Would I have found this so funny before I became a dog owner?

I reckon I still would.

I also reckon Smidgen is never going to be allowed off her lead ANYWHERE, EVER. I  mean, can you imagine???

I hope that those of you who celebrated Thanksgiving had a delicious time, and that your trousers still do up. Those of you lucky enough to be heading to a certain bash ce soir, have a fabulous night. Give the gorgeous Anna a high five from me. 

As for me, I'm taking my sparkly boots on their first ever outing. I may be unable to walk tomorrow. But it's worth it, because they're sparkly, and it's Christmas (sort of. Okay not really. Whatever).

Happy weekend, peeps.

A confession: I actually quite like pink, if it's a nice pink (hello, blog). I also carried on playing with Barbies for longer than anyone who hopes to have a normal social life reasonably should, only giving up when the potential embarrassment of being found out by my friends was finally greater than the joy I found in making up stories and creating outfits and designing floorplans all over my bedroom carpet with precarious rows of books as walls. 

But I also read those books, and rode my bike, and wore green dungarees and red wellies and nobody accused me of not being feminine. I played with Barbie; I didn't aspire to be her. 

I don't have a daughter, or any immediate prospect of one, but even I can see that there is something badly wrong with the way in which little girls are targeted and defined by today's media. There's pink, and then there's Pink.

In the sheltered, calm waters of the blogosphere (or at least the corner of it that I frequent), it's tempting to believe that the tide is turning. I see intelligent, stylish parents raising their daughters with respect, imagination and more than one colour of clothing, and I feel some measure of hope for my own hypothetical offspring.

But apparently, the rest of the world is lagging behind a bit. More than a bit, in fact. Just look at this. Ugh, and this. Sigh.

All is not lost, though. I have been following the Pink Stinks campaign on facebook for a while, and I was delighted to see their new website has just launched this week. Their campaigns not only highlight the pinkification (what? It's totally a word) of little girls, but also challenge the underlying stereotypes and blatant sexism that sneaks in behind it. They first caught my attention when they forced Sainsburys to back down over gender stereotyping (they labelled a fancy dress doctor costume "Boy", and a nurse's uniform "Girl". I mean, come on). By the looks of the shiny new Pink Stinks website, they are headed for even bigger things. I defy you to watch the promo video on the front page and stop your jaw from dropping. It's not possible. 

Far be it from me to lecture parents on how to raise their children. I'm finding it exhausting enough just trying to keep a dog alive. But not even dogs are safe from this ruthless gender stereotyping. Just look at poor Smidgen:

The Pink is spreading, ladies. WE HAVE TO STOP IT.

1. Doutzen Kroes shot by Karl Lagerfeld (yes, really) for Harper's Bazaar, April 2008. 2. Me, shot by a responsible adult, presumably. 3. Smidgen, shot by me. She loves it really...

This weekend, my mum and I are going on a jaunt. We are hopping on a train out of Edinburgh, waving farewell to its stairways and spires and air of refined elegance, and heading west. Back to the city where she was born. The city where I came of age, met my husband and learned the finer points of comparative constitutional law. And drank. A lot.

Every time I return to Glasgow, I take personal offence at things that have changed. How dare they replace the places I used to go with new places where new people go? Who do these new people think they are? Don't they know it's my city? What do you mean I don't live here any more, what does that have to do with anything? Why are you asking me to leave? Please can I finish my cocktail first?

The sad truth of it is, I simply don't know it any more, not like I used to. Glasgow is not the kind of city that sits still, gazing wistfully out of the window as it awaits your return, perhaps doing a bit of embroidery to keep it occupied. Glasgow moves on. Glasgow gets a makeover. Glasgow is snogging someone else before your train has even left the station.

So, I'm asking you for help. Glasgow people, what are your favourite weekend haunts? Anywhere we really ought to go, any hidden gems we should seek out? What are the cool kids (and their mothers) doing these days?

To narrow it down a little, we will be staying in the West End (old habits die hard) from Friday to Sunday and will be mainly focusing on eating, drinking, chatting, shopping, eating, wandering and drinking. 

At least some things haven't changed.

{West End Map by Alice Dansey-Wright via They Draw and Travel}

We've bought the books. We've bought the bed. We've bought the toys, the bowls, the waterproof coat with tartan lining (because apparently greyhounds feel the cold and apparently I am the kind of person who coordinates her outfit with her dog's). We've taken her for walks, smuggled her cubes of cheese and generally made a fuss of her in the hope that she won't be too utterly traumatised when she realises she will have to hang out with us all the time. FOREVER.

This time next week, there will be a furry bundle of bones snoozing on our couch, with nobody but us to look after her, and I'm kind of shitting myself. Over a dog. She's not even a puppy. Seriously, you baby people, I am in awe. How does one ever feel prepared? Do you read a million books on every tiny aspect? Do you cross your fingers and hope for the best? Do you simply believe it's never actually going to happen? 

I'd be lying if I said I didn't see the dog as a bit of a practice run. Here's hoping we don't fuck it up too badly.

{You really don't see enough greyhound-themed fashion shoots, in my opinion. Tanya Dziahileva shot by Jean-Daniel Lorieux and styled by Marie-José Susskind-Jalou for L'Officiel Paris, October 2011, via mode.newslicious.net}