgin.

So if anyone fancies popping my Apple cherry, I’m all yours. No gooseberries allowed, just a right pear of sorts. I’ll whip out my Blackberry and let’s get fruity. I’ve got all-you-can-eat data on the Orange network so we can really go bananas. I’m not taking the pith, I’m just a bit of a plum on the ‘puter.

Sorry. I’ll stop.

It would appear my puns are about as good as my IT skills – and my fruitless attempts at becoming an It-Girl.

Sam x

Pssst! If you’re a technophobe like me, you might find the following helpful….

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post The 40 Year Old (I.T) Virgin appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

Come on girls, who doesn’t love perfectly winged eyeliner? That super-crisp, sleek Nike tick that flicks across your eyelid, creating the perfect feline expression: the cat that got the cream.Now we all know this look can be a bitch to perfect – one eye glides on effortlessly, lulling us into a false sense of security, and then….well, then the other is a total catastrophe. Cue an ever-thickening black wedge as you try to balance them out…until you end up with a couple of disastrous inch-thick lines that look as though they’ve been applied by a toddler who’s been left unsupervised with a black marker pen. Not a good look. More der-brained than doe-eyed, I’d say.

Which is where Soap and Glory’sSupercat Eyeliner Pen in Carbon Black Extreme comes in. I love a bit of sassy retro packaging, so for me this liner has instant kerb appeal: a slim glossy stick with pink lettering and a satisfyingly tight click lid. No-one likes a liner that dries out after a few uses (I recently tried a pricey brand who shall remain nameless, and it was utterly pointless – dried out in literally 2 wears). The nib itself is like a very pointy felt-tip, and glides on like a dream. Even a heavy-handed clutz like myself would struggle to mess this one up.

The resulting flicks are impressive: I’m a bit trigger-happy in my excitement to try this new product, but to my amazement the flicks are On Fleek, as the young’uns would say.

A few hours in and I’m still looking peng (to keep the youth slang going)…is it sad when 40 year olds try and act down with the kids? Hmm, I thought so. I’ll stop.

Anyway, as I was saying, I peer into my compact mirror whilst I’m at the festival (yep, still desperately clinging to my youth) and to my delight my eyeliner is still looking pretty good, despite several hours of sweaty booty-shaking in the scorching July afternoon sun.

Okay, so there is the faintest hint of a smudge in one corner, but to be fair when you get older and your eyelids start to mimic those of Droopy from the old kids’ cartoon, the resulting wrinkles are bound to cause a teeny-tiny smudge occasionally. It says more about the proliferation of my laughter lines than the quality of the product, I’m afraid; I must be walking around constantly cracking up (or should that be creasing up?) if these crow’s feet are anything to go by…

Oh yeah, you can smirk, but it happens to the best of us – you’ll get yours, kids! I remember when I was a young make-up artist and would practise on my mum: I’d bemoan her droopy eyelids that seemed to counteract all my hard handiwork with the eyeshadow. Well karma is a bitch as they say, because now I have a lil droopy eyelid syndrome all of my own. Thanks Mama!

If, like me, you also wear contact lenses and your eyes have a tendancy to water as though someone’s been peeling onions directly under them, then finding an eyeliner that doesn’t budge is no mean feat.

So this lil beaut comes in at the ridiculously reasonable price of just £6, and Boots often has offers on top of that: either 3 for 2, or buy one get one half price. Can’t say fairer than that! I invested in the Archery eyebrow pencil and the Thick And Fast mascara whilst I was there – it would’ve been rude not to, really.

So shimmy that sweet ass of yours down to Boots, or use my Amazon links below, grab your Supercat liner and get yourself some of these fleeky flicks, girlfriend!

You’re welcome!

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Get Your Flicks On Fleek appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

1/ There must be sun…or at least a pretty good chance of it. None of this mid-May madness. (Yes, Glastonbury, I’m talking to you).

2/ An abundance of covered dance tents are essential in case of rain (although rain is, of course, forbidden).

3/ They must last just one day – no camping required.

4/ Must be easily commutable from Kent.

Not too much to ask, really. Funnily enough, “mashed mud-wrestling” does not make my festival shortlist.

Does that make me a proper festival-goer, or a half-hearted charlatan, merely dipping a toe in the muddy festival waters?

Well, you certainly won’t catch me in grungy hippy get-up, gleefully caterpillaring through the gunk at Glasto, or giving a cheerful thumbs-up as my flimsy tent floats downstream in a downpour. Even if the backdrop is my favourite band, belting out killer beats.

