I get London. I really get London's charme and character and fashionable ideals and wacko philosophy but I do not see why Manchester should always get stick for its wet weather. There was a time when London was famous for its fog (as was Milan) and even got a song about it (A Foggy Day In London Town), so why is it that Manchester doesn't get a song about being steely gray? I think it looks great, what with its perfect blend of traditional and modern, and this alone is deserving of its very own Ode To Manchester.
I took this pic from Harvey Nichols's café, where I got chatted up by a waiter. And do you know something, it always irritated me to get chatted up in the past but now that I have turned thirty and that I am absolutely convinced that my face (let alone my tits) has started heading south overnight, it was with surprise and relief that I welcomed this guy's attention. Boy, did I need a rest after a wrestling match against wind, rain, brollie and a ripped skirt.
I had to rush to a shop to buy one, since the zipped split of the one I was originally wearing ripped open in that unexpected way that only zippers strategically placed can do. I ended up speeding across Albert Square with a pashmina wrapped around my waist and good job I was carrying it anyway.
Still, it was better than that time at London Fashion Week when I was wearing an extra-tight pencil skirt and persisted on hurling myself up an extra-high platform as if I had been wearing jodhpurs. The result was a mighty rip that left me clutching my knickered bottom in horror as a model told me that I should 'just relax' and that everyone will think I am 'so cool for going around with a skirt only held together by the two top stitches'. Yeah well, easy for her; the elephantine bottom in full show was mine. I just don't know how I went through the day. Thank God for Agent Provocateur knickers.