It’s no exaggeration to say that her email made me shiver. I walked out to buy some lunch afterwards, mainly because I wanted to walk somewhere, and I obviously couldn’t think of anything except what she’s going through. I wanted to smoke a lot of cigarettes and drink; not something comforting, like wine, but something that hurts as it goes down. I felt angry, and sad, and lucky, and really tired.
The friend is a person I’ve known a long time but have probably only seen once in the last ten years. I won’t say any more than that but we’ve known each other on and off for a long time. I’ll call her H. H read an article I’d written for an Essex-centred website, which I’ll link to elsewhere, that was sort of snarky, sort of political, and dealt with issues of class, via Jamie Oliver. She told me that I was able to give a voice to a group, and that she admired that. And then she said there was something she’d like to discuss with me, and ‘see my slant on it’. And then she emailed me about domestic violence.
This is something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately; it’s on my mind in general and it’s always been a subject I’ve been drawn to, for various reasons. But high-profile stories like those of Janay Rice and Christy Mack put this firmly back in front of me, and prompt a cultural dialogue that gives me hope but is also utterly depressing. The fact is, this happens too often for you not to know, not to work with, not be related to, women going through this right now. Living with violence and in fear every day.
H played down her own abuse to begin with, framing the email in terms of witnessing an episode that looked like abuse and asking why, in quite a small community, nobody seemed to care. H sees this woman on a regular basis, and she bears all the hallmarks of someone beaten down by life. It’s quite characteristically female to play down your own worries and fears until you’ve justified them by declaring that it happens to other people, it’s not that you’re trying to get help for yourself.
H wants us to write together, and she’s now started to be more open about the history of her relationship. She doesn’t give herself permission to define it as ‘high-level’ domestic violence but it sounds as if she knows now, finally, that it is. I think the floodgates have opened, and I don’t even know whether we will end up writing together; I think our voices could be distinct and complementary, but maybe now she just needs a friend? Hearing her describe how people she has confided in have given suggestions then disappeared is almost as fucking awful as reading descriptions of the control, the rages, and the injury. It lends itself to the hyperbolic but I’m trying to avoid that: it’s scary enough without excess adjectives. The photos of the damage after a rage make me feel sick and then I feel really guilty that I have reacted that way. What right do I have to feel uncomfortable?
You think you know how you would react to violence in the home. I have always told myself how I would react, and there would be no forgiveness; and I know that the truth is that I tell myself that, repeat it, reconfirm it, because I have to believe it. When I’m strong, I do believe it, but when I’m feeling weak, or less than, or I look at M’s face and feel the love I have for him as something physical, I wonder.
M has nightmare time-keeping. I have no doubt that this fact provides my lady family members with not a little glee, as I’m not exactly known for my slavish devotion to arriving on time. I’m what I would call a solid ten-minuter: I’m almost always 5-10 minutes late, usually through underestimating how long something (a shower, the walk to the station) will take me. And even when I haven’t assumed I can blow-dry my hair in a minute and a half, I factor in no wriggle room so if a tube doesn’t come immediately I am, yet again, running late. I’m rarely so late you could be annoyed with me, but I’m like sand under the fingernail, irritating you.
So what better punishment than to love deeply a man who procrastinates himself into constant lateness? I am very uptight about travelling when it involves something that can’t be changed, like a flight, a funeral, a pre-booked train. I am happiest when I can get to the airport two and a half to three hours before the flight, so that I can relax and have breakfast, and feel smug. It’s true that I haven’t yet flown with M, and I’m sure that’ll be a post all of its own… For now, I mainly have his every-day lateness to deal with.
The man is awesome in a million ways and moaning about lateness is dull for everyone, so I will just sum it up by saying that he struggles to get going- and lord knows, so do I- but he completely ignores the fact that time is getting on and just says “in a minute”. We can end up leaving hours after we originally agreed to. I am still trying to tackle this and the furthest I’ve got is to tell myself that there’s no deadline. Except when there is.
