How much longer can I get away/with being so fucking cute?

Hello! Woops, it's been almost 3 weeks since I last posted! Not going to lie, I barely even noticed that time slip past as I've been so busy. I had two essay deadlines, and then another few pieces to write for the uni women's magazine and the one my friend is starting up. Actually, I will link you to the pieces I've written for the uni magazine so far, because I haven't done so yet! They are: How to wear disco pants/wear fur, So wrong it's right Hawaiian shirts/double denim. The one I have at the moment is a Great British Sewing Bee (Please tell me you're watching it!? So good!) inspired piece about knitting and sewing coming back into fashion, obviously very much my cup of tea. I'm really pleased about this one, as the pieces I've written so far are pieces I felt I could write, rather than ones I really did want to write about.

Anyway, here is a long-awaited outfit post! Also, my hair is pink again, yay! I realise that I was a bit premature titling my last post as "Princess of pink", because I am wearing almost all pink here and the title would have been so apt! Sigh.

I bought this absolutely adorable vintage bed jacket for £5 in a charity shop in Sheffield, in between buying budget bleach and looking for costume pieces for my upcoming (eek) burlesque performance. (It was a slightly disheartening shopping trip until this point as I had been looking for a holographic swimsuit in H&M, but couldn't find one - please let me know if you have spotted it!) It has taken me a while to find out where the good charity shops are in Sheffield, but I think I've finally cracked it! The one I went in had a pretty rack of vintage clothes, I also bought a skirt but it needs altering so it will take a while for me to post it on here! I'm going charity shopping again tomorrow so I hope I find more pretty things. Anyway, this piece was way too cute not to buy! It has a lovely pink and white flecked pattern and a pretty bow at the neck, as well as a cute scalloped trim.

So obsessed with cute things recently. I just love the combination of pink on pink.

(Please excuse my unmade bed!)

Jacket - vintage/charity shop, blouse - vintage, skirt - H&M (but I changed the buttons).

I'm so cute. Narcissistic as it might be to say so (but I think narcissism is fun and healthy and valuable so there!) Thinking that about this outfit really made me think about a poem I had to read recently for my poetry seminar, which I am going to put here as a nice little end to the post;

Miss July Grows Older, by Margaret Atwood

How much longer can I get away
with being so fucking cute?
Not much longer.
The shoes with bows, the cunning underwear
with slogans on the crotch — Knock Here,
and so forth —
will have to go, along with the cat suit.
After a while you forget
what you really look like.
You think your mouth is the size it was.
You pretend not to care.

When I was young I went with my hair
hiding one eye, thinking myself daring;
off to the movies in my jaunty pencil
skirt and elastic cinch-belt,
chewed gum, left lipstick
imprints the shape of grateful, rubbery
sighs on the cigarettes of men
I hardly knew and didn’t want to.
Men were a skill, you had to have
good hands, breathe into
their nostrils, as for horses. It was something I did well,
like playing the flute, although I don’t.

In the forests of grey stems there are standing pools,
tarn-coloured, choked with brown leaves.
Through them you can see an arm, a shoulder,
when the light is right, with the sky clouded.
The train goes past silos, through meadows,
the winter wheat on the fields like scanty fur.

I still get letters, although not many.
A man writes me, requesting true-life stories
about bad sex. He’s doing an anthology.
He got my name off an old calendar,
the photo that’s mostly bum and daisies,
back when my skin had the golden slick
of fresh-spread margarine.
Not rape, he says, but disappointment,
more like a defeat of expectations.
Dear Sir, I reply, I never had any.
Bad sex, that is.
It was never the sex, it was the other things,
the absence of flowers, the death threats,
the eating habits at breakfast.
I notice I’m using the past tense.

Though the vaporous cloud of chemicals that enveloped
you
like a glowing eggshell, an incense,
doesn’t disappear: it just gets larger
and takes in more. You grow out
of sex like a shrunk dress
into your common senses, those you share
with whatever’s listening. The way the sun
moves through the hours becomes important,
the smeared raindrops
on the window, buds
on the roadside weeds, the sheen
of spilled oil on a raw ditch
filling with muddy water.

Don’t get me wrong: with the lights out
I’d still take on anyone,
if I had the energy to spare.
But after a while these flesh arpeggios get boring,
like Bach over and over;
too much of one kind of glory.

When I was all body I was lazy.
I had an easy life, and was not grateful.
Now there are more of me.
Don’t confuse me with my hen-leg elbows:
what you get is no longer
what you see.

found here.

PS. I will hopefully be back with another (sort of) outfit post later in the week!