The problem with camping? It’s in tents (….intense?). Ba-dum-tsh!

Don’t get me wrong, I have enjoyed camping in the past, but we’re talking sleeping under the stars alongside Ayers Rock in the Aussie outback, or perched atop a misty mountain in Peru whilst on the Inca Trail…..not festering knee-deep in mud under the slate skies of Somerset, catching the down-wind whiff from rows of overflowing pissers.

A trip to Millets is not my idea of fun. Even the concept of “glamping” doesn’t get my juices flowing when it’s cold, damp and well, BRITAIN, outside. A turd rolled in glitter is still a turd, after all.

I’m slightly ashamed to admit it, but I must confess: I’m a Fairweather Festival-Goer.

As with any long-awaited event, the build up is almost as exciting as the big day itself: there’s the circling of the date on the calendar, months in advance. Then comes the rounding up of your mates, the tagging on Facebook with a hopeful “who’s in?”

Later comes the ticket-buying, the choosing of an outfit, accessories and those cutesy mini festival essentials that us girls love: teeny bottles of anti-bac gel, mini packets of wetwipes. It’s like prepping for a holiday, albeit a very short one.

A fringed cross-body bag is a must for hands-free raving, along with ankle boots as a show of optimism vis-a-vis expected bog levels (wearing wellies is just encouraging mud tsunamis – you may as well do a raindance). Am I too old for bindis and face gems, I wonder? Who the hell cares, they’re going on!

The look I’m aiming for is casual boho chic: a floaty summer dress roughed up with edgy jewellery and cute battered boots, maybe a tatty denim jacket to keep out the “summer” chill. Sunnies are of course, compulsory, if only to hide the glazed goggle-eyed expression that often accompanies daytime drinking. I have to admit, the look that starts off as Boho slowly evolves into hobo….and is probably closer to SuBo by the end of the celebrations.

As the party looms, I’ll be anxiously checking the weather for imminent typhoons, “watching” rainproof ponchos on Ebay and pondering purchasing waterproof mascara, since the “6ft panda-eyed raver” look is not quite the one I’m hoping for.

Post 40, the windswept matted hair and gothic smudgy eyeliner sported by “real” festival-goers is no longer endearing – you just exude an air of desperation, as if clinging by gnarled nails to one’s youth. At best, it exhibits an amateurish lack of prep. No, I prefer ninja-style planning tactics, so that on the day I’m (seemingly effortlessly) ready for any eventuality that the cruel British summer may throw at me.

Come rain, hail or shine (usually all three at once, knowing our country’s appalling weather record) I’m there, shaking my money-maker. Hot, dry weather brings it’s own set of problems, of course: lobster-like sunburn plus huge clouds of dust that fill your lungs as the moshing masses get into the groove. One day of all that is enough for me.

Yes, I’ve watched Glastonbury on the tellybox. I’ve scrolled through mates’ messy shots of their “epic Glasto bender” with a teensy sense of envy….but then I remember that it’s spring, it’s freezing and they will be picking crusty mud out of their belly-buttons for months to come, and I soon get over it. I crank up the heating, pour myself a large Sauvignon and switch to Netflix whilst I wait for the whole unpleasant experience to blow over.

Even in August the UK weather is far from guaranteed. I remember one particularly soggy SW4 festival when the heavens opened the second we laid one besandaled big toe on Clapham Common. It was a total washout. The tents were rammed to bursting with clammy bodies, steam rising from frizzy heads as everyone gyrated to the music like funky drowned rats. When the tents were simply too full to allow any more partgoers respite from the rain, restless revellers huddled together in portaloos or cowered by wheelie bins, their lids flapped outwards to provide a makeshift plastic roof. It was a sorry state of affairs.

And if said portaloos are festering cesspits by 2pm on a one-day music event, I can only imagine the bio-hazardous hell-holes they become during a week-long shindig. I’ve witnessed Trainspotting-worthy scenes at Lovebox whereby squiffy partygoers,  elbow-deep in waste, attempt to retrieve precious iPhones from loos. Shudder. One tipsy girl had accidentally dropped her designer suede handbag into the bowl and was weeping silently as she yanked it from the slurry, door open to allow her to breathe, albeit with one arm held over her nose. Bleugh.
All this unpleasantness is just part and parcel of a festival : the dodgy weather, puke-making portakabins, overpriced cider, dirty burgers and lunch-curdling fairground rides that look as though they’re one loose screw away from a disaster.

