Manhattan!

It’s faintly liberating to finally post a personal picture having avoided it for so long.

I can’t say I’m ever going to do a Liz Hurley and have a stream of swimwear shots week after week; frankly I wouldn’t want to be responsible for anyone not fully digesting their breakfast; suffice to say, I’m too old. But maybe just the occasional one fully dressed top to toe, so you can put a face to a name. I hope that’s ok.

Now back to matters of importance! At 20:43 last night our mobile phones went into crisis mode as the New York alert system delivered a siren so loud we jumped up from watching the highly addictive ‘The Crown’. A tornado was apparently on its way.

Short, sharp and violently it hit us. At 49 floors up, the windows shuddered, the wind raged and howled, sheets of rain and hail were horizontally fired at us and below in the light of the street lamps, we could see the boughs of enormous trees, still heavily laden with their autumn leaves being violently thrown from side to side. Rubbish, detritus, road cones and plastic barriers were being tumbled and scattered down the streets with force. And not a person was in sight. Manhattan was understandably deserted.

We couldn’t hear the television through the noise, so instead of trying to resume the dramas within Buckingham Palace, the Colonel shouted to me about the marvellous engineering and structural strength of the building and the way in which glass is made for exactly these conditions; I wondered at what point we should hide in the bath and put a mattress on top of us, but perhaps that’s only if there’s a bomb … my mind was clearly befuddled.

Twenty minutes later and it was all over. I returned to The Crown with relief and a stiff drink; the grizzly, drizzly rain and weather at Balmoral Castle seemingly quite clement in comparison.

So I’m having a quiet day today, writing, cooking and drinking copious quantities of tea, alongside peaking a look at some of my swimwear beach photos from the summer. Nope, I ain’t never posting any of those! Some things are best kept to oneself!

Katie x

Family, Social Media and Selfies … Love ‘em or Hate ‘em

standing man on seashore taking selfie
Photo by rawpixel.com on Pexels.com

It seems to me however that every family has their own dusty cupboard full of skeletons. And, within said cupboard, there is usually a black sheep, a matriarch and a faintly sanctimonious do-gooder otherwise known as Joan of Arc. There are sometimes other variations, but usually at least one lurking somewhere in the twisted branches of the family tree.

I am not deluded enough to believe that my family doesn’t have it’s own armoire full of rattling bones, but suffice to say I love it just the way it is. (Indeed, I am probably the “troublesome” one).

But what I loathe more than anything else, more than tax returns and eighteen year old yoga students telling me to find my inner wisdom, are those on social media who try to portray a life of perfection pertaining to themselves and their family. THEY LIE!

I watched a young girl on the tube the other day taking selfie after pouting selfie, photoshopping and then posting them on Snapchat or Instagram or … “whatever”.

Yes, I’m a miserable old goat, but if any of her 500 apparent “friends” were indeed to actually meet her in the flesh for the first time, they might struggle to recognise her. The fleshy-lipped, bosom-heaving beauty with cheekbones as sharp as a knife in her picture, bore no resemblance whatsoever to the girl sitting next to me. The confidence with which she posed, pouted and flicked her hair whilst completely oblivious to the other passengers, made me question as to whether this confidence was borne from the prospect of the inevitable “likes” that she was no doubt imminently due to receive; or from the pleasure that she was getting from making a perfect version of herself. As I said, I am a grumpy old goat.

Sadly I suspect that if I did the same on WordPress, I’d probably have you all in stitches of laughter at me as I tried to stretch out the wrinkles, hold in the muffin tops and hide the bingo wings. As for the bosoms, well, perhaps the answer is simply to do a handstand. I’d have bouffant hair if nothing else, except perhaps a cardiac arrest. The thought of that level of exertion is requiring a little lie down and some ginger nuts which won’t help the muffin tops, alas, I care not.

But, back to those skeletons. I wonder if those who pose for the happy family pictures in the luxurious locations that the majority of us can’t even pronounce, truly believe their own publicity. Is it a form of propaganda? Is it advertising oneself, and if so, for whom?

And when I see beautiful photographs of beaming happy families on a gin palace in the south of France, are they really trying to pretend that their decree nisi hadn’t recently been signed, or that the youngest child hadn’t just been expelled from a rather top-end public school for selling drugs? Why must we attempt to portray perfection?

To be clear, I am not perfect. I am annoyingly bouncy, irritatingly highly strung, scream with gusto if frightened, have dyed my hair which has resulted in a distinctly purple and yellow striped tinge, have lines, wobbly bits and am a grumpy old goat. I am not saying that I love my flaws, but I do the best I can with what I have been given and accept the rest. (Just call me Joan, Joan of Arc). Surely life’s too short to be worrying about what the rest of the world thinks? Isn’t it? As for the hair … there’s some work to be done me-thinks …

Katie

Are you perfect? Flawed? Or perfectly flawed?