Of Swift And Sandwiches

I work in Celeb-land.

I also exaggerate sometimes, because, actually, I work in a normal (albeit nice) office which just happens to be close to a super-renowned, super-expensive hotel, which is where a lot of famous people stay. The paparazzi hang around a lot, and occasionally they get really excited.

I went out to get lunch last week, and that was exactly what was going down when I got back, fish finger sandwich in hand. I don’t usually pay it much mind, because I often haven’t heard of the famous person being hounded, so I was about to go inside to enjoy my delicious sandwich while it was still hot. But then one of my colleagues came up to me.

“Nicola. It’s Taylor Swift.”

“Fuck off.”

T Swift is kind of my role model. I mean, she’s not really, but she’s the same age as me so I sometimes hold her up as an example. By which I mean I will sit in front of the TV in my dressing gown and a sprinkling of toast crumbs and say ‘Nicola, Taylor Swift got Apple to back down, you can probably get dressed’, ‘Taylor Swift wrote a whole bunch of albums which are all you want to listen to ninety per cent of the time, I’m pretty sure you can get off your arse and write a couple of jokes’, or even ‘Taylor Swift sings about wearing red lipstick, you should probably try that’, which is a bad example, because I then just look a bit shit if I don’t also have T Swizzle’s makeup artist to apply and then constantly fix it for me.

Anyway, Tay. Exciting times.

We waited around for the next twenty minutes, as my sandwich went soggy. We waited, and waited. We got more and more impatient. A car was waiting, exactly in line with the door to the hotel. The exit was thronged with teenage girls. The paps kept testing their cameras. We were all primed.

Then, it happened.

Kim Kardashian rushed out, climbed into the waiting land rover, and was whisked away, chased by the paparazzi, who are, incidentally, terrifying.

I’ve never felt so betrayed by Kim Kardashian. I’ve actually never had any feelings about Kim Kardashian at all, so that was new.

And with that, the excitement was over. I went back to my office, sat down at my desk, and tucked into what was, by then, a bag of cold mush.

Kim, if you are reading this – and I don’t see any reason why you wouldn’t be – you owe me a damn fish finger sandwich.


A Trip to The Registry Office

One of the many things I didn’t realise about weddings is that you have to give notice to someone (I’d love to be more specific, but I don’t really know who the notice goes to, or if there is even a real life notice you could go and touch). You’re not just allowed to rock up somewhere and do the deed, which is disappointing, because I always thought that was going to be a drunken mistake I made one day. Back to the drawing board.

So yesterday, fiancé and I had to go and give notice. We hadn’t been there three minutes when I found myself desperately avoiding making eye contact with a toddler, who had arrived with his parents to register the birth of his new sibling, and who was desperate for somebody to acknowledge that he had toy cars with him, and for that person to agree that they were orange. They were not orange. The boy was probably an imbecile.

At the same time I had to avoid eye contact on the other side from the fiancé sitting next to me whose hold on my hand had got a fraction tighter when the boy had disturbed everybody’s peace by running in. He wants children, like, tomorrow. I want them, like, tomorrow plus at least a good five-to-ten years, my own home that I own, and the ability to employ a nanny. So no more eye contact anywhere in the waiting room. It was fine. They had a good seven years’ worth of ‘You’ magazines to flick through. You know, you really should try dry body brushing if you don’t hate yourself already.

This was the first actually piece of wedmin (wedding admin, obvs) that we’ve had to do in our entire nearly-two-year engagement. We have so many restrictions working against us because of the whole visa thing that we haven’t been allowed to book a wedding yet. It turns out that’s a big ‘no no’. When we told that to the quite-scary-but-mainly-lovely Irish lady who had, up until that point, pronounced everything she’d seen or heard from us as ‘grand’, it became abundantly clear that everything was no longer ‘grand’.

If we could all pretend this is an Irish registrar's hands on a computer keyboard, and not the first thing that came up on a stock photo website, I think we'll all be a lot happier.

