Monday, 23 November 2009

Day Five

As Jordan has ‘sprinkled a bit of girly glamour’ across the equestrian world with her velour based riding line obviously the practicalities of call girl style at a muddy stable needed to be investigated. I can confirm wholly and unevquivolally that ANYTHING to do with horse- holding, grooming, cleaning, riding… are TOTALLY impossible. The nails ping off, you can't grasp anything, and horses really don’t appreciate the levels of selfcare that go into being Upper Hartfield’s sex kitten. 

Next up, a trip to Sainsburys. There are, it has to be said comparitively few odd looks even though I’m tripping around in a floral mini, velour hoodie and I headbutted the bronzer before I left the house.

However I did get seranaded next to the pringles as a very melodious chap crooned that he wanted to give me some ‘good loving.’ Fabulous. I do begin to see a pattern the type of man who finds this look attract. Chavvy and brazen. I can honestly put my hands up and say that I have never found propositioning in the dry goods aisle a tempting offer.

Confusingly as I am wearing my little sister’s clothes I have to ask, is this level off interest some from of socialised peadophilia? Obvously I am old enough for it to be legal, and yet I am wearing, essentially, little children’s clothing. Deeply worrying.

Tonight is my night out on the tiles a la Pricey. Apparently on a night out she has looked at girls and thought ‘god what a slut’ before realising that she was wearing the same thing. The seperating factor, according to her, is that she doesn’t act like one. Of course.

So, curlers on, fake tan applied and I squeze myself into corset, platforms and a skirt hitched up to so more leg and tulle than I have eve shown before. My make up takes hours, with three layers of lashes, lip liner around (not on) my lips and I apply my gloss with a trowel, I also draw on my fake cleavage look with bronzer.

I feel highly over-exposed, to a level of virtual public nudity which isn't attractive. No wonder she goes on crazy diets, wearing this little every flaw is exposed, and it really isn't pretty.Ten minutes into our trip and I have been banned from repeating the phrase ‘I look like a common prostitute.’ Which I do.

Waiting on the station platform I am freezing to death- apparently I am not allowed a coast as a ‘puffer jacket would ruin’ my look as, of course, that is EXACLY what I would wear.

As it’s the Friday of Halloween I think I have been pretty lucky, but every double take resulting in me apologising, saying it’s a fancy dress outfit and I spend the entire journey loudly talking about my journalism job getting me to wear funny clothes. Just in case anyone hadn't got it.

Arriving in Brighton I discover that taxi drivers love this look. Leaning out of windows, flashing me, doing double takes. Who knew KP’s fan base could be so specific.

Walking down the road I realised that a city centre is infact the place to go where you don’t get double-takes. Girls in mini skirts, luminous tans and cleavage a-plenty and it becomes increasingly obvious to me that this look isn’t an object of ridicule, it just appears to be the norm.

At dinner, on a table of people who had been primed for my arrival, I was pretty horrified at how enthusiastic people were. My three sets of clumpy horrible lashes smothered in mascara were admired. I can barely open my eyes and to be honest it stings a bit, yet I’m not laughed at.

A staring woman in the toilet tells me how much she loves my skirt (where knickers are pretty much on show) and my eye make up which reaches up beyond my brows with a Cruella D’Ville shape.

Heading aross main roads and more enquires of where I was staying tonight were thown my way by classy looking men, but confused looks were pretty few and far between.

On the train we find a collection of drag queens, all of whom, unsurprisingly, thought my look was totally acceptable for a night out on the tiles. ‘Its great dahling’ said one titian beauty.

Moving to a bar in Haywards Heath (mmmm, I know) and I attempt to flirt by sitting on a man’s knee. ‘Sorry darling, I don’t need another girlfriend.’ I don’t bother again. Ah well, the life as Sussex’s most desirable is a lonely one….

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