I started this blog with the best intentions – and then promptly took six weeks off. My only excuse is that Fashion Week took over, and that I needed the time to clear my head of thoughts of he who shall not be named. No, not Voldemort as H suggested yesterday, but my ex, C. Although, on reflection, at times it feels as though they are both on the dark side.
Whilst I’m certainly not looking for a new boyfriend, I do feel like there is light glimmering at the end of the tunnel. Although judging by the enormous waves of anger that made me feel physically sick as I lay awake until 3am last night, I still haven’t forgiven him for lying, cheating, and then using me. And, I think it’s fair to say that I shouldn't contemplate a relationship with anyone else until I can regard his behaviour towards me with calm detachment.
But that's not to say that I can't do flirting. I was sent off to interview a designer last week who had been described in as (unusually)straight, attractive and public school. I conjured up a vision of a hulking great rugby player with plummy tones, and a love of beer. As any fule kno, I only fancy emaciated, tall, fey boys with tortured souls and commitment problems.
My assumptions were wrong. Enter one tall, fey boy with a tortured soul and a whole host of commitment problems. And possessed of buckets of charm. And an MA in flirting.
But, the problem is this: the golden rule of interviews is that the female interviewer must never, ever believe that the male interviewee actually fancies her. He is merely flirting to ensure a favourable outcome in print, and to salve his ego.
Still, it was most cathartic; a most unexpected experience which I highly recommend for anyone struggling to get over their fuckwit ex. The moral of the story: flirting doesn’t have to mean anything, but Christ it puts a spring in your step.
I wore: Black wool A line tunic. Purple opaques. Silver Lara rope chain bracelet. Black patent round toe wedges. Black tailored slub silk 1950’s coat. And an enormous smile.