If we could all pretend this is an Irish registrar’s hands on a computer keyboard, and not the first thing that came up on a stock photo website, I think we’ll be a lot happier.

You have to know where you’re getting married so it can go on your notice. I think I’m going to have to get that printed on the order of service somewhere to explain why I’m now getting married at the one place I always vehemently said I never wanted to get married. Every window you look out of affords an excellent view of the worst place I have ever worked in my entire life. I’ve refused to enter the building since my last day there, even though I’ve been dying of thirst while walking past when they have a café, or busting for a pee when they have a toilet. No thanks. I’ll take my public indecency charge and go in the street if it’s that bad. And now I get to have it in the background, watching over the biggest day of my life. It’ll definitely be watching, because it has to be sentient in order to suck the joy and life out of people. But when a quite-scary-but-mainly-nice lady is sitting in front of you with pre-filled forms that already list her specific registry office as a venue, and she’s telling you that you’ll have to give notice another day if you don’t have that decided, and you know there’s no space in your schedule of visa paperwork for a single day’s error, you give up your one requirement. Wedding planning is not for people with spines.

After that, it was alright. The quite-scary-but-mainly-nice lady threatened us with perjury charges several times if any of the information we were providing was false, which is fair enough but, for someone who’s had as many intermittent cold feet as somebody who permanently lives in the Arctic, even informing her that I’m definitely sure about getting married was enough to make me develop a small eye twitch. She winked back at me. I think I got away with it.

It was definitely a hump (giggle, snigger) that we needed to get over, and probably means the wedding is in early July. I guess I should be finding a dress, then.



Ideas Tap is fantastic. For those not in the know it provides opportunities for networking, funding, and career growth for emerging creatives in Britain. To my knowledge it’s almost unique in that it includes people from all disciplines. There’s no snobbery, and you don’t have to have achieved anything much. All you need is to be willing to interact and to try things out and you’ll get along just fine. There are all kinds of weird and wonderful people on there, and it’s a brilliant resource, even if the only thing you use it for is the social networking.

But there’s so much more to it than that. I’ve heard about and applied for more creative jobs through Ideas Tap than I care to mention. I’ve signed up to get free head shots, and been able to attend seminars about tax for freelancers (in the hope that one day I’ll be one).

As we speak, one of my friends is using the crowd funding facility to get a great show up to the Edinburgh Fringe. It’ll have tie ins with schools and a political element, too. Ideas Tap members don’t just use the opportunities they get for their own gain – they’re public spirited, and interested in making real changes for the better.

Ideas Tap also allows members to gain experience where they might not otherwise have had a chance. I won my first ‘brief’ in 2012. It was for writers, and gave me the chance to go to Birmingham and work with High Tide for two days, exploring what it would take to get my writing on stage. At the time I was truly miserable, stuck in a hellish job, and really doubting if I’d ever get the chance to do anything remotely interesting with my life. Winning that brief gave me a glimmer of hope and spurred me on. I admit right now that I haven’t kept up my ties with High Tide. However, I’ve got 3 extra years worth of notebooks full of scribbles and I’ve had other successes because I was – this sounds wanky and I really apologise – inspired to keep going at that crucial point when I was about to give up on everything.

I’m very vocal in my belief that creative people don’t really need an extensive period of study to do what they do. You don’t need a load of degrees to be a photographer, or a PHD to be an artist. Are you a filmmaker? Great. Grab your camera. A writer? Lovely. Pick up a pen. A Musician? Awesome. Choose your instrument. Now sit down and do your thing. Realistically, regardless of what happens we’ll always be creatives to some extent.  But  in so many cases Ideas Tap has proved to be the difference between someone who does something on the side (and there’s no shame in that – some of us have to) and someone who can do their thing full time. The right connection made here, the right brief won there, the right funding secured at the right time…. Anything could be the key to an amazing future. And I don’t know anywhere that makes those opportunities as accessible as Ideas Tap.

