So, tonight was spent curled up on the sofa, arm in arm with my mother watching the X Factor with a large glass of rosé, debating the merits of Cheryl Cole's delightfully fashion forward frocks and joining the rest of the nation in outrage at Dannii 'what grown woman spells her name that way? really' Minogue's very gossip friendly comments. Which proved more than tolerable, really. (The evening, not what that bitchy little Aussie said.)
Spent the last two weekends enjoying the luxury of some serious 'me' time, after a summer spent tumbling between friends, family, America and the boy. Which is why it was beyond wonderful to take the time to do the little things I relish and that make me who I am. Like having dinner with friends, walking the dog in the autumn leaves with my family, pouring over fashion magazines, downloading Belle and Sebastian's vicarious back catalogue, watching Juno AGAIN, whiling away hours in the perfume department of House of Frasers to pick out my next signature fragrance (leaning towards Paul Smith 'Roses' right now), making the time to kick off my transatlantic reading list, painting my nails a fetching shade of pink and picking out my sartorial and delectable fashion choices for A/W 09. I realise its probably less than altruistic but they call it retail therapy for a reason. See, I undertook my seasonal ritual of trawling the shops of my home town and making a mental wishlist for the coming months of cold breezes and hot drinks.
However, in the very selections I made, I realised with mild horror that I'm definitely closing in on being mature and 'adult.' Like things that I loved passionately about a year ago (like a lot of the more candied spectrum of the 'pop punk' genre, or coating my peepers in eyeliner) have begun to irritate me a little, and I now find myself more drawn to 'interesting' indie rock and quirky yet classic attire. What does this mean?
I'm not sure yet, but I'm pretty sure it's a good thing.