I’ve never mentioned what I do for a living.
My work is focussed in and around the fashion industry. I can’t remember if I always loved clothes and therefore ended up in fashion or if working in fashion spawned my passion. Chicken and egg, rare breed chicken and Faberge egg obviously. Probably a bit of both.
I have a small business, I teach at two universities and privately. Yes, I’m busy. When not working I love the arts and culture generally. I used to belong to night clubs, now I’m a member of The Tate and The Victoria and Albert museum, although I often spend more time in the bar than the exhibitions. I used to love to party now I love to eat. Cornflake and I used to cram our tiny flat with friends and dance like crazy, now we have people over for dinner as we all need a seat.
You might think I’ve got the modern ‘busy’ sickness and you may be right. However I love most of my work, my friends and my city. No my busy-ness has a darker origin. It quells my inner terrorist. If I didn’t keep myself fully occupied with fancy pants, high heels and all things beautiful I could be an absolute danger.
My inner terrorist, just to be clear, is that angry part of me that really can’t be arsed explaining my reasonable and obviously right views to anyone who doesn’t think likewise, it’s the bit of me that would rather fast forward to the early demise of those fucking idiots.
In reality it’s not just fashion that keeps the world safe from my anger, there are a couple more issues with my potential terrorist tendencies;
I don’t like the outfit, admittedly not a million miles from my gym outfit, but balaclavas? I don’t think so.
I don’t like to spend too much time with angry people.
I don’t like guns, knives or bombs.
I wouldn’t actually kill anyone, even that motley selection of self serving gob shites presently masquerading as a government, unless, and this is unlikely, we were in one to one combat and they were actually trying to kill me. In which case I’m pretty sure I could take any one of them down.
No my inner terrorist is most likely to only do me harm by raising my blood pressure, making me fat and giving me wrinkles.
Have you seen Dior at the V and A?
It’s a treat.
Mwah mwah
fat tart 