Hipster begone

Are we witnessing the dying days of the hipster? It seems that the back has well and truly lashed on those particular dudes. Much as I love perusing Unhappy Hipsters however, I would be very sad to see this particular strain of trendies go the way of the Plesiosaur.

(I'm with Dinosaur Boy - when are they going to bring a 'saur back? Jurassic Park was released in 1993 for gods sake. That's 17 years you've had, scientists.)

Ahem.

Why would I miss this bunch of vacuous, image-obsessed, cooler-than-thou twats, you ask? Well, for a start, without hipsters life would be a lot more beige. Who but a hipster would catch my eye by striding past wearing lace leggings with leather shorts and yellow suspenders? Who else would have the chutzpah to wear glassless national health specs, with a tipped back trilby and a deadly serious bitchface? What brightens up an inner city footpath more than a brace of beautiful, sleek, and completely impractical fixie bikes?

Without hipsters, how would we know what the latest trends are, if only so that we have occassion to reaffirm our own inherent uncoolness?

I think it's dangerous to stray into the territory of naming that which is cool - as soon as you (meaning I) mention it, you can guarantee it's officially over and the hip kids will sneer in your general direction for your sad inability to keep up. I'm reminded of a scene in the Mighty Boosh (movie, please!) where the bible of cool - Cheekbone magazine - is so current that it's delivered by ninjas every three hours.

Far easier to name that which is not cool*:

Being jolly. Being simple (emotionally, not intellectually). Being a dag. Laughing (unironically). Laughing so much you cry. Laughing so much you snort. Watching action/rom-com blockbusters. Being alone. Not caring about fashion. Buying clothes because they are cheap. LOLcats. Being enthusiastic. Excercise. Scoffing food. Ordering lemonade at a bar. Not drinking. Ordering tap water at a restaurant. Smiling at strangers. Talking to older people. Older people in general (by which I mean over 25's). Not owning a mobile phone. Not owning a laptop. Trash mags. The X-Factor. Modern day children's television shows. Reading Stephen King. Reading John Grisham. $2 shops. Cheerful decor. MP3 players that are not ipods. Ringtones. Living in the suburbs. Shopping malls. Being awake before 10am (unless you're still going from the night before). Decaffeinated coffee. Tea with milk and sugar. Being in the normal weight range. Calling drugs by their actual names.

I could go on - this is familiar territory for me - but I think I'd better leave it there for now.

I'll leave you with this ode to regionally specific hipsterdom by a new Melbourne-based discovery of mine:



*Some, but not all, of these may or may not apply to me. I'm not here to judge, just to opinionate. The last sentence may or may not be true, subject to objectivity.

My hips don't lie (but I wish they would)

Is it time for a nineties revival already? What is the deal with fashion reviving an era that only ended TEN YEARS AGO? At this rate, we'll have to start wearing fashion from last week with a side order of irony in order to be current.

I couldn't quite get on board with the eighties retro look - I lived it the first time around, kids, and despite what you may have been led to believe, it was not remotely pretty, at least not in my outer-suburban town. It was less off the shoulder sweat tops with leggings in muted greys, and more high-waisted turquoise tracksuit with lace stripes that your mum sewed on.

Nineties flashbacks though, those I can appreciate. Ahh, the nineties - grunge was god, girls could embrace their tomboyishness, everyone recycled (fashion and rubbish), shoes were stompy rather than... stripper-ish. Customising was big. It was actually uncool to wear designer labels, and if your wardrobe was mostly gleaned from op shops then you were far cooler than the preppy kids with money.

Oh how times change.

Ever since I started noticing the nineties stuff in the shops, I have been feverishly obsessed with tracking down the perfect pair of ankle boots before I leave London. An update of the black elastic-sided combat boots I wore in the nineties, generally with a long skirt (these were unsexy post-AIDS times, remember). I have a very clear picture in my head of what my new boots should look like: tan leather of good quality, lace-up with hooks at the top, possibly but not necessarily brogue style, round or almond toed with a flat or low heel. In a size 9. Yup, that's one bigger than they make them for women (generally). GREAT. Wish me luck, y'all.

As well as the last minute perfect-shoe-finding panic, I'm having to contend with a little wardrobe dilemma in the shape of a smidge of extra weight. Alright, more like a dollop. Make that a sack. I have been taking medication which, while it is a godsend for helping me cope with my anxiety and sleeplessness, is notorious for making you stack on the pounds. I have put on somewhere between 10-12 kilos since I started taking it, and although I'm still in the healthy weight range for my height, I have put on enough padding around my middle that I don't fit into most of my pants anymore and the sight of my new profile in the mirror makes me... well, kind of anxious.

