Women, men and body image

Back in 2003, I wrote a piece for The F-Word on body image. I was in my late 20s and only just managing to get to grips with the fact that my body's outward appearance didn't match the image I had of it in my head. I had begun to summon the self-confidence to say that I was happy with the way I looked, despite the fact that hundreds of media images a day were trying to tell me I was abnormal. Slowly, I ditched the 'fat days' and fretting about the size of my belly, instead concentrating on how I felt rather than how I looked. When I went out at night and people told me I looked fantastic, I actually believed them. It was the first step to a happier me.

I have no idea if my own personal journey is the same as anyone else's, and I also haven't a clue as to whether it was something specific I did that fixed my own body image. Perhaps it's something that just happens to a lot of women when they reach their 30s. I do know for sure now that I want to help other people through the same issues, but the problem is I don't know how. What, if anything, can I say to make it better? I know someone truly gorgeous in her mid 20s who is going through the exact same thing I did ten years ago and, although it hurts to see her this way, I know just how she feels. No matter how many times her friends tell her she's beautiful, she still feels fat. She says she wants to get slimmer for her own reasons which I really do hope is true, but any negativity I feel from her gets me worried that she's on a path to body hatred.

I wonder if any of us would yearn to be a specific shape or size if there was a more varied mixture of people portrayed as acceptable in the media. I quit buying magazines and now no longer watch television programmes as they are broadcast, so my exposure to advertising was greatly reduced which I think helped me a lot at a time when I wasn't confident enough to deal with it. The first step to feeling happy about your body is to stop comparing yourself to others. Just remember that the only person that you need to love you is you. Even, like me, you want to be loved by others, the first step is to love yourself. Why do you want to be thinner, younger or fitter? If it really will make you happy, then go for it, but don't do it just to please anyone else. Chances are that what you need to be truly happy is simply confidence in all aspects of yourself.

A quick side-note: never ever think that all feminists disagree with physical self improvement. What I dislike is the idea that women are buying into the Beauty Myth and becoming self-hating consumers of all products/services they believe will lead them to this, largely unattainable, young thin ideal. If you love the adrenaline rush you get from exercise and want to be fit, great. If you want to cut out meat from your diet to become healthier, well, good for you. However, if you're publicly whining about wanting to lose weight without giving your reasons, don't be offended if we assume you're being negative. We've all been there and just don't want you making the same mistakes.

On re-reading my old article though, do you know what the really sad thing is about it? I said then that men are not under the same pressure to conform to specific ideals regarding body image but it appears that now, increasingly, they are. I've seen men's insecurities rear their ugly heads first hand and, on telling Twitter I was going to blog on this subject, a male friend told me that he also struggles with body image issues but that guys rarely talk about it. A recent episode of Glee rather surprisingly tackled the subject extremely well, showing that the same pressures affect young men these days and even the fittest guys can still see themselves as fat. So, if this is now happening to more and more young people, what on earth can we do to stop it? Answers on a postcard, please.

The images that accompany this post were taken, by me, for an A-level photography project on women and food in 2007. For the finished pieces, see my Flickr photostream.

Bounty and ethics


Camera Shy?
Originally uploaded by lipsticklori
Today I discovered that some companies think it's OK to cynically pass judgement on other people in order to promote their products. I hadn't heard of the Bounty parenting club before today, but now they will be forever linked in my mind with the claim that one in 10 UK women have 'tricked' a man into getting them pregnant. Seriously? They actually thought this was an acceptable and ethical survey to carry out? How does this benefit anyone whatsoever? As Dr Petra said on Twitter, "You have to question the ethics of Bounty.com using fears over paternity to promote their baby products".

I never plan on having kids of my own so it's not as if Bounty has lost itself a potential customer here but, if you're thinking of starting a family soon, I urge you to avoid them at all costs. And also please talk to your partner first about the whole baby thing. Remember Lori's top tip for lasting loving relationships: Communication.

