I am not done with dungarees

'What, these old things?'

Every now and then I wake up with a sudden and absolute urge to buy a particular piece of clothing. This often leads to disaster, and explains why I now own alarmingly bright floral hareem ‘pants’ that get worn around the house when it's grey outside, and an elephant-print jumpsuit that made a single brave trip to Putney High Street before being buried at the back of the wardrobe with a pair of quad rollerskates and a hoola hoop. Ever the optimist, however, I still give in to these weird and wonderful ideas. The latest spontaneous fashion obsession has seen me become the proud owner of two pairs of dungarees.

Dungarees are having a moment. I was first alerted to this when the fashion editor at work rocked up to the office in a pair. Since she is the only woman on Earth to ever wear one of those coats that resemble Big Bird without immediately looking like she's trying to launch a sneak attack on an ostrich farm, I decided this was probably one of those trends reserved for people whose genetic codes spell out ‘FASHION’. However, it turns out that she’s not the only one looking fabulous in this totally unfathomable item. Soon, the other style queens of the office appeared in their own variations, working them with striped jumpers, polo necks, trainers, boots and the air of nonchalance such a decidedly risky trend requires.

For several decades, it's been an accepted fact that dungarees make everyone look like a hippy with a suspicious gardening obsession, a farmer, or a scruffy kid in Alabama about to be called in by Calpurnia for cornbread and a lesson from Atticus. Sure, Jennifer Aniston rocked a pair on the sofa in Central Perk a few times, but there’s reasonable evidence to suggest that you could march Jennifer Aniston through a hedge backwards into a pool of mud, and she would emerge, dripping slurry and trailing twigs, in a look snapped up by every magazine before the next Friends episode airs on Comedy Central.

I made my peace with the fact that this was a look I could only admire from the outside, like Charlie peering hungrily through the chocolate shop window. However, the desks and streets and images of dungaree-clad women must have seeped into my brain, because one day I found myself handing over my debit card to the assistant in Primark, purchasing my own pair of short dungarees in an almost trance-like state no doubt produced by low blood sugar and the power of advertising.

Fortunately, this unlikely arrangement has a happy ending, and we’re getting on very well. There’s something quite comforting about that little clicking noise the clips make: it