Great support for your meat crayon

I am living for this crawling on the floor Babygirl-ass Prada ad from the year who-cares. I’m a sucker for a yellow on yellow shirt and tie, the lemon curd and butter Stanford Blatch-ness. I can’t really see the wallet, but it looks long enough for cigarettes?

You can’t move in London atm for forced rhubarb, every pudding menu in the land imprisoned by its red bars. I like rhubarb a normal-person amount and I’m enjoying this fuchsia toddler scribble centerpiece, a tornado of tart-ness, before I reach rhubarb saturation point in mid-March. Rhu season is both incredibly chic and incredibly British—it’s a bit war-time, and a bit Yorkshire, and also a bit Commonwealth. More importantly, it’s the first sign that winter is thawing and we’re all defrosting.

It was so good to be alive in the time of the Spice Girls, popstars that didn’t cater to a primordial horny male-gaze-ness. I don’t think there’s anything remotely sartorial I’d want to borrow from them—head-to-toe leopard, a Union Jack dress, those ghastly platform trainers, gag. But my god, what a moment.

I’ve been watching a lot of Mad Men this week, enjoying its lengthy string of secretary engagements and first-wife estrangements. I would never encourage anybody to drink more, but what’s two fingers of lunchtime bourbon between colleagues about to cheat on their spouses?

I’m inspired by the underwear because Don wears a full tshirt under his shirt, like a grandpa with an insatiable sexual prowess (and a desertion backstory). I’m drawn to the hammock of a y-front, offering great support for your meat crayon as you traverse the midtown of your own walkable city. I’ve always hated the ubiquitous utility of a boxer brief, they’re just so desperate to tell you they’re blasé, that don’t care about silly things like how they look. It’s very straight male, which is fine, but boxer briefs feel as drab as preheating your own oven on a weeknight. I want more.

There’s something vaguely odious about this Fabergé rabbit. Its ‘fur’ is glow-in-the-dark-y and the ruby eyes shriek Myxomatosis. It feels like it has an eerie backstory, bequeathed through generations, cursing each owner. Spooky, spooky shit.