East to West

This week, we returned from Hong Kong after a relaxing two-week holiday. This time we saw much more of the area than before, visiting not only Hong Kong island and the New Territories, but also making trips to Lamma (which is part of the Hong Kong S.A.R.) and Macau. One of the things we'd missed out on last time, due to closures at Lunar New Year, was a trip to the races at Happy Valley which turned out to be an extremely enjoyable evening of buffet food and drink, plus extremely poor betting choices. Thankfully the money we gambled was more of a token gesture than anything else or we'd have left the stadium somewhat less enthused!

Lamma Island was, despite being the site of the massive power station which provides all of Hong Kong's electricity, a little haven of peace and tranquility. Only a short ferry trip from Central, Lamma is a little car-free island with a rather hippy feel to it. A friend who now lives there invited us over for a Chinese-style beach barbecue, and a lot of food and Tsingtao was consumed under the trees in the afternoon sun that day. Thankfully, I didn't catch sight of any of the snakes or large spiders that they share the island with, or I'd have been out of there far sooner than planned. I did spot some rather nasty wildlife in Wan Chai on Hong Kong Island one night though. No, not the hookers... cockroaches! It baffled me how a group of expats could spend time discussing how awful living in England had been when their watering hole of choice was a faux-British pub with roaches in the toilets. Perhaps there were none in the gents, or these chaps' beer goggles were of truly excellent quality. Either way, a move to a better bar with crazy live music and a bunch of friendly locals and backpackers outside solved my creepy-crawly problem. The threat of a typhoon inspired quite a bit of 'I might not have to work tomorrow' drinking for some people that day.

The Macau S.A.R. is quite something else entirely. If I thought Hong Kong was full of contrasts - eastern temples meeting western skyscrapers - Macau is positively bursting with them. The old city has amazing Portuguese colonial architecture mixed with Chinese street markets, and then there's the Cotai Strip with its massive Vegas-style casinos which, according to Wikipedia, overtook the Las Vegas Strip in gaming revenues in 2007 after the entry of large foreign casinos. However, after the initial shock of all this wears off, one of the most striking things as you wander around places like The Venetian is that there's no ban on smoking in casinos in Macau. If they send the smokers outside, I guess they'd lose too much money! It was definitely a great place for a short trip from Hong Kong and was an excellent addition to our holiday.

I took a lot more photos on my travels too so, if you're interested, check out my Flickr photostream.

Playing pin-up

Guest blogger #4 - Burlesque performer Honey Schnapps attended a glamorous retro lingerie press event on behalf of Rarely Wears Lipstick.

This week I went to the most delightful afternoon event which promised dressing up and cupcakes. How could I possibly resist? Organised by lingerie brands Ayten Gasson, Playful Promises and Kiss Me Deadly, the afternoon took place in the cosy basement lounge of Moose, a ski lodge-inspired club on Duke Street just down the road from Selfridges. Attendees included Morgana, alternative model and face of Kiss Me Deadly, and 1940s vintage queen Fleur de Guerre. When I arrived I was greeted by a beautiful mirage of lingerie, statuesque pin-up girls and cupcakes galore. Overwhelmed by the fabulousness of it all, I didn’t know where to look first, so I started with a LoubyLou’s cupcake! The range of lingerie on show was retro yet very eclectic. Ayten Gasson's luxurious creations were made of pure silk, vintage Nottingham lace and came in sophisticated shades such as plum, olive and raspberry. I was particularly in awe of the Liberty print open back kimono top.

Playful Promises' offerings were cute and fun. This included their silk and satin briefs with tattoo-style embroidery, swimwear and flirty lingerie such as the 'Sweetheart' collection which had strategically placed hearts. Kiss Me Deadly appealed to my inner Hollywood vamp with their dark, femme fatale take on vintage-inspired lingerie. The prize for most seductive longline knickers would definitely go to Kiss Me Deadly. And I should know as I have put them to the test!

