Just turn straight for a season
Hello, happy new year. I got Wordle in two this morning, surely that’s an omen for something?
As much as I love brooches and loafers and diligently sourced eBay suit jackets, I can’t stop thinking about the unfussiness of a sky-blue coverall, woven hat and mules. God blessed me with an alarmingly long torso—I look like a Caramac bar when I’m naked—so I’m wondering how unfussy buying a long-enough boilersuit and having it tailored really is? Wouldn’t the elaborate process cancel out the thrown-on-with-ease energy? Regardless, being completely shrouded in a block colour is revving my engine.
With all the being chronically online and why-did-I-cash-in-my-bitcoin-so-early? and vaping, sometimes the world feels too modern. I’m going back to basics with a bar soap that smells of analogue cigs.
My house is lovely, but quite masc. This became glaringly clear when the movers had to stack like sixteen or so framed images of male bodies in our hallway. This wooden woman would go some way into readdressing the balance (the things I would keep in her little vaginal drawer would alarm you). When I checked online, it seems like there’s only about 8 of these ladies that exist and they’re all about £7k a pop, so it might be cheaper to just turn straight for a season.
Matthieu out, Louise in, and the fashion press is absolutely drenched. The pertinent question? Is now the time to buy this tonal masterpiece—the big-pocket shirt and the Velociraptor tie—or should I save my pennies for incoming Trotters?
Can’t tell you how badly I want to go to the La Colombe d’Or, barely speak to anyone, swim in the heated pool, wear their robes, eat their food, and not post about it once.
Not to sound like the Guardian but please share this independent editorial before Tortoise snap it up.