His other timekeeping skill is saying he’ll be done in a certain amount of time and then it being absolutely nowhere near. Case in point, two weeks ago: he said he’d be done in 30 minutes: we ended up meeting an hour and a half later. I don’t mind that it took that long! It can’t be helped! But not having that information, or an update, stops me from being able to make an informed decision. If it’s 30 minutes, I’ll work late; an hour and a half and I’ll go to Westfield for the shops, or a glass of champagne and a read. And that is too, too frustrating.
I enjoy a glass of fizz. Regularly!
But this has led to a major- and healthy-revelation to me. Communication is all-important but when all is said and done, the only person’s behaviour you can affect is your own. It’s a big thing for me to realise because it’s so counter-intuitive for me. If someone (ok, M) is late and not that great at communicating how late he will be, then the natural reaction is either to get passive aggressive and annoyed, or to take that person at their word and be caught out sitting and waiting and feeling like you’ve missed out. I’ve chosen in the past not to go for that glass of champagne because I don’t want to keep him waiting, and then been disappointed and hurt that he’s not there when he said he would be, and I still didn’t get the champagne. I’m not negating my own feelings, and it would be nice if he could estimate and stay in touch a little bit better.
But if I want the champagne I should have the champagne; if I don’t I only have, to some extent, myself to blame. It’s not unfair to take care of yourself and it avoids the petty gripes and niggles a little. Communication is important but it’s a hard-to-swallow truth that you can only affect your own actions (and reactions). It would be passive aggressive to think “right, I’m buggering off then”, but thinking it would be nice to do something with the waiting time, and knowing that it’s not unreasonable to please yourself in that situation, is very freeing. I tend to worry that if M arrives exactly when he says he will, that it would be awful to not be instantly available. But that just adds to the potential reservoir of resentment. When push comes to shove, if I’m having champagne when M arrives, he really won’t begrudge the fifteen minutes it takes for me to finish it. And I won’t begrudge the time I’ve spent waiting, and pleasing myself. But I still don’t know how to solve the politics of procrastination.
First I heard about the gorgeous little love rings at H Samuel via The Frugality, then I was lucky enough to receive one for my birthday! And now even Grazia are reporting on H Samuel’s range.
H Samuel have love rings in two styles; an adjustable style, with crystals and available in rose-gold plate or sterling silver, and a full love, sized version in sterling silver with cubic zirconium. The sized version is the one I have and I absolutely love it. The CZs often catch the light in a really lovely way, and I think that the ring being a full band means that it should have a little longevity over the other option.
They’re reminiscent of more expensive brands but £29.99 is a bit of a bargain. I have worn my ring pretty much every day since I was given it (by Kathryn!) but it was only when I spotted the bracelets in Grazia that I realised that H Samuel is becoming A Thing.
layer up!
Yes, you will have to wade through some pretty terrible jewellery to find some cute things. And yes, the H Samuel website isn’t great… But! I have long been a believer that I’d rather spend a couple of quid more on reasonably-priced ‘proper’ jewellery (semi-precious stones and metals, things that won’t turn your finger green) than buy jewellery from high street accessories shops. It’s why I have so many pieces from QVC, such as their Diamonique range: they last well and look brilliant.
I mean, how cute is H Samuel’s crystal pendant? £12.50 at the moment! I’d layer it with pieces of contrasting lengths.
Picture taken from hsamuel.co.uk
So there you have it; for cute, everyday pieces, you could do a lot worse than H Samuel… Who knew?
UPDATE: that little pendant is from a brand called Martine Wester at H Samuel, and a fair few of the bits are really sweet and very CHEAP! These art deco studs are my pick, at £4.50.
These are so good, I just got so excited when I tried them on! I’m a sucker for some animal print and these are loud and borderline garish, but styled with dark jeans and a blazer, they’d be show-stoppers. Naturally, I think they also go with light blue jeans as well, and today I’ve styled them with a navy jersey top from COS and my army jacket.
I think animal print can definitely act as a neutral, and can be clashed with other prints very effectively. I know Kathryn enjoys a check shirt with animal print footwear very much! But you should approach clashing with animal print slightly with caution so you avoid looking like a toddler who’s been allowed to dress themselves.
