April is the cruellest month, although this April does seem to be a particularly dastardly one. The only way to feel more cheerful about tramping about in the rain is to do so in a pair of top-notch groovy shoes. The boy surprised me last week with this totally hoopy pair of silver glitter Converse lace-ups, and now the pavement is my discotheque.



In other news, I am wildly excited about the new series of Doctor Who starting. Chris has challenged me to ‘Whocap’ the entire series, which, given my poor short-term memory and expositionary skills, ought to be of use to no one but entertaining to all. Join me tomorrow and help fill in the gaps!

I was looking at frocks on ye olde internets today when I became intensely irate at the fashion 'advice' spewed all over the place by well-meaning bloggers and should-know-better, right-on women's sites. Because almost everywhere I look, ladies are being advised to hide or cover or disguise or generally be ashamed of themselves.

Arms both skinny and chunky should be sleeved, twiggy legs need boots, long necks need necklaces or scarves, pale triceps must be fake-tanned, thick waists need flowy optical illusion, flat chests need bolstering, COVER YOUR SHAME, for chrissakes, won't you think of the children?

Apparently my only hope, as a stumpy sturdy girl, is to wear a plunging v-neck and swaddle the rest of my being in burlap sacking, and then to limp around ringing a bell, shouting 'PUNISH ME, FOR I ENJOY CAKES ON A BI-MONTHLY BASIS AND AM UNDESERVING OF LOVE OR NICE TIGHTS.'

Well screw you, internet. I shall wear sleeveless tops with abandon! And kitten heels! And calf-length boots! And horizontal stripes! Actually, no, that would be awful. But I'll do those other things, and I'll look bloody fabulous while I'm at it.

ppppppttttthhbbbbpppp