Earlier this week I wrote a post for Any Other Woman's A-Z of Getting Married, called M is for Mrs. (If you haven't read the post yet, go and do it now. I'll wait.)

It's a little-known fact - and by little-known, I mean it's probably only known to me, my husband and a handful of internet shopping database administrators - that I am not a Mrs. I am a Ms. Well, I'm a human being first and foremost, but if you wanted to write me a letter or invite me to a party or sue me, Ms is how I would prefer to be addressed.

I used to be a Mrs. When I first got married and took Fin's surname, I changed my title to Mrs at every single one of the 6,745 different places I had to change my name. I just didn't think about it. I was married, I'd changed my name, I was a Mrs. We even had Mr and Mrs his'n'hers mugs. What's to think about?


And yet, every time I saw those three dreaded letters before my name, I winced. Something about it just felt wrong. In my mind, "Mrs" was only for teachers and mums. And "Mrs MyNewName" was specifically for Fin's mum, who also happens to be a teacher, thereby confirming my hypothesis. A 26-year-old with no children and a six-week backlog of unironed washing in her spare room had no business being a Mrs. No business at all.

I thought I'd get used to it, but instead I found myself disliking it more and more until one day, boom. There it was. The solution had been staring me in the face all along, right there in every drop-down box on every website that had ever guzzled up my personal data for its own nefarious purposes. All I had to do was scroll past 'Mrs', and click 'Ms'. Sweet, sweet relief.

So now I'm a Ms, and I feel like me again. I wish I could give some deeply feminist reason for the change, but the truth is that "Mrs" just made me feel old and frumpy and uncool and all those other sexist adjectives we tend to dump on wives and mothers. Ms, on the other hand, is sassy. She's sophisticated and a little bit mysterious: is she married? Is she single? Is she a SPY? Oh, the intrigue!


Of course, in choosing Ms for myself, I pass no judgement on women who embrace their Mrs-ness. I hope we know each other well enough by now for that to go without saying. And the reason my decision to be a Ms is little-known is because WHEN DO YOU EVEN USE YOUR TITLE ANYWAY? Never, that's when. Or only when buying fripperies on the internet.

In other marriage-related news, Blonde Bridesmaid's wedding is now just two weeks away. Two weeks! Squeal! So this weekend will mainly be spent on bridesmaid duty. I'm sure you’ll all be delighted to hear that The Giant Pineapple Dress Of Doom has arrived and been trimmed within an inch of its life. I no longer resemble any type of fruit in it, which is all you can really hope for in a bridesmaid dress, isn't it?

Happy weekend, folks.


Lara Stone does sexy housewife, shot by Mert & Marcus for Vogue US September 2010 via Fashion Gone Rogue

Here's how it works:

If you're single, you're a Miss.

If you're married, you're a Mrs.

If you're a big hairy feminist, you may be a Ms, but this is best avoided.

Yesterday, someone I follow on Twitter asked the ladies in her timeline how many pairs of shoes they owned, in an effort to establish what was a "normal" number.

I saw Callie Shell's behind-the-scenes photography of Obama's 2008 campaign on a BBC documentary the other day. It's very evocative. I especially love the ones showing Michelle and Barack together. (It might interest you to know we have a Michelle Obama magnet on our fridge, right next to a picture of Hildegard of Bingen. We like smart ladies.) I would urge you to look at the full exhibition here.

I'm scared to watch the news tonight. I might not live in the United States, but there are plenty of people I love who do, and I cannot bear the thought of that tax-avoiding, Muppet-hating twatface having any power over their lives. Please, America, make a good decision today.

In related news, Fin and I have been spending a lot of time lately watching a fantastic new television programme. We're talking the cutting edge of small-screen entertainment. You might have heard of it: it's called The West Wing.

Yup, that's right. We have NEVER SEEN THE WEST WING. Or rather, we hadn't seen it until last month, and now we are obsessively working our way through the entire seven-season box set. Seriously - why did nobody ever tell me? It's BRILLIANT. Sure, it's set in an impossible liberal fantasy land where everyone at the highest level of government is wise, principled and downright hilarious, but who cares? It's brilliant.

Is it too late to ask Martin Sheen if he'd like to run for President?

The last three months were, frankly, a blur. I lived in three different flats. I spent four hours a day on various forms of public transport. I helped sign up over 300 people to raise money for charity. I went to three weddings, styled two photo shoots, wrote a grand total of seven blog posts. There was a mysterious and somewhat gross infection in there too, a lot of standing around awkwardly in shopping centres holding a pink bucket, not a lot of sleep. But it was good, I think.

Now I'm back. Back in Edinburgh, back at work, living in a fully furnished home and wearing clothes that didn't come out of a bag. Adjusting to life sans dishwasher, slowly.

Some things are new. I walk to work now, across a park, navigating a stream of students on their way to lectures. I don't live beside a lighthouse any more, but I do live on the edge of a great heap of urban wilderness, which makes up for the lack of sea. Smidgen loves it. I have carpets, and some new things on the walls that I kind of love. I have a new neighbour. Soon I'll have another, smaller, one.

I'm back at the same job, back in the same city, but it feels different. Maybe it's the change of scene, or the changing of the seasons (I'm a winter girl through and through) - whatever it is, I feel refreshed.

I read this excellent post the other day, by a blogger who has fallen out of love with blogging. I wondered, as I read it, whether the same might have happened to me. It's been a month since I last blogged. A MONTH. That's just embarrassing. And it's hard to start again, once you've stopped; I feel like I practically gave birth to this post, it was such a effort to get it out. Am I rusty, or am I simply done? Am I over blogging?

I don't think I am. I've loved it too much to just ditch it. Plus there are so many exciting things coming up that I could write about: Christmas! Blonde Bridesmaid's wedding! Artem, topless! So, here I am. Trying to take advantage of my new-found sense of rejuvenation, for as long as it lasts.

All of which is to say, hi. I'm back. How's it going?


Smidgen yesterday, checking out her new 'hood. I was convinced she was going over the edge.