But let’s not forget the real reason we’re all here, stomping in unison in this muddy field : our collective love of the music. That sense of utter freedom and carefree abandon that only comes whilst throwing some shapes out in the fresh air, cavorting to your favourite ear candy.

I skip and swirl to the music, hyperactive as I high-five randoms, all of us fully embracing the experience. I suck up the atmosphere….right up until the very last tune, squeezing every last drop from the shenanigans.

Then it’s onto some afterparty or other, carried along by the surging throng as everyone makes a bee-line for the tube. Several more hours of partying ensue, until we collapse, exhausted, into the back of a taxi as the sun comes up.

I never know where we’ll end up – that’s all part of the fun – but one thing’s for absolute certain: when I do eventually allow my shattered body to succumb to slumber, it’ll be in the comfort of my own bed…

….not some water-logged tent.

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Festival Chic vs Mud-Covered Freak appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

Those first lazy, hazy days of summer tend to bring the average Brit out in a hot sweat, and not just because the mercury is rising.This sweat is almost as likely to be due to the fashion dilemmas presented to us by the sudden, shocking appearance of that big yellow thing in the sky. Despite the forecast of good weekend weather bringing a flurry of excited planning a week in advance, casting my beady eye around town it seems that half the population didn’t get the memo. Instead of shaving, plucking and tanning to within an inch of our lives in a frenzy of anticipation, most dubious Brits won’t allow themselves to believe the sun’s about to put in a blink-and-you-miss-it appearance until the evidence is high in the sky.

Suddenly we’re shoehorning pasty-white bodies into last year’s skintight summer garb and whipping out embarrassingly pale, blue-veined limbs reminiscent of an anaemic squid.

This job is gonna need tools. Industrial-strength power tools.

Fire up the chainsaw and get hacking through the dense undies undergrowth. Get the shears on those thick horny toenails. I’ve seen elephants’ tusks hacked off by poachers with more compassion than some people’s pedicures. Dark red polish hides months of nail-care neglect; alternate clamping those feet in a vice and plane half an inch of hard skin off the trotters. Don’t forget the protective googles: it’s time to get sandal-ready, sisters!

Working as a boutique manager, at least I have none of the “what shall I wear?” daily dress dilemmas, since I spend the entire summer reluctantly clad head-to-toe in black, in the manner of a six foot blonde ninja, as my uniform dictates. I may as well wear a year-round burkha. It’s like a cloak of invisibility. Oh how I wish orange really was the new black. I’d love a splash of colour in my sombre wardrobe. I actually have two wardrobes: one bursting with funereal work attire, the other my colourful civvy gear. Sadly, it’s the graveyard-friendly get-up that gets the most outings.

Whilst the rest of the country flip-flop sloppily around town, camel toes showcased in ill-fitting white jeans or butt-cheek-bearing hotpants, I’m the one buttoned-up in black, my face pressed up against the cold tinted glass of the steely shopping centre, quietly mourning yet another summer lost to mall life. Two decades, in total. I’ve spent so many years encarcerated it’s a wonder I don’t have rickets.

The only consolation of being merely an observer of summer, rather than an active participant, like, say, a mum , is that I get to people-watch from my position on the sidelines of life…

As I sit on the park bench munching my usual M&S sarnie and scrolling blindly through strangers’ holiday snaps on Facebook, I can’t help but glance up and stifle a snicker at the many sartorial slip-ups of the other earthlings that cross my path. Well, I have to get my kicks somehow, don’t I?

Some of the images remain burnt onto my retinas long after the offender of crimes against fashion has left my field of vision. Some things just can’t be unseen.

I shall document a few of the aforementioned criminals’ offending outfits henceforth….

Ahh, my first specimen, what have we here?

Exhibit A: The Urban Mum

The large battered brown Primark paper bags dangling from the buggy mimic the similarly-sized crinkly bags under her eyes. I hope she’s got some big bug-eye sunnies in those carriers. A half-full (or half empty I should say, she looks depressed) Maccy D’s drink cup clutched in one hand, squawking child wedged on the opposite curvaceous hip. A pair of faded black leggings are straining across jiggling buttocks, whose circular movement brings to mind a couple of hyperactive ferrets fighting for release. What are those monstrosities on your feet? Crocs?! Really? Those rubbery atrocities with little round holes where your dignity leaks out.