The main highlight of the event was the opportunity to either dress the glamorous models in garments from the collections or try them on and do a spot of pin-up modelling yourself! No prizes for guessing what option I went for. After a lot of umming and ahhing, I finally selected a Playful Promises red satin longline bra with matching longline girdle and seamed stockings. After adding the finishing touches of killer heels and a large white ostrich fan I was ready to strut out of the dressing room and, in the words of Rupaul, make love to the camera. Pin-up photography for the event was courtesy of the lovely Nicole from The Hourglass Photography, which specialises in pin-up, burlesque and make-over photo shoots. One of the main goals of The Hourglass is to help women feel confident and sexy, showing that you don’t have to be a top model to look gorgeous. To further make this point, The Hourglass doesn't use airbrushing in their make-over photography.

Overall, the event was a blast. It felt more like an evening party than an afternoon event as I discovered when I blinked at the glaring daylight as I left Moose. Glamorous lingerie is so uplifting! It should definitely be a habit to wear, not just for seduction and special occasions, but everyday.

Tattoos revisited

Guest blogger #3 - Today's post was written by Simon, aka BoogleHoops.

Tattoo needleA few years ago, BBC News picked the headline So why do 'normal' people get tattoos? I'm confident they only did so in order to stir up some extra debate in the comments section. I wrote the following blog as a comment on this story. When coming up with a topic idea for Lori's guest post I wanted to write about tattooing, and was reminded of this post from my old site. It's cheating really, but on re-reading it's a good reflection of my opinion which hasn't changed one bit. Whilst a few posts on the comments section made me angry they were, by and large, suitably rebuffed by intelligent debate from people with tattoos themselves. (The post from the Senior Company Executive who didn't like 'visable tatoos' [sic] was swiftly dispatched!)

Tattoos have been around for thousands and thousands of years. Aborigines, Native Americans, Ancient Egyptians, civilizations all over the world. Oetzi the Iceman had tattoos, widely understood to be a form of acupuncture. However, a large proportion of the population would only know that because Brad Pitt has a tattoo of Oetzi on his wrist, and mentioned it in Heat, or Now!, or whatever magazine is en vogue until teatime. Why is it such a surprise that more people are getting tattoos? As the (albeit sanitised) article points out they are no longer the domain of sailors, bikers and criminals. Some of the artists working today produce work that could scarcely be duplicated on paper. Body adornment and decoration changes constantly. It's not that long ago that women were using lead make-up and Atropine eye drops as a fashion accessory.

It's become more accessible in recent years, but in conjunction with that the attitudes of the artists and practice of the studios has had to change even faster. With improved knowledge of the threat of diseases like Hepatitis and HIV over the last 30 years, what was once seen as an unscrupulous profession for scoundrels by scoundrels has had to come to terms with fundamental changes in practice. They have had to be seen to be clinical, sterile, professional. With that publicity comes a breakdown in stigma, and more people looking closer than they would before.

I make no apologies for saying I am a purist. Tattoos are a rite of passage and should represent an important event or stage in life. If that is adhered to, and you don't get your ex's name in foot high letters on your chest, you should have nothing to regret. I have 7 tattoos, all done at specific stages in my life. And I'll be honest the pain feels good, it's a tremendous endorphin rush. Like I said, rite of passage.

Of all my tattoos and there is only one that ever caused me any regret. I was fortunate enough to be able to put that right very simply, and it taught me a valuable lesson. Yes, some people have some god-awful tattoos. It's not just about choosing a pretty pattern and getting it put on your skin, it needs thought. As for a tattoo preventing you getting a job, any boss who discriminates in that manner is a moron. It wasn't that long ago that women in trousers (as rightly pointed out on the BBC board) was considered unusual. Unless you have "my boss is a tool" tattooed on your eyelids, you should be judged by your work.

My advice is if you're thinking of having a tattoo, get some ideas and go and talk to an artist. Look online for recommendations, and ask for advice. Then go away and think about it. Make the image your pc or mobile background for a while... if you get bored of that you need to think about it some more. Also, if the history and culture behind tattoos interests you, check out the Body Modification Ezine, Modern Primitives by Vivian Vale, The Customized Body by Housk Randall, or Wikipedia's entry on Fakir Musafar, who is considered the Father of the 'Modern Primitive' Movement.

Images by Matt Borowick (via Wikimedia Commons), Rachael Gray and Simon Tierney-Wigg.