Full disclosure: I am well aware of the body issues that most girls suffer from a young age, and I feel very lucky to have never had to worry about my size or weight up to this point. Don't think I got off lightly - I just skipped straight to obsessing instead about my terrible teeth, huge chin and complete lack of cleavage.

This new figure has, however, given me a new insight into the life of the vast majority of privileged western women in that I find myself:

1. Dressing strategically rather than haphazardly
2. Painfully aware of how many calories are in that cupcake with frosting staring at me from the bakery counter
3. Obsessing about my size and weighing myself daily (I can't believe I am displaying this classic neurotic woman behaviour, and yet I am unable to stop).

I'm reluctantly coming to terms with my new fuller shape, even though I'm a little nervous that I'll never lose it now that it's there. But I'm learning to live with it. Thank god for loose dresses and leggings. Hopefully by next Winter - a good year away as I'm skipping a season by moving back to Oz in Spring - things will be back to normal, in every respect.

With any luck I'll be wearing those tan ankle boots while riding my pashley around Melbourne, looking like a right nineties-loving librarian.

Things I've learned while cycling

1. Babies/toddlers can't get enough of you. If your kid doesn't look up and smile ecstatically at each bike that goes past, pointing their chubby fingers and saying "buh! buh!", then I'm sorry but there's something wrong with them and you really should check in with your paediatrician.

2. Cowl neck tops and cycling do not mix, especially when pedalling into a strong headwind.

3. Likewise wrap dresses.

4. In order of danger: trucks, buses, white van men, pedestrians, 4WDs, young men whose cars reek of marijuana, sedans, hatchbacks, Smart cars.

I bet you'd look good on the dancefloor

Loving my new magic shoes (they make your feet look smaller). This one's for you, Em!

Cycling chic

I recently gave up wearing a separate cycling outfit to work - partly to save myself the hassle of carrying extra clothes and the faff of getting changed in the locker room; but mostly out of sheer vanity. I got sick of seeing gorgeous London girls sailing past me, dresses and heels carefully coordinated with their Pashley's, immaculate hair streaming out the back of their fancy helmets, while I trudged along in old track pants, a second-hand reflective jacket and flouro vest.

Vanity beats safety, I'm afraid. When in Rome...

Here's what I've learned about cycle chic (this was before I discovered these two brilliant websites devoted to girly-biking):

Dresses and skirts are surprisingly easy to wear on a bike - the perfect shape is a knee-length swirly skirt which gives you room to move each knee independently and still preserve your modesty.

Leggings (the bike shorts of the noughties) are your best friend. Can be worn with any skirt but work especially well with mini's.

Wrap dresses are a no-go unless you like flashing your knickers and stocking tops to all the bankers and construction workers at 8am in the morning. I sure as hell didn't.


I don't know what she's smiling about.

There's no need to wear ugly flouro clips - you can peg the leg of most pants by tucking them tight against the ankle and rolling up. Skinny jeans would be perfect - if you're emaciated enough to wear them (I'm not).

Heels are also surprisingly easy to cycle in: you just hook the pedal between the heel and the arch and away you go. Just be careful taking off at the lights/standing up as these shoes tend to be quite slippy.

A long scarf is brilliant in the Winter months. I advise applying the Kelly Cross (I am pretty sure I am the inventor of this technique so I hereby christen it thus). You wind the scarf once around your neck, cross the ends over your front and tie or tuck at the back. Keeps your front and your lower back warm. Works best when hidden under a jacket.

And finally, in the event of a sudden hailstorm, I advise taking shelter at the nearest bus stop/shop awning until it passes.

Halloween legs

The infamous purple tights, of Prince concert and work Summer Social fame. I knew I would use them again, and what better occassion than a Halloween fancy dress night down at my local?

Shopping with girls

I have always maintained that lone shopping is the only way to go. I don't understand those girls for whom shopping is a form of entertainment and "leisure", who head out in noisy, colourful gangs and make a day of it. For me, I want to have a very quick browse on my own, maybe try on some things, buy what I want, and then get the hell out of there. If there was some magical way for me to order clothes over the internet, whilst being able to try them on at home without the hassle of returning the duds, I would sign up in a flash.

Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy a bit of clothes shopping. And I secretly think that, had I married a footballer - in some parallel universe where I turned out girlier and more idiotic - I would quite happily shop more at a lot better class of store. I don't have anything against a bit of rack-fondling and trying-on of outfits I know I am never going to buy.

But whenever I go shopping with other girls, without fail, I end up buying something that I regret later. And the other night, I outdid myself.

I don't know how exactly I ended up buying an original 80's, faded retro dress with puff sleeves and a blowsy rose print, but I know that I did, because it is in a yellow bag on my bedroom floor, with a receipt for £20.

Can I claim Temporary Insanity due to overdose of oestrogen particles, lack of oxygen due to intense giggling, and befuddlement of senses due to Gary Numan blasting out of the speakers?