The print is cute, they come in tonnes of sizes and- VERY excitingly- they are currently in the sale! Originally £50, I picked mine up* for £15 at the Superga shop in Spitalfields, and they’re available via the Superga website for £25.
* Full disclosure: they were a gift from Kathryn on my birthday lunch out!
Earlier this year, Elle UK was tackling feminism and the idea that it needs to be rebranded. To be totally fair to them, this has been a very open debate, over a number of issues, and I have been impressed with the quality of the discourse and the intelligence with which Elle has engaged with the subject. Elle UK is my favourite magazine aimed at women in this country as I happen to really enjoy the writing, and I find a lot of the fashion and style quite accessible. But it is still a fashion magazine, and while I give it props for even opening the debate up (or, in fact, acknowledging feminism at all), I did balk at the idea of rebranding feminism. But feminism has a number of image issues, and that’s undeniable.
I think that when we talk about the waves of feminism, that that can be the actual point when someone with a vague interest in equality and potentially in identifying as a feminist, feels crushed beneath the weight of ‘academic feminism’ and leaves the whole debate. Of course we need to discuss what feminism means, both personally and on a global scale, and there is huge value to academic debate. But as with any subject, and this more than most, feminism can feel inaccessible and opaque, and if you throw in the various class issues that feminism has, and its traditional exclusion of transgender women and women of colour (buzzword: intersectionality!), a woman can be faced with a concept that feels so deeply entrenched in the mire of humourlessness and worthiness and stereotypes of being robust and potentially hairy that they give up. And if they are a person of colour or working class, they probably gave up a long time ago. Making feminism relevant is essential. As much as I have some quite serious issues with the pseudo-feminism of Caitlin Moran, she and others like her have opened up a debate and a conversation about feminism, womanhood, and what it means to be a feminist. It turns out, just like any other principle or belief system, feminism is what you make it…
So why do I mention the many waves of feminism when I’m clearly going to be talking about clothes? It is so very easy to view feminism- or any radical movement like it- through the eyes of women who can have things like jobs, or the choice under the law of whether to have sex with the man they happen to be married to. Essentially, it’s easy to view feminism through the eyes of those who are already benefitting from it. And modern feminism does have a lot of problems, and some of these wonderful, spirited women who had the conversations and shouted loudly about concepts most people had not ever thought of before, had some opinions that don’t sit well with a lot of modern feminists. We should stand shoulder to shoulder with fellow women, not judge them for their clothing, their failure to be perfect feminists, their genitalia. It’s not too hard for me to see why feminists thirty and forty years ago dismissed the struggles of transgender women, and why some still do. You were born men, haven’t you had all the chances already? But feminism, if it is about one thing, is about equality: we do not win our battles by forcing others down. You are a woman if you know you are a woman! Up to a quarter of people subjected to domestic violence are men and talking about that doesn’t sit well with many feminists, I’m sure. Two women a week are killed in this country by their partner or ex-partner, and a WHAT ABOUT TEH MENZ mentality is tiresome and unhelpful. But if we truly value equality, there has to be room around the table for everyone; the conversations are just too important to be exclusive. Gender is about more than just genitalia and some problems affect us all.
So of course there have been waves of feminism; with any movement you sketch out your best guess and it evolves. Previous versions will not be perfect. However, my aim when I started tapping away was not to write about intersectionality or the evolution of feminism. Others can do that much better than I. It was to mention these things in relation to the choices that we are now entitled as women to make, and hallelujah for that. I made no resolutions this new year but I am trying to snark at other women-people in general, really- a bit less. And oh how I have loved to judge a woman who wears leggings as trousers! Lo, that dress is not for the likes of you madam, you resemble a trollop! It’s exquisite. And fantastically bad for the soul, and for other women. It’s wonderful, comforting, lazy thinking that requires no critical thought, no interrogation of your own views and assumptions, and it’s often just a little bit classist, for me at any rate. There’s no spiritual nourishment in verbalising your criticism of another woman’s appearance or behaviour, just a vague realisation that my own self-esteem must be in need of a top-up because secure people don’t need to judge others, not like that. I know that there isn’t anything positive in recognising that someone’s podge is showing in their t-shirt, even if tight does look cheap and I will never not think so. It’s your choice to wear that t-shirt.