In the coming months the news is going to be dominated by politicians making all kinds of empty promises to woo older people into voting for them. It would be so easy for the voices of relatively few young artsy types to get drowned out in all of the noise. We can’t let that happen. We all need to do whatever it takes – campaign, rally, shout from the rooftops if that’s how you want to go about it. Whatever your thing, we need to #SaveIdeasTap.

Add your voice here: http://www.saveideastap.com/

A Letter I Wrote To The Daily Mail

Kate Middleton's hair in the Daily Mail

For context, this is the picture/article/general tone and attitude that was on the front page of the Daily Mail on Thursday and royally pissed me off. No pun intended. They just flow out of me along with the bile.

To whom it may concern,

Loads of things have happened in the last couple of days. For example, the ceasefire between Russia and Ukraine looked like it might be in danger. Greece was in the middle of financial negotiations that might affect the whole of the Eurozone. Some disgraceful behaviour by Chelsea supporters set the world’s view of British football fans back at least twenty years. And more important than all of that on Thursday, in your opinion, was Kate Middleton’s hair! She is thirty three years old and is going a bit grey. She’s walking around, living her life, growing the odd child here and there, and acting like it’s not her top priority to be dying her roots to appease some sweaty paparazzo. Maybe she’s even decided that it’s her right to choose whether she wants to do it at all. It’s just slovenly.

In the article that accompanied to the giant photo and offensive, patronising headline, which took up most of the front page, was an expert reassuring readers that some pregnant women do make the choice not to dye their hair while they have more important things to be getting on with are experiencing this minor blip in their aesthetic appearance. The expert neglected to mention that some women have their own minds and can make their own choices about what to do with the stuff that naturally grows out of their bodies.

I’ll be honest. I’m not actually that fussed about Kate. She seems perfectly nice, but I don’t know her so I’m not really interested in her day-to-day life. But as a 25 year old woman who’s just starting to go grey, I’m incredibly insulted by the half of a front page you devoted to one thirty three year old with some dodgy (and by ‘dodgy’ I mean ‘perfectly natural’) roots. Guess what? It doesn’t matter and it is certainly not news that women go grey, and thirty three certainly isn’t an unusual age for that to happen.

I know it would all be much easier for you if females didn’t exist at all, but the sad fact is that we do, and we’re going to continue to live our lives and not dye our hair quite as often as the Daily Mail thinks we should. Or – shock horror – we might actually decide to rock the grey because it actually looks amazing a lot of the time. Some teenagers even willingly dye their hair the-colour-that-must-not-be-named these days. And I know us taking control of our bodies and doing what we like isn’t really on. And I know we’re supposed to be aspiring to end up on the sidebar of shame but, quite honestly, we have so many better things to do with our time. Some people actually value us now, and treat us as equals. It’s weird, but kinda cool.

What I’m trying to say is this. If a woman, of any age, decides that their hair isn’t their top priority, that is a decision they are entitled to make. And it doesn’t matter if they’re old or young, poor or a middle-class-girl-turned-royal. It doesn’t warrant a headline, or a snide mention by Amanda Platell/Jan Moir/Some other odious columnist who doesn’t realise how loathsome everybody thinks they are, or even a funny look in the street. We can do what we like now. It’s great.

I actually have a list of suggestions for where you might like to try shoving every piece of hairstyling advice you’ve ever printed, however I respect you as a human too much, and therefore would never make unwarranted suggestions about how you should live your life. Maybe you could do the same for me, Kate Middleton, and our entire gender?

Kind regards,

Nicola Masters

(P.s. It doesn’t matter that you won’t publish this because I’m posting it online anyway.)

This Is Snow Joke!

Important news: It is winter. I know this will come as a shock to the three hermits left in the UK who haven’t been outside and frozen a few minor parts of their anatomy off. But it is winter.