I want to ride my bicycle

Guest blogger #2 - Today's post was written by Beth Anderson.

While London may still not be one of the most bicycle-friendly cities - unlike Copenhagen maybe - we're certainly seeing a renaissance of cycling in the UK's capital city and from experience it's not a bad place to cycle around at all. What with the new London Cycle Hire Scheme and the Cycle Superhighway and company schemes like the Cyclescheme it certainly seems that cycling is a practical, health-benefiting and interesting way to get around the capital city.

When thinking about typical cyclists, we think of people such as the death-defying cycle couriers "speeding through the night" on their heavily-customised racing bikes and urban-guerrilla-cyclist outfits or maybe, more recently, the fixie-riding Shoreditch kid. If you're not sure what a 'fixie' is; it's a type of bicycle with no gears and often no brakes where the pedals are 'fixed' and move round as soon as the bicycle is moving without being able to 'freewheel' - a terrifying experience going reasonably fast around a corner, I can assure you! We also think about the day-glo cyclists riding robust mountain bikes, seemingly more suited to downhill cycling in the Alps than waiting at traffic lights on Camden High street.

Although cycling a lot as a child, I'd not really considered using a bicycle in London, preferring to get the Tube and reading a good book while ignoring my fellow sub-terrainian travelers. While the tube is a good way to travel, it often means you know a few areas really well, with huge blank spaces between as you travel from one to another. You are also subject to the vagaries of the TfL system, often cramped, delayed and frustrated. Walking is another option but London is best explored in small chunks if you wish to take a more pedestrian approach. There's also not much like rushing to a meeting in inappropriate shoes to get you flustered and hot by the time you collapse through the door, panting like a 100 meter finalist.

Often my experiences of bicycle shops have been your traditional local stores stocking racing bikes, hybrid bikes, some modern shopper types, mountain bikes, kids bikes etc along with a plethora of bright yellow outfits (vaguely reminiscent of a miner's outfit), a full super-club worth of flashing LED lights and more 'vented sports helmets' than you could shake a bicycle pump at! When initially shopping for a bicycle, I guess I fell into the category of most of us where questions such as; what composite tyres I wanted, if I wanted hub-brakes or derailleur gears, if I wanted kevlar mudguards etc. Most of these questions left me a little dumbfounded and I have to admit I felt a bit like an idiot. Not to mention that my friends will attest that I really don't do lycra! Well, not out on the roads anyway, maybe in a club in the 80's.

This was when I started shopping for a 'vintage' bicycle. Swayed by programmes such as The Edible Garden, I had an image of myself in a flowing, printed dress cycling down the side of the canals of North London to my organic veg seller's allotment and cycling back with a basket full of hand-picked fruit and veg, and maybe a copy of the Sunday papers too. I found a local store, found the bike I liked and ordered it. Simple! Except that six months later and more strange excuses than I've ever heard, my bicycle was still not here. Each week the same; going to the local bicycle shop filled with guys with dirty messenger bags and retro cycle racing t-shirts, feeling a bit stupid as I stood there waiting until they'd finished their conversation about paint-jobs and handlebars, then being disappointed all over again.

This was when I discovered Bobbin Bicycles. Last Tuesday I finally snapped and had enough. I cancelled my order with the previous company, and not about time, and went over to Bobbin's boutique in Islington. Walking in, I noticed it didn't smell of dirt and grease! Instead of the posters of men winning cycling races, there was gorgeous hand-stencilled walls, rococo mirrors, beautiful panniers and a whole host of lovely accessories - and I do love my accessories! Not to mention the selection of absolutely stunning bicycles! Within moments a friendly member of staff had come over and talked me through the various bikes and was looking after my bag as I pedaled around the nearby square on a bicycle that, quite frankly, put a huge smile on my face. It was just what I was looking for; vintage style, rear carrier, very substantial mudguards, vintage-style handlebars, big fitted lights and the most stunning deep metallic gold/brown paint! It was truly love at first sight! I told them I'd think about it, and left the shop as it already was 7pm; their closing time. Within seconds I'd walked back around the corner, rang the doorbell and told them I'd take it!

