Before I start, I’d just like to let you know that I bloody LOVE fashion bloggers – yes, even those who meet every single #fblogger stereotype going. Do I envy their beautifully put together outfits, perfect hair and amazing fashion sense? Yes. Do I wish I could pull off a “oh, I just so happen to be standing gracefully in front of a pastel pink building with a pug and an iced coffee” Instagram shot? Yes. Am I more commonly found with a handful of Cheesy Wotsits and an Aldi Bag for Life than a DSLR and a Chanel clutch? Also yes.
I’ve never been the most *stylish* of individuals. When I was little I sported a gorgeous combo of unruly curls (think Little Orphan Annie if she stuck her finger in a plug socket), dungarees (‘dungas’, we called them, because casual) and probably not a lot else (there are an awful lot of naked Baby Sally photos knocking about in my family albums – serving body-ody-ody since day one). While I looked quite sweet in my matching raspberry duffel coat and beret, I couldn’t pull off Toddler Sally style forever.
Primary school saw my first realisation that I didn’t wear ‘cool’ clothes when I turned up to non-uniform day in a knitted poncho and tiedye trousers – and it’s a realisation that stuck with me til my early twenties. While I’m sure we’ve all got those embarassing photos of our cargo trousers and slogan tops (I distinctly remember a ‘Beach Babe’ and ‘Army Girl’), my fashion sense didn’t appear til… erm… probably about a month ago.
Without further ado, here’s a few reasons why I’ll never be a ‘proper’ fashion blogger, not counting the fact that in the above photo, I have a burn on my hand from a STIR FRIED MUSHROOM.
Posing is one of THE most awkward and horrendous activities I’ll ever have to do. If I smile for a photo, I make audible ‘aaarrgh’ noises through my teeth. My eyes glaze over. I get a proper sweat on. It’s not good. It took my mum standing on my bed and cropping my head and legs out before I liked a photo enough to use for my last fashion post. And I still looked like Marina Joyce in all the outtakes. #freelittlebudget
Linking outfits in my Instagram bios would take about fifty years, and be the most unhelpful things ever. “I think I got this from a charity shop once but I can’t quite remember.” “Pretty sure this is my boyfriend’s teeshirt but I put it over leggings because they were see through at the back”.
Once I’ve said “’cause look how pretty”, I run out of ways to describe clothing.
I’ve been known to go out in public with my pyjamas on under my clothes. Sometimes its an accident. Sometimes I just want to whip everything off the SECOND I get through the front door and live my best pyjama life.
I’m very, very small. This would be fine if I knew how to angle my photos so I didn’t look like I was the size of a Polly Pocket.
Blogger events, while I appreciate being invited, bring about a kind of panic I didn’t know existed. I DAREN’T take photos. I skulk around on the outskirts in case anyone gets an unflattering photo of me (fyi: 99.9% of photos of me are unflattering).
I don’t “get” catwalk fashion. I can appreciate a mannequin in H&M like nobody’s business, but stick a model in head-to-toe Tweety Bird yellow and draw something ‘geometric’ on her eyelids and I’m just a tad confused.
I am a serial outfit repeater. I spend my days in leggings, and if I’m not in leggings, it’s because I’m in the bath. You’ll find me in some variation of tee-shirt which never fits right, trainer socks and muddy trainers. #Goals.
I don’t have a glamorous group of friends to take outfit photos and borrow each others’ blazers. I’m most commonly found napping with my dog, or scruffing about eating pizza and watching Friday Night Dinner with my boyfriend, who would probably laugh in my face if I went for a ‘candid’ photo.
Speaking of my dog, I don’t have the perfect little dinky chihuahua or a doe-eyed Frenchie. I have a hyperactive crossbreed with smelly feet, wiry hair and bad manners. Don’t expect to see her getting any brand deals for Bark Box any time soon.
So, although you probably won’t be seeing any beautifully poised Starbucks-sipping, designer-bag-toting outfit photos from me, you’ll probably see me making a dick of myself in my newest Pep & Co pinafore dress, my dog-walking wellies, and a smile. Hope that’s okay.