I’m actually going to go out on a limb and claim that it really hasn’t been that cold this year. And, as a person who has a certain amount of prestige gained by living on the East Coast of the USA last year (hello, Polar Vortexes. Plural.) I am allowed to make such claims. You weren’t there, man. It was minus double figures for weeks.

This really gets me to the crux of the matter for today. It’s high time we all started our seasonal one-upmanship for the year. Christmas is over, so we can no longer passive-aggressively compete to decide who ate the most. New Years is over so ‘who’s the biggest alcoholic?’ is out of the window too. So, who is coldest? And who can go on and on about the weather without being completely objectionable to everybody around them. Honestly? None of us. But that’s never stopped anyone.

With yellow snow warnings (snigger) all over the place at the moment, it seems like the perfect time to stretch that all-important attention-seeking muscle. Because, let’s be very honest with ourselves, that’s what we are doing. Everybody knows it’s winter because we have eyes and nerve endings, so it doesn’t technically need to be mentioned at all.

However, if you do insist on mentioning it anyway, just remember to follow these three tips in the two hours and thirty seven minutes between the snow falling and it all disappearing again:

1. Add inches. This is the one time nobody can ever really measure. If you get a tiny sprinkling on the roof of your car, that can easily be upgraded to an inch. A light dusting all over is probably nearly two inches anyway, so you might as well tell people that’s how much you had. An actual couple of inches anywhere is truly dramatic and can easily be bumped up to a foot. And don’t forget that drifts count. If you ’embellish’ the amount of snow to people who do not live where you live, they can never prove if you’re lying. Which, of course you aren’t, because you’re embellishing. And if you accidentally embellish to somebody who lives close by and knows exactly what you’re doing, they’re quite likely to keep schtum and thank you for making their life sound that bit more dramatic for once. Embellishments FTW.

2. Stockpile essentials. And yes, I do mean alcohol and takeaway menus. You might be dramatically snowed in, but the Dominoes up the road is probably, conveniently, not.

3. Engage whinging mode. Why does the country shut down the second it gets cold? ‘The wrong kind of snow’ – what does that mean, National Rail? Why are they not able to grit my tiny, insignificant cul-de-sac with five houses at 3am? Grumble grumble grumble. However, know in your heart of hearts that you are going to claim that getting into work on Monday is simply impossible and positively unsafe. Because that tenth of an inch inch of snow on the ground might be fuckin’ slippy.

And, if all else fails, take a tip from these fine gentlemen:

You’re so welcome for all of these very useful tips – make sure you send me photos of all of the wintery fun you have. Except please don’t, because I have SO MUCH MORE SNOW THAN YOU and it’ll just embarrass us both.

A Very Black Friday Indeed

Black Friday does not exist in England. Or at least it didn’t. In a proud moment we got the chance to bear witness to the UK’s first ever Black Friday last, well, Friday. We saw police called in, fights breaking out between shoppers, and insane crowds on Oxford Street (and probably other places with sops too but I’m a very London-centric person and we may as well be talking about Mars as far as I’m concerned.)

I missed all of that because I was gnashing my teeth and staring at my computer screen. Herein follows a tale of woe.

I have a Christmas present to buy. It’s quite pricey, but myself and my sister are splitting the cost, so it’s not disastrous. But ever the opportunist, I thought ‘I wonder if I could get this a little bit cheaper on Black Friday’. This thought occurred to me roughly 10 minutes after I publicly stated my disapproval and intention to boycott.

OK, ‘intention to boycot’ is too active a description. ‘Intention to not bother’ is more like it. Either way. Not only am I opportunistic, I’m also very hypocritical. So I accidentally had a look on a few websites. I wasn’t about to go to actual shops, because a) I hate people and all places where there might be people and b) I have a job that requires me to attend in the daytime and preferably minus black eyes sustained after getting in the way of angry mothers hunting down TVs. So. One of these websites had a stupid queuing system, so I let it tick over quietly in the background while searching every other place I could think of. I found nothing, because the thing I wanted in the first place wasn’t a huge TV (although, don’t get me wrong, I want one of those in my life more than I want children) with £200 knocked off the price that was suspiciously raised by £200 the week before.