The next day came, and I excitedly went to the shop to select my horseriding-style helmet and basket and told that it'd be ready for me that afternoon. My cycle home that evening was one of the most pleasant trips I've ever done through London and each time I ride my 'sit-up-and-beg' Royal Dutch Gazelle Tour Populaire, I smile! It is truly a lovely experience and I've never felt more wide-awake, refreshed and relaxed as I arrive at the office with a feeling of self-sufficiency and freedom. Admittedly, my commute is along a canal and through a park, but as soon as you ride a vintage bicycle, you seem to look for 'long-cuts' and pick the pretty route, rather than the busy, fast route.

Bobbin Bicycles were set up in 2007 by directors Sian Emmison and Tom Morris and soon were doing such a roaring trade that they moved into their shop in Islington, "Britain's first cycling boutique" As soon as I walked through the door, I knew it was my kind of place. Friendly staff, gorgeous bicycles and every cycling accessory to make your cycling experience just as glamourous and pleasant as I'd daydreamed. From waxed cotton capes, allowing you to wear your regular clothes while cycling in London's occasional inclement weather to 'bowler hat' and 'deer stalker' helmets, reflective pom-poms to gorgeous cycling capes, baskets, helmets, reflective sashes, and even decorative plastic flowers; you can get everything you need to turn your drudging commute into a cycle-chic pleasure.

The photos accompanying this post are by lipsticklori. For much prettier bikes, you can find Bobbin's Bicycles online at www.bobbinsbicycles.co.uk or in their boutique at 397 St John Street, London, EC1V 4LD or give them a call on 020 7837 3370.

One night in Wan Chai

We first visited Hong Kong in 2005 (when I took this photo on my Lomo LC-A) and we did lots of tourist things. So far this time, it's been a rather different experience. Last night we went out with a lovely bunch of expat WAGs to a few bars in Wan Chai which, it turned out, were right in the heart of the red light district. We sat in a 'British pub' and had chicken in a basket, then moved on to a Scottish bar beneath a hotel that had big chairs and a lot of different types of whisky. After that though, things got a little crazy. With our now larger group, we headed to a bar called Dusk to Dawn and were greeted by a painting of a woman masturbating as we walked in the door. Well, I was... no one else seemed to notice it! The music was loud, the covers band rather good, and the table service for our cocktails was prompt. After a bit of time gazing at the band's pretty female singer and trying not to notice the hoards of people my parents' age who were dancing, the volume of the place became too much and we moved on.

Next was a brief visit to a bar across the road where the girls in our group headed straight for the dancefloor, only to decide after two songs that we weren't staying because the place smelled like a toilet. The final bar had to be seen to be believed though. Earlier in the evening, a woman called Kim had noticed me gawping at a couple of women in short skirts on the street and had told me that she and her husband liked to 'play the game' in this part of town - the game in question was 'spot the hooker'. When we entered the final bar of the night, Kim leaned over and, perhaps unnecessarily, said that we could play the game in here. It would actually have been more of a game to guess which of the women wasn't a prostitute, to be honest. As we made our way through the bar to get to the back and find a table, I was faced with more cleavage and bare legs than one would see on a night out in Essex. Only these girls were much more attractive and friendly.

We found a table and settled in to survey the scene. It was fascinating to watch a Western guy in his 70s dancing to a cover-band-performed Black Eyed Peas song with a beautiful Asian girl in her 20s. After a couple more songs, they disappeared off together. Then we spotted a Westerner in his 50s with another stunning younger woman. And another. There was no questioning what these people were there for either, as everyone was clearly on their own and out to make new 'friends'. So, after one drink, some dancing and a lot of people watching, we headed off to catch the last MTR train of the night back to Hang Hau. We definitely saw a side of Hong Kong that passed us by last time.

What is sexual harassment?

Guest blogger #1 - In the absence of lipsticklori, this blogspost was written by a girl who often wears lipstick.