Her expression is as tight as her pre-preggo ensemble, her glazed gaze indicates she’s miles away: daydreaming about the cold Sauvignon which awaits when little Archie finally sleeps this evening. She’ll chug it down super-quick in a vain attempt to erase the horrors of today’s toddler melt-downs from her memory. She clutches the wailing child to her heaving bosom in an attempt to pacify or suffocate him. I’m just deciding which, when my attention is diverted to….

photo credit

Exhibit B : The duck-billed platypus 

I swivel in my seat in alarm as a shrill sound emanates from this curious creature before me. I’m reminded of the mating call of some unidentifiable mammal I encountered on a recent jungle tour in Costa Rica, but no, it’s just Stacey stepping out of her office for a sly fag and a catch-up with her fella via Facetime. She’s cackling with laughter, a Pall Mall dangling from a glossy bottom lip, orange-palmed hands (from a recent dodgy tan job) clutching the phone.

There’s a cool breeze caused by her 2 inch eyelash extensions and I gather my cardi around my shoulders with a shiver.  It’s a good job there’s no real wind blowing today: the way she’s alternating between that constipated-duck pout and resting bitch face as the conversation takes a moody turn there’s a good chance her top lip would be stuck like that forever.

Reassured I’m not in imminent danger of an animal attack, I relax and surreptitiously take in her outfit. She’s slapping about in flat-footed circles in cheap ballet pumps like Pingu’s pooed himself. Any real ballerina worth her salt would be horrified by those fallen arches. Corned-beef legs lead up to an unflattering pleated skirt and then….dum, dum, dummmmmb…….my absolute pet-hate.
A black bra under a white shirt.
Why, why, why…?
I have never understood that particular fashion faux-pas. Flesh-coloured bras, ugly as they may be, are clearly the only option under a white top. Like, hello?

My eyes! I look away, in pain. My finger is poised over the number 9 on my phone as I’m about to dial the emergency services. “Hello, what service do you require?” “Police! Fashion police! I’ve got an emergency…..”

Hang on a minute.

I stop dialling.

Could that be….? Surely not….? Someone who’s got it….right?

Sashaying along the gravel path is a lady who’s clearly got this summer style thing down-pat. She’s not so much walking along as gliding, oozing the kind of self-confidence that comes with knowing you’re catwalk-ready. If she were made of chocolate she’d eat herself. I bet she high-fived her reflection in the mirror this morning. She probably has several thousand Instagram followers hankering after her on-point pics.

Long, glossy chestnut hair gleams like glass in the sunshine and she casually flips it over one shoulder and strides out in her strappy, low-heeled sandals. She’s wearing a jumpsuit and managing to look stylish. At the same time. I’d love to be able to wear those things, but every time I try one on the leg-length is far too short, leaving me looking like Huckleberry Finn with a wedgie. I resemble a deranged inmate, a Death Row prisoner with no hope of reprieve….nothing like this slinky minx before me. A fringed cross-body bag and long pendant complete the look. I’m just wondering how you negotiate the zip up the back whilst alone in the pub loos, when I’m distracted by….

Exhibit C: Parsnip-leg Pete

photo credit

The only way to get from A to B whilst wearing the skinniest, lowest-rise jeans on the face of the planet without baring your backside, it seems, is with dinky pigeon steps. Skinny jeans may be passable on slender teens, but on the approaching chubby specimen they just look painful, as he lumbers up with all the grace of a wounded wildebeest, struggling to contain his hairy butt-cheeks in these blood-stoppingly tight numbers. It’s not so much a camel toe as a moose knuckle I’m greeted by as he shuffles into focus, white pants clearly visible, bulging thighs giving way to chunky cankles. These jeans weren’t cut from a pattern, someone just drew around the magnified image of a carrot. Or perhaps a parsnip.

There’s just time for one last observation before my break is over, so I hone in on:

Exhibit D : Dad-bod Dave

There’s something endearingly British about Dave: he’s had a go at making shorts stylish, bless him, but he looks a tad awkward as his puny pins put on a brave show of propping up the straining beer belly that’s clearly taken a fair amount of time, money and effort to acquire. Fair play to him, he’s definitely put the hours in at the pub. Tatty tattoos are green and blurry, an impressive pair of moobs visible under pink Ralph shirt, collar inexplicably upturned. A pair of Ray Bans are perched atop the balding bonce. All the gear, no idea.

I glance at my watch. Break over. Time to get back to work. I get up from the bench, grab my bag, oblivious to the fact that my skirt has got tucked up as I haul it onto my shoulder.

I catch Dad-Bod giving me the eye.

It’s a good job one of us has got this summer style thing down, I think, as I shimmy off.

With my skirt caught up in my knickers.

photo credit

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Sack the Stylist appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.