What a fuss was made about these bloody mannequins…. But isn’t the fact they’re unusual kind of weird?
But if there is a word in feminism in the last five years that needs examining, it is ‘choice’. Respecting other women’s choices: good. Invoking choice as the excuse, reason, justification for acting any way that you want to: not cool. Do what you want, if you must, but don’t cloak it in feminism. A great xojane.com article from 2011 had this to say:
This got me thinking about the phenomenon of “choice feminism,” where women argue that even anti-feminist behaviors are feminist because “feminism is about choice.” If you choose to be on a Hot Chicks Tumblr — or if you decide after the fact that, having been put on a Hot Chicks Tumblr without your knowledge, you will choose to be okay with it — that means the Tumblr isn’t misogynistic, because anything you as a woman choose to do is feminist. In fact, the real misogynist is the feminist who’s trying to tell you that being a Hot Chick isn’t okay.
Choice feminism gets one thing right: You should be able to make the choices that are right for you. And yes, of course that should include the choice to be ogled by strangers, or have your body used as a recruitment poster to bait guys into caring about important causes. Where choice feminism falls down, though, is in assuming that any of those things are actual choices right now.
We don’t live in a vacuum. And this is where I finally get to fashion! In a world where women are constantly- I repeat constantly- bombarded by all the ways they aren’t good enough, aren’t thin enough, oops-not-too-thin-boys-don’t-like-that enough, how can fashion be anything except the brilliant capitalist embodiment of all of that pressure and preoccupation with appearance? And it’s a concept I’ve struggled with, definitely. I recently attended a talk entitled ‘Can fashion and feminism ever be friends?’ where Sali Hughes and Polly Vernon made some excellent sense: fashion is not the same as the fashion industry. We will always create trends, and new ways of dressing ourselves, and we can do these things joyfully without ever buying Vogue. But we can do that too, if we like. If you swap the word ‘fashion’ for ‘style’ it immediately becomes something more personal, an expression of who we are, in our outer appearance. Our appearance is important, but not because we should fit in to some sort of pre-determined category. It’s important because it’s another form of self-expression, a way to represent who we are, be creative, feel good, as much or as little as we want to.
And just as don’t live in a patriarchy-free bubble, we also have rules within which to operate, never more clearly for me than in the world of work. It is fair to say that, with the odd exception, my eight years in the City were marked by black bootcut trousers and an array of very bright- what some cruel people might call garish- tops. If it had a big pattern it had Loz written all over it and if I mention, casually, that there was a big New Look across the road from my office, perhaps the true horror of all I have just described will wash over you like some sort of sewage overflow. At this point in my life I am cultivating a delusion of Scandinavian style; boxy silhouettes, pared-down design, structural shapes. This is not least because I have a) grown up a bit; b) lost a wee bit of weight (to be discussed, no doubt at length, another time); and c) got a job that allows me to exhale. I can be Laura so I don’t have to scream “I’M LOZ AND I HAVE A PERSONALITY UNDER HERE” with a floral monstrosity and a cardi. And in those barren, polyester-tinged times, I was both operating within a strict set of corporate principles and trying to subvert them at every opportunity. Except at client meetings when I’d wear a skirt suit, so you see I was capable of occasional bouts of ‘appropriateness’.
I now have a job in the third sector and there is zero dress-code in our office, if you exclude the fact that working in an un-insulated box regularly dictates your sartorial choices. The freedom is wonderful. And so when it comes to needing to get dressed up for conferences and events, it makes a nice change and I’m happy to go smart, albeit with a twist. And the people I meet at these conferences rarely tire of reminding me that my seven small tattoos can often be that twist: these are some very conservative people. So you see, as a feminist and a person, I enjoy clothes and the versatility of dressing, and I don’t now feel that these are at odds with my principles. Most of the time….
