I have a confession to make. If I go back on this and delete this post immediately hereafter, if you've read the title, you know why. Let me delay the inevitable a long-winded an necessary self-characterisation: I am the girl that never digs the pop song of the moment whilst it's chilling at number one atop the charts and six months later, when everyone's heard it about a million times and moved on to the next, I suddenly put the thing on repeat on my iPod driving all my friends crazy. Thus it has been with Fifty Shades of Cray, I mean Grey. The naughty little bestseller that could. Avoid it though my literary pedigree tried, given that I'm trying my own hand at various genres aimed at various readers of a certain sex and age, after a summer spent in the company of a wide array of female friends from bloggers to bankers all encouraging me a thorough peruse would not be a waste of a weekend, I bit the bullet, slunk in St. Mark's bookshop and bought the first installment.
I may have purchased the latest copy of my favourite left-leaning political journal with said journal obscuring said "erotic novel" whilst said purchase was being made. Just may. And I am now pleased to announce that Fifty Shades Darker and Freed have been discreetly added to my iLibrary and making the rounds with me on my iPad to shows, keeping me amused from seat-time to start-time. Never have the dramatic outages of lighting at show's start been so enthralling. Erotic fiction is surely the best antidote to the travails of fashion week.
Anyhow, rewind to the summer where this story began and fast-forward to the end of Labor Day Weekend and I can honestly say I've never been so grateful for a beach holiday to end in so much rain. I have to say, this E.L. James can, er, conjure a scene. I won't go into the gory/glory details, I'll leave that to one of the 20 million people who have read the trilogy to divulge or the film (please cast Alexander Skarsgard, please cast Alexander Skarsgard) to visually recreate. But I do have one bone (no pun intended) that I must pick. Anastasia's constant deployment of the exclamatory "oh my!" It's distracting. It's worse than distracting, it's like the interjection of a grandparent or great-aunt crackling over the loudspeaker of Christian's "womb-like dungeon" when he's just firing up the good stuff. No, no, "oh my" doesn't do it for me. It's a soul-crushing, libido-withering break from the character of a twenty-two year old university graduate in 2013 America. The fact that she doesn't have a computer, I can accept by tapping deeply into my willingness to suspend disbelief. The fact that she doesn't have email I can similarly forgive on account of the fact that Christian promptly starts sending her a slew of steamy ones once she logs on. But there really is no excuse for "oh my." There simply isn't, it's just fifty shades of not knowing your character. And while there's really no point in breaking down the literary merits of said erotic prose sensation, I really just needed to get that off my chest. Nipple clamps or no.
Ambit silk maxi skirt $220 (navy)
Vintage menswear blazer $125
Vintage cashmere sweater $145
Photos of moi by Snappylifestyle