There is nothing, repeat nothing, more cringingly awful than people quoting song lyrics as if they are deeply meaningful works of literature. It  is painfully, toe-curlingly embarrassing. When a friend who shall remain nameless told me that, overcome with love one day, she texted her boyfriend the lyrics to Chasing Cars, a small part of me died inside.

But if I were ever to make an exception to this rule (and I won't, but if I were), it would be for Mr Steven Patrick Morrissey. The man is a genius. He's also a bit of a pompous twat with borderline racist tendencies, but a genius nonetheless. What's more, he's the Hubster's favouritest favourite ever. 

The Smiths are known for being, well, a bit glum. A bit moany. Lines like, "for once in my life, let me get what I want. Lord knows, it would be the first time," don't exactly help to alleviate that impression. But trust me, it's not all just depressive whining. Some of it's angry, some of it's thoughtful, some of it's even - whisper it - funny. ("I was looking for a job, and then I found a job, and heaven knows I'm miserable now." I mean, COME ON.)

And some of Morrissey's songs are the best love songs ever written. Fact.

Not the "oh, you're so beautiful and everything's so perfect, I want to hold your hand and gaze lovingly into your eyes and frolic through soft-focus fields forever and ever" kind of love song. I'm talking about the gritty, honest, this-is-what-love-really-feels-like-and-it's-sometimes-quite-shit kind of love song. 

I'm talking about lyrics like, "Boot the grime of this world in the crotch, dear, and don't go home tonight. Come out and find the one that you love and who loves you."

Lyrics like, "You're on your own tonight, with your triumphs and your charms, while they are in each other's arms."

Lyrics like, "I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does. There's a club if you'd like to go - you could meet somebody who really loves you. So you go and you stand on your own, and you leave on your own, and you go home, and you cry and you want to die." (Erm, okay, that one is kind of depressing.)

Lyrics like, "And if a double-decker bus crashes into us, to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die. And if a ten-tonne truck kills the both of us, to die by your side, well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine." (That one is so good, the awesome Celia has it framed above her bed, and Fin and I had it printed in the back of our orders of service on our wedding day, despite my aforementioned hatred of lyric-quoting.)

And then there's my favourite Smiths line. Maybe the best Smiths line ever.  This line:

"It's so easy to laugh. 

It's so easy to hate.

It takes strength to be gentle and kind."

Boom. Told you Morrissey was good.

Tell me I'm not the only Moz fan lurking in the blogosphere. Or tell me I'm wrong and the lyrics to Chasing Cars are in fact a sophisticated expression of the power and and simplicity of love rather than a pile of cheesy meaningless crap.

(Sorry, Nameless Friend, if you're reading this. Nothing's changed, I still love you. Only slightly less than I used to.)

{Amazing Penguin Classics/Smiths posters by Hunting Bears. Why is the Ask one sold out? WHYYYY??}

When I first saw this picture on Pinterest, it took me a few moments to figure it out. But when I did, it touched me so much. I love imagining some young man, scissors in hand, tongue out and brow furrowed in a perfect picture of concentration, carefully cutting out his sweetheart's face. Was it to fit in a heart-shaped frame, or was it just a moment of whimsy? Did they marry and grow old together, or did they quarrel and part, leaving the picture crumpled and torn, a literal broken heart?

I carry a picture of Fin in my wallet that was taken nearly ten years ago. I see it ten times a day, but rarely do I look at it. Oh, he looks so young in it. I still remember when the picture was taken. I know who he is talking to, just out of shot. It has faded over time, been transferred from purse to purse, become imprinted with a decade's worth of coins and cards and grubby receipts. I know I should really replace it with something more recent, one of our wedding photos maybe, or one that Lucy took, and yet I resist. There is something lovely about that first bit of love, when you are young and sparkly and new.

I hope they did marry. I hope that young man carefully tucked that picture somewhere safe and carried it with him wherever he went. Carried it in his heart.


(Incidentally, Fin has a picture of me in his wallet. It was taken just as we were saying our wedding vows. One of the kids he works with, on seeing it, announced loudly that "Fin's wife is really hot." I love that kid.)


{Image is, I believe, from Even Cleveland but I haven't been able to find the source. If anyone is any the wiser, do let me know.}

Ever since I read this post on Florence Finds (have you all seen Florence Finds, by the way? It's a new lifestyley blog from former Rock My Wedding blogger Rebecca Norris. It has the same kind of vibe as the wifey posts on RMW, with lots of fashion and interiors, and also some more cerebral offerings in the form of Florence's Book Club. It's pretty fun, if a little behind the times on certain things...) (wow that was an incredibly long parenthesis) (sorry) I have been lusting after a pair of sparkly shoes. 