So I sat, and I twiddled my thumbs, and I waited to be ‘let in’ to the site.


Black Friday

“Twenty Four minutes. Hmmm. That seems kind of ridiculous, but I can deal with it. What’s the worst that could happen?”

I went about my day. I ate my breakfast, answered some emails, and left it ticking away in the background. Twenty two minutes later I went back, expecting to have a minute left to wait.

Black Friday

Insert tiny fit of rage here.

I actually had a full minute more to wait than I had when I very first started waiting. Still, nine minutes later, my time had gone down considerably.

Tiny walking man, did you do a cheeky long jump that I somehow missed?

So all good. But then that stupid little man in the progress bar stopped walking. For ages, I watched the little man in the progress bar strolling merrily on his way to the land of discount electrical and household goods. And then he stopped. For nearly an hour he’d been like a hamster in an internet wheel – always moving, never getting anywhere. Until he decided it was fuck this shit o’clock, stopped, and just started staring at me from his bar of perpetual motion.

Black Friday

“Tra la la…. What a lovely day to stand, relax, and enjoy the scenery. Oh, hello. I didn’t see you there. Who are you? Is that your desk? Are you always that messy? You look angry. Does your hair always look that bad? Shall we play a game? What games do you like?…”

He stared at me for nearly ten minutes. Then, suddenly, began whistling and skipping on his merry way again. The only catch was that it was with more time to wait than ever before.

Black Fraiday

Oh, yes, tiny walking man. You get walking. I like the way you move. It’s like you were born to do it.

Fortunately, while he was staring at me and pondering, he managed to devise a way to bend time and space, because in five minutes we had less than ten minutes to go.

Black Friday

Did you walk through a Tardis?

And then in another five minutes, he got me really very excited.

Black Friday

Ooh, teeny walking man, I love it when you tease me.

And lo, the wanderer did make it to the promised land.

Black Friday

What’s that? It sounds like choirs of angels and cherubs playing harps.

A full hour and eight minutes after I was told I had twenty four minutes to wait, I finally made it. Did I find what I was looking for? No. Absolutely not. To be honest, it was a long shot in the first place, but I got stubborn and decided I couldn’t give up.

However, I learned a lesson that fateful day. If your heart is pure and your river of patience runs deep, you will make it where you want to go. As long as where you want to go is a land of discounted televisions and other assorted electrical items.

Who am I kidding? I want to go to there.

Did you do anything for Black Friday?

Dear Amazon

Please excuse my writing. I can’t stop my hands from shaking, ’cause I’m cold and alone tonight.

Nah, I jest.

Let me start by saying, I love you, Amazon. I really do. Deep down, I know you’re evil, but I have no qualms about kicking the little guys to the kerb if it means I can get stuff just a little bit cheaper, a little bit quicker, and without having to leave my house. And the last bookshop in my town closed two years ago so that they could open a second Nandos and an all-you-can-eat restaurant, so if I want to buy books I don’t actually have that many options.

I preordered a book in July. It’s all over Instagram, which means it’s super-cool, which means it’s OK to say it was ‘Yes Please’ by Amy Poehler. It was released in the UK on November 6th, which I know off the top of my head because I was so excited. And then on the morning of November 6th, instead of getting an insanely over-packaged (the earth hates you, Amazon) but otherwise innocuous parcel, I got the below email.

Ways to make an allegedly grown woman cry.

‘Yes Please’ wasn’t going to be available to ship until after Christmas. Which is so funny, Amazon, because you were selling it that same day for next day delivery. You’re also selling it now and it’s still available for next day delivery. It’s almost like you have enough copies to go around to everybody who ordered them. The email said I could cancel my order, which I immediately did because to hell with that, and when it asked why I was cancelling, there was no option for ‘I’m being screwed over and I give up’. I ordered the Kindle version in 3 seconds flat – because I’m angry, Amazon, but like any trust-abusing relationship I will keep coming back for more – and I looked forward to reading it and hating you at the same time.