Today, at work, in the office kitchen while I was rinsing out my coffee cup, a man spoke to my breasts. He literally stared at my breasts, said hello, and asked them how they were. His gaze objectified me. I wanted to take a shower. No, wait; I wanted to punch him, and then I wanted to take a shower. As a girl who often finds herself in situations where she quite enjoys men (or women) looking at her breasts, I wondered what it was about this particular situation that inspired such rage. What it was that made me feel so icky - sexually harassed, even. I stood there, blocking out his chat-chat about weekend plans, and attempted to rationalise this intangible feeling.

Wiktionary cites the following definition for sexual harassment: "unwelcome sexual advances".While the boob-talker's* actions were definitely unwelcome, and certainly felt sexual to me, I was at a loss to explain why they were so unwelcome. After all, if it had been that cute boy who wears the blue suits that was talking to my breasts, it would not have troubled me in the slightest. Was I even allowed to have double-standards like that? One man stares at my breasts and it's sexual harassment, and yet another man stares at my breasts and it's not? It led me to question (all Carrie-Bradshaw-esque)... what is sexual harassment?

Feeling a little hypocritical and conflicted, I did some research. While there are many different definitions of sexual harassment, they all agree that, if the victim feels uncomfortable, and/or the action is unwelcome, then the behaviour (or words) can be construed as harassment. I particularly like the Australian human rights commission definition: "sexual harassment is any unwanted or unwelcome sexual behaviour which makes a person feel offended or humiliated and that reaction could reasonably have been expected in the circumstances". It provides a little more clarification- that 'uncomfortable' feeling needs to be reasonable, but I still couldn't justify my double-standard - how could I be morally outraged at one man for staring at my breasts, and yet flutter my eyelashes at another? (Okay, so this is all hypothetical - I wish that man would stare at my breasts!)

It was the commission’s quick guide to preventing and responding to sexual harassment, where I found my answer: "Sexual harassment is not sexual interaction, flirtation, attraction or friendship which is invited, mutual, consensual or reciprocated". If blue-suit wearer were to stare at my breasts, it would be invited, mutual, consensual and reciprocated. But for boob-talker, it was not. My research has led me to believe that my double-standard is entirely normal. There are always going to be people who we are comfortable with, and people who we are not and, if someone who we are not completely comfortable with enters our personal space or interacts with us in an overly-familiar way, it is only natural that we will start feeling apprehensive.

Whether you choose to report sexual harassment is a personal choice, and not the subject of this blog post. I don’t think there’s a simple and blanket rule about the decision to report it as there are far too many factors involved, especially if it’s in the workplace. But if you have been harassed, it’s always possible to send the offender an anonymous note so that they know that their actions are unwelcome. Chances are they’re such a social moron that they haven’t realised the fact that you run screaming every time they enter the room means that their behaviour is unwelcome.

Image via rileyroxx's Flickr photostream.

*I’m totally allowed to use the word 'boob' in this case, right, Lori?

Time for a break

Back in 2005, Topper and I went to Hong Kong for the first time. It was around the time of the Lunar New Year celebrations, so I got plenty of photos of the beautiful red decorations and we really enjoyed the wonderful fireworks display over the harbour. It was a lovely holiday in a really exciting part of the world and we're lucky enough to be going back. This year's return visit may not be at such a vibrant time of year, but there should be a few more attractions to check out that were closed last time we were there so there should still be plenty to do. Also, my photography skills have improved somewhat since then (as has the standard of my compact camera of choice), so my Flickr updates will hopefully be a bit more impressive.

I am hoping to be able to blog while I'm away but, just in case, I have lined up a few guest bloggers to write for Rarely Wears Lipstick and keep you entertained. Now... back to the packing.

R-reg, one previous owner

I graduated in the summer of 1997 and, in lieu of any better offers, returned to my temporary holiday job of some years while I worked out what I wanted to do with my life. After a few months, I applied to the John Lewis graduate training scheme and decided to also apply for a job in the local store in order to give me a feel of the Partnership way of life to see if I liked it. The only problem with this was actually getting to the store, as it was out of town and the local buses were frustratingly infrequent. Therefore, I decided that the best thing to do was treat myself to a little graduation present - a new car.