The Christmas party season is looming large in my diary and I am b.o.r.e.d. of all my current shoe options. Plus I finally got rid of the bags in my wardrobe, so my options are actually fairly limited. In short, I have a vacancy for a pair of fabulous wear-with-anything party shoes, and I am damn well going to fill it.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, I am finally beginning to recognise my sartorial and physical  limitations when it comes to shoes. Perhaps it's another sign I'm getting old? Anyway, in order to satisfy my new, grown-up, post-de-cluttering criteria, a pair of shoes must:

♥ Be versatile. Which means, for party shoes, it has to be black. Much as I adore gold and silver and sparkly rainbows, let's get real. I have five near-identical little black dresses in my wardrobe at this exact moment and I believe black opaque tights are one of the greatest inventions of the 20th century. When it comes to party shoes, if it's going to go with everything, I'm with Henry Ford: any colour, so long as it's black.

♥ Not be too high. My 19-year-old self is shaking her head as I write this, but the big bag I sent off to the charity shop was stuffed to bursting with beautiful shoes, gorgeous shoes, shoes that I absolutely loved - I just couldn't wear them. I'm simply no longer interested in teetering around like Bambi, as the blood slowly pools in the balls of my feet and I lose all sensation in my toes, before tumbling head over too-high heels in front of a restaurant full of people (that's never happened to me. It's definitely not happened to me twice. On two separate occasions). Of course, "too high" is a highly subjective concept. Under four inches should do it.

♥ Be amazing. Clearly.

♥ Oh, and be reasonably inexpensive. So that rules out these bad boys.

After conducting extensive internet research when I was meant to be working, I eventually found myself perusing the offerings of a certain online catalogue store. Desperation had clearly set in - I can't say this was a website I had ever tried before. But by this stage I had narrowed my search from "generic party shoes" to "very specific style of black sparkly boots" (why do I always do this?) so I was willing to try anything.

And guess what? They had not one, not two, but FOUR black sparkly boot options. Who'd have thought it.

OPTION 1: TOO MUCH

I think we can all agree that, even for a person who likes sparkles, these are ever so slightly OTT. Unless you are looking for the perfect boots to complete your gay pirate costume, in which case, your search is over.

OPTION 2: TOO LITTLE

I do like a shoe boot, but these have a touch of the Christmas elf about them. Plus I can tell just from looking at them that they breach the four-inch maximum. Moving on.

OPTION 3: TOO WTF

I just don't even know what to say.

OPTION 4: JUST RIGHT!

Well, I hope they are, anyway. I have ordered them, in spite of having to jump through an obscene number of hoops to do so, including being duped out of a free delivery offer before being required to enter into a compulsory credit agreement for a store account. The account carries an eye-watering APR of 39.7%, which is even more shocking than those Uggs. I feel guilty for giving my business and my money to a company that plasters a bright pink "WHY WAIT?" all over its site (um, "because I can't afford it"??) but shoe shopping is HARD, and I was tired, and I knew I would pay it off and cancel the account immediately anyway. 

Still. The shame persists. All I can say is, when these shoes finally arrive, they'd better look gooooood.

Anyone made any exciting Christmas party purchases recently?

UPDATE: east side bride just posted about these sparkly boots. I am so ahead of the game.

Silver sparkly boots: Le Blog de Betty. The others are from very.co.uk but I can't bring myself to link to them, the irresponsible money-stealing bastards. Ooh, speaking of money *tenuous link alert* there are some super interesting comments over on yesterday's money post on Any Other Wedding. Well worth a visit.

My local supermarket looks like Barbie's wardrobe has exploded all over it. Everything is inexplicably pink. For a moment I'm confused, until it clicks. Ah yes. It must be October. 

October, for those who are colour blind or live in a cave, is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I feel oddly ambivalent towards it. On the one hand, it's a cause close to my heart. On the other, I'm very well aware of it already thank you very much. I do not need a vomit-inducing ocean of pink to remind me. And I feel like breast cancer has an unfortunate tendency to hog the limelight - and the funding, and the research - to the detriment of other, less glamorous cancers. As if there's anything glamorous about any of them.

But today, for one day, I will put my misgivings to one side and shout from the rooftops, because today is the second ever Secondary Breast Cancer Awareness Day.

