Just a little introspective drabble I wrote when my mum fussed over my dad. My mum isn’t the type to say “I love you” and our family is definitely more the roughshod affectionate type than to play sugar sweet nice to each other. Which is why it’s all the nicer for the small moments.
The Connotations of Knitwear
You knew my mother loved you when she bought a jumper. “This one is high quality,” she’d say, petting the wool gently with her hand as if it were still on the lamb.
She’d start her labour of love on the high street, maybe visiting Harrods for an elicit thrill but inevitably ending up in T. K. Maxx. She’d while away her rare days off pondering over whether if you preferred the crew neck or not, divvy between the corduroy or and leather elbow patches, and eye up – gasp – what percentage the blend was.
The politics of yarn never failed to thrill. The 100% sign of the wools or the angora on label elicited smiles of triumph when she proudly presented the knit to you later, but it was the golden word of cashmere that rang her bells.
“Cashmere,” she’d say in hushed, reverent tones, raising both eyebrows to make you understand the seriousness of it. The purity. Cashmere meant Christmas or that she loved you very much. You were worthy of being encased in its delicate warmth.
For me the ‘tell’ of my mother’s love was the ritual of the jumper fitting. The coy, excited smile – “I bought a jumper for you! Try it on!” – her ensuing fuss of whether it fit well or itched to much or if alterations could be made – that was mothering. And the secret, proud smile at the end: “It’s 100%.”
Pink jumper, vintage/Trousers, Topshop/Heels, vintage/Necklace, Topshop.
I’ve been a nightmare lately. A menace rather. I’ve been touting this pink jumper on my back wherever I’ve gone the last three days, and only the concept of personal hygiene has allowed me to reluctantly pry my grubby hands off of it. I want to wear it everywhere. To work, outside, at home, in bed… You know, for those days where taking off your cosy little knit to change into pyjamas seems inconceivable. (I have a cardigan as well that doubles as a dressing gown. Am I taking this too far?)
It’s getting bad enough to the point my boyfriend sighs when he sees me in it. And my brother raises that eyebrow and says, “Oh, that one again, huh?” I’m telling you. It’s a disease.
…to apologise? Here, have some food, you might be less angry. Delicious bibimbap to calm one’s nerves.
I am sorry. Truly sorry. The kind of sorry where the puppy-dog eyes are brought out, because honestly there’s been no excuse for so long with an update… or is there? Job interviews, work, parental birthdays, writing articles on LoveScene Magazine, Masterchef Professionals (It’s like crack. Or live sport.) or having fun (that old chestnut)… No. No excuse at all.
So accept my whimpering apologies, and feast your eyes on the visual excuses instead.
A view down Birmingham centre, readying for Christmas.
Chocolate brown nails. Not evoking the food metaphor with all the make up at all, huh?
Proving that rainy days are good for something.
Everyone gets girl crushes. Right? Though I’m bad to the point that when I check someone out on the street my boyfriend knows that 99% of the time it’s just me staring at some girl’s shoes and ignores me being all creepy.
More than that, girl crushes are so crucial for getting you out of a funk. So this winter I will do my utmost to not revert back to penny loafers, too much black and navy, peter pan shirts – i.e.: channelling Alexa Chung, AKA ‘Chunging It’, AKA excellent style but taking it easy – and try to channel Alisa Ueno instead. Even if it is winter. And she is wearing a bikini in one of the pictures.
(All images from http://alisaueno.tumblr.com/)