My dad and I weighed up the pros and cons of new versus second-hand, but we decided that new was my best bet. There were some pretty good deals around that included insurance and breakdown cover, plus a new car would be far more reliable for all those little trips back up the motorway to Manchester to see my friends. That's how, in November 1997, I ended up taking delivery of a shiny new Peugeot 106 3dr 1.1 Independence. Small cars were quite basic back then so I plumped for the XL special edition in order to get the luxury of split-fold rear seats, power steering, a sunroof and a driver's airbag (yes, that was optional), plus metallic paint. For months my dad made me paranoid about where I parked it but, after the paintwork got its first light scratches, I slowly became less precious about it. It wasn't just called Independence, it was my independence.

That little Pug and I went everywhere together. I drove to work at John Lewis in it - with one other person on weekdays, and a further two passengers on a Saturday - drove to Manchester occasionally, and gave my friends lifts home on countless nights out. As hardly any of my friends could drive in my late teenage years, I'd got used to driving in the evening to save us all on cab fare. My new car was such a novelty that I really didn't mind continuing this trend and so it soon became known as The Party Car, with carefully composed mix tapes blasting as we set off into town or to a nearby club. When I met Topper, that car got me up and down the motorway every other weekend to see him. When I finally moved back to the north west, the 106 was my removal van. It helped us move into our first flat, made numerous journeys to Ikea, got me through my advanced driving test, trekked to North Yorkshire many times, and quite possibly knew its way around the streets of Manchester by itself. Two more home-moves later and countless hours spent flipping the back seats and filling the back with as much stuff as humanly possible, the time finally came to find a replacement.

The 106 always impressed people with the amount of boot space and it's always had a fair bit of poke for such a small engine, but it became loud on motorways and the lacquer on the paintwork is now flaking in places (thanks to Hackney bird poo, I might add). It's now time for 'luxuries' like a CD player, electric windows and air con. It's time for a vehicle that has sensibly-spaced pedals so that I can share the driving with someone who has larger feet. After nearly 105,000 miles together, today it's finally time to say goodbye to my little Peugeot and get a nearly-new Seat. My obsession with cars may have dwindled with the move to London, but my love of driving remains. Here's to many more happy, and quieter, miles of motoring.

Naughty Red Riding Hood

On Sunday I had the pleasure of taking part in a dark and twisted bedtime stories-themed photoshoot. I was Red Riding Hood and Topper was the Wolf - our friends Claire and Benjamin were Sleeping Beauty and the Prince. We'd all rehearsed performances for later that evening, but the shoot was to capture the essence of them. Prancing around in front of a camera? Oh, that's not my kind of thing at all. OK, maybe a little bit.

The photographer was the rather talented Ben Hopper, hair and make-up was expertly handled by Peta Sheahan of Glamourpuss Hair and Beauty, and our gorgeous costumes were provided by Prangsta. I shall provide links to Ben's images from the shoot as soon as I can but, in the meantime, this was my look for the afternoon... before I put on my red cape, of course.

Can I call you?

I can't remember anyone asking for my phone number on the street, on a bus, or in a bar. Strangers hardly ever approach me with the purpose of telling me I'm hot but, even on the very rare occasions when they do, they never ask if they can call me. (They just stalk me for two blocks until I say that I'm definitely not interested in going for a drink right this second. OK, so that was one time.) Some women get stopped on the street all the time or have guys simply look at their photo before wanting to get in touch to plan a date. Am I less hot than these women, or do I just look far less approachable? Every now and again my self-confidence deserts me and these types of question pop into my head, but I have no idea why. Would I want to be constantly bothered by strangers? No. Do I have time to see anyone else at the moment? No. Is my track record of dating people I haven't been friends with and/or chatted to on the internet first any good? No. So why on earth does it bother me that random guys in the street don't ask for my phone number?

But you know what's really odd about all this unnecessary worrying? I very rarely give out my phone number to people I have only just met as I have an aversion to making and receiving calls so, even if they were really hot, I'd say no anyway! I really have no idea how my brain works sometimes. Answers on a postcard please.