I've written a little bit before about how it feels to have loved one with secondary breast cancer (the short version: it feels crap). What makes it even harder is the extreme learning curve that hurls you upwards into a confusing world of metastases and taxotere and stages and prognosis and a million acronyms that you have no hope of ever understanding. At first, I thought my mum just had really bad luck. Imagine getting bone cancer when you've already beaten breast cancer! Then, later, I learned she actually had breast cancer in her bones, and began to understand just how unlucky she really was.

(By the way, if you're still wondering what exactly all this secondary breast cancer stuff is all about, allow me to direct you to this wonderful comic. Its creator's wife was diagnosed last year with Stage III breast cancer and he sums up in a few lines and letters what a hundred detailed booklets and websites can still fail to make clear. Also, this one. Weep.)

I'm not saying it would have been better if I'd known secondary breast cancer was a possibility. I would probably have spent the decade between my mum's primary and secondary diagnoses worrying about every ache and twinge, and I wouldn't wish that on anyone. But it's scary how many women who have had breast cancer don't even know what it is or, more importantly, what to look out for. And on a purely selfish level, it would be nice, once in a while, not to have to explain to a well-meaning person that words like "cure" and "battle" and "better" don't actually help. Secondary breast cancer requires a different kind of positive thinking.

The bigger issue is that primary breast cancer - its prevention, its treatment, its care - dominates the fun runs and the research budgets and the public understanding of what breast cancer is.  It can sometimes feel like the medical community has turned its back on secondary sufferers, preferring to concentrate its precious resources on the victorious finality of a Cure, instead of on the slippery and amorphous concept of Control. Yet many women who have been treated for primary breast cancer will one day have to face the sadness and terror of a secondary diagnosis (we don't know how many, because nobody is even collecting this data), so isn't it time we started paying attention to them too?

So, today, I would be ever so grateful if you would share this link - like it, tweet it, +1 it, print it out and stick it on your notice board, I don't care. Breast Cancer Care is a wonderful charity for all people affected by breast cancer. They have made a big difference to me and my family and they really deserve our support. 

Thanks team.

There is a distinct autumnal chill in the air. The brief warmth that flared up at the end of last month has fizzled out as quickly as it appeared, and Autumn is well and truly upon us, necessitating the purchase of cosy winter coats. So what better way to pass a wet October Saturday afternoon, for a girl temporarily without a husband and with absolutely no plans, than sitting alone in the darkness with nothing but her wildly beating heart to keep her company as a tragic love story unfolds across a silver screen?

No, I did not go to see Johnny English Reborn. I went to see Jane Eyre. And I adored it.

From the muted colour palette and spine-crushing corsetry to the restrained passion of the central performances, everything about it is beautifully understated. I was utterly spellbound from start to finish and actually continued to wander around in a dream for a good two hours afterwards. So much so that, as I strolled through the shops in a cinematically-induced dwam, I found myself inexplicably lusting after dresses such as these: 

I can't imagine why.

And the lusting didn't end there. I hesitate to admit this, but I don't think I've ever read Jane Eyre, nor have I read Wuthering Heights (oh, the shame), so I spent much of the first half of the film trying to remember which of them was the crazy-first-wife-in-the-attic one. That question was answered soon enough, and promptly replaced by far more pressing issues: namely, where can I find myself a Mr Edward Fairfax Rochester and can I get him to run away with me immediately?

Byronic heroes are a bit of a weakness of mine (in literary terms, you understand). One only has to glance at a list of typical traits to understand why. "Intelligent and perceptive". "Self-critical and introspective". "Mysterious, magnetic and charismatic". "Seductive and sexually attractive". "Having a troubled past or suffering from an unnamed crime". Hello, bad boy. Mix in a bit of period style (floppy hair, billowing sleeves, offensively long sideburns) and SWOON.

I frequently find myself indulging in full-length romantic fantasies involving whichever brooding antihero has most recently leapt off the pages of a book and swept me off my metaphorical feet. Hell, even Edward Cullen would do in a pinch. Two souls yearning for each other, smouldering declarations of love, some sort of unexpected tragedy and maybe a bit of riding around on a horse looking manly. Isn't that what a perfect romance should look like?

Well, maybe.

But what happens after the last page has been turned, the last frame has faded from the screen? Most of these epic, tortured romances culminate in a wedding, an engagement, or some similar declaration of everlasting love. Cue passionate snoggage and ebullient strings, as the camera pans away across the windswept moors. The End. Except it's not the end, is it?

Dresses by Louche, available at Joy. All images from Jane Eyre