Sometimes I feel like I'm living in some quirky British comedy novel-- the sort with lipstick kisses and Art Deco handbags on the cover. Surely no real person sits on her unmade bed with a black sock on her right foot, and a red sneaker on her left that she bought three months ago for 8.99. I thought it was only Bridget Jones who picked through a box of chocolates while surfing the Net for Regency wedding gowns (because I had a dream last night that I was getting married, and ended up with a horrible gold and white Renaissance enesemble because I hadn't shopped properly beforehand). And isn't it only Jasmin Field who writes up half of some Very Important Paper to discover that half the second page is a restatement of the first?
I know I'm not the only girl who wonders about whether thongs are truly feasible on a day to day basis. And certainly every other person on this earth drinks chamomile out of a wine glass because all her tea cups are filled with unopened tubes of red lipstick. The shopping is a common problem. Everybody has a Sex God they want to snog (although, to be perfectly fair, wanting to snog celebrities is such universal feeling that I shouldn't even list it) And actually, I'm not too sure it's Jasmin Field who's a journalist. I know she's in a charity production of P&P with that dishy Harry Knowles-- but doesn't she write something in between times?
Why are all British heroines journalists, anyway? Are they really just pathetically thin disguises of said authors? The Perfect Elizabeth (which, contrary to first expectation, was not another offering of modern P&P, but modern S&S in which I couldn't even fathom who was meant to be Marianne and who was meant to be Elinor. Bugger) certainly was made up of said Mary Sues. Only quirky Mary Sues. Because it's quite certain that nobody tangible writes their thesis on the function of toast in Jane Austen novels. Not even me, so perhaps I'm not Bridget Jones yet. But give me time-- and a Jigsaw suit, perhaps, and I'll see what I can do.
I know I'm not the only girl who wonders about whether thongs are truly feasible on a day to day basis. And certainly every other person on this earth drinks chamomile out of a wine glass because all her tea cups are filled with unopened tubes of red lipstick. The shopping is a common problem. Everybody has a Sex God they want to snog (although, to be perfectly fair, wanting to snog celebrities is such universal feeling that I shouldn't even list it) And actually, I'm not too sure it's Jasmin Field who's a journalist. I know she's in a charity production of P&P with that dishy Harry Knowles-- but doesn't she write something in between times?
Why are all British heroines journalists, anyway? Are they really just pathetically thin disguises of said authors? The Perfect Elizabeth (which, contrary to first expectation, was not another offering of modern P&P, but modern S&S in which I couldn't even fathom who was meant to be Marianne and who was meant to be Elinor. Bugger) certainly was made up of said Mary Sues. Only quirky Mary Sues. Because it's quite certain that nobody tangible writes their thesis on the function of toast in Jane Austen novels. Not even me, so perhaps I'm not Bridget Jones yet. But give me time-- and a Jigsaw suit, perhaps, and I'll see what I can do.