I wouldn’t even mind (That’s a lie) but the order I made before this one was also a pre-order. ‘Not That Girl’ by Lena Dunham, if you must know. I’m so zeitgeisty. This time there were no emails. There was nothing at all. Instead I just sat there, refreshing my order status, looking at the black letters that said ‘not yet dispatched’. For at least three days after the book’s release, it was ‘not yet dispatched’. Not until I wrote to you, Amazon, to suggest that you pull your thumb out of your arse, did anybody think to pop a book in an envelope and just slip it in the post. It’s not like my order was somehow shocking to you. You knew about it for a fortnight before the book came out. You probably had the books in the warehouse a couple of days before they were released, too. Anyone might think you’d pack up the pre-orders in advance of (‘pre’, if you will) the date of release. Apparently not. Maybe I’m too optimistic. I like to see the best in all massive, heartless corporations. I know deep down you love me.

I don’t want to contact you directly, Amazon, because you can be certain that the person on the receiving end of my vitriol is not the person who should be and, having had to professionally take complaints about other people that I shouldn’t have had to take, I know that’s not fair. It’s also futile.

It was short. It was sweet. We tried.

(I swear I’m done now.)

Anyone else have a love/hate relationship with a website?

Nobody Cares What You Think

I realise that by the mere fact of me writing about my opinion on this we’re all likely to be swept into a black hole of hypocrisy and (the bad kind of) irony, but it’s probably worth it because we all just seem to be lying down and taking this ugly new development of the past year or so.

People keep feeling compelled to tell me what they think. But they don’t just tell me – they tell everyone. And it’s not in the context of any kind of conversation relating to the subject they’re suddenly holding forth on, but rather through the inescapable medium of the internet (I know that some people just stop looking online when they get annoyed or bored. I, however, would genuinely prefer to shove a hand in someone’s face and wordlessly walk away mid-conversation than close down Twitter of an evening, so I am not one of them.).

We live in a troubled world, and we seem to be stuck in a particularly troubled period in the troubled history of this troubled world. People have so much they feel compelled to discuss. Every time there’s another rocket attack somewhere, or someone famous dies, or there’s a riot, society immediately sits down as one in their pyjamas and publishes their own official statements on the matter. They lay out their suggestions for solutions, they pompously discuss their disappointment like it’s going to make a difference, and they invite debate with other, equally self-important nobodies.

It needs to stop.

I’m all for the sharing of news – it’s one of the most useful things about social media, and occasionally invaluable. I can’t remember the last time I got new information from a physical, real-life newspaper. That’s how efficient it is. But that’s where it should end. I barely care about the opinions of important people whose thoughts actually matter. Just imagine how tiny the shit I give about my ex-colleague’s sister’s action plan for the Middle East is going to be.

So next time you find your Facebook status straying into the realm of current events, stop. Remember how insignificant you are, keep your opinions to yourself, and post a picture of an adorable puppy or a funny cafe sign instead.

Aaah... That's better.

Aaah… That’s better.

Between Meme and You

Yay internet! People continue to churn out nonsense and claim that it’s an ‘inspirational quote’, and therefore, I still have something to keep me happy. It’s the circle of life.


 See the light in others and treat them as if that is all you see.

So make sure you wear a hat, sunglasses, and sun cream, and try not to scream too loudly as your retinas burn.

Never regret something that once made you smile.

Even if is is the eleventh cocktail you drank on a night out, and you woke up with a strange person in your bed and couldn’t look directly at them because you were treating them as if light was all you could see and it hurt your head. And you can’t remember their name.

Wherever you go, go with all your heart.

Because really, it’s just way more practical than not doing that and hemorrhaging in the departure lounge.

 If your dreams don’t scare you they’re not big enough.

False. What if my dream is to have a bunny farm? That is not in the least bit terrifying because it is adorable. And who are you to judge my dreams. I can dream what I like. Right now I’m dreaming of french fries.

Take time to do what makes your soul happy.

Sure thing. I mean, souls don’t exist, but if they did I think mine would probably be happiest watching TV and eating cake.


What nonsense have you seen on the internet this week?

Happy hump day!


WTF Weddings

I’m supposed to be planning a wedding next year. That wedding is my own. I’m not really naturally interested in wedding-y stuff, despite all of my best efforts to the contrary. I mean, I’m on Pinterest, I look in the windows when I walk past wedding dress shops, and I’ll read the occasional wedding blog post. That should be enough, surely? But it seems like maybe it isn’t. My main idea for my own wedding is to have it not be shit, which is possibly too general. There are so many different parts of the wedding planning process that I can’t get my head around, so I’ve decided to break it down one-by-one and see if that helps me to get to grips with the really confusing parts. Today, I’m putting Chair Covers under the microscope. Presumably you know the things I’m talking about? They’re generally white, and often have a ribbon tied around to correspond with the colour theme.

I seriously do not see the point of the chair cover except that it gives venues an opportunity to whack the price of a wedding package up a couple of hundred more pounds.  They hide the fact that the chairs are chairs, except that they don’t, because people are still sitting on chair-shaped objects that can only really be one thing. But now all of their chair-esque features have been masked by a big, white,  chair-shaped envelope. Often complete with bow. They are very stressful for the Average Joe Food-Dropper, because they add yet another spotless, white surface to a dinner situation where good behaviour is already expected. Who needs the stress?

As a bride-to-be, the ‘crazy’ switch in my brain is supposed to have flicked by now, to make me think that hiding chairs is worth the money. However, there’s been a glitch. The way I see it, there are three possible reasons for people to be choosing to use them.

Disgusting arse shelves.

Disgusting arse shelves.

1. Snobbishness. Chairs are disgusting. They have been touched by arses. The arses of people. The arses of the general public. Not even familiar arses. Stranger arses. Of course they must be covered up because otherwise you know everyone’s going to get gastroenteritis from just looking at all of the chairs in that room. Just hundreds and hundreds of filthy arse-ledges. What bride wants to be reminded of the existence of arses on her wedding day. Cover the evidence!

Holders of commoners.

Holders of commoners.

2. Snobbishness. People want to pretend on their wedding day that they and their family are so special on this most special of all days, that they do not even need a chair to hold them up. They can eat their prawn-cocktail-followed-by-the-beef while levitating both majestically and effortlessly, on nothing but a cloud of pride and relief. Just, uh, don’t look at the white thing underneath them that’s shaped like a chair, because it’s not a chair, they’re too special for chairs, how dare you insinuate that they would need such objects to on this most auspicious of days. The mother-in-law is holier-than-thou because see how she hovers upon that delicate, white – um – cloud.

Flaunting their nudity. Pairing off. What are we, in a sex club?

Flaunting their nudity. Pairing off. What are we, in a sex club?

 3. Snobbishness. A return to Victorian values. The covering of piano legs was all the rage when the covering of female legs was too. And when a woman suddenly wears white again like it means something (no criticism here because I am totally doing the same thing), maybe we’re not supposed to want to see all of those naked chair legs. Disgusting. What is this, the Chip ‘n’ Dales? I mean, they are Chippendale, but still. Such a rich brown, and so curvy, and so hard and- I’m sorry I lost my train of thought.

Sadly. as far as I’m concerned, chair covers remain weird and pointless. I cannot for the life of me figure them out. Why, as a bride, am I supposed to be ashamed of sitting in a bog-standard chair? Answers on a post card please. I’ll just be in the corner waiting. Sitting on a chair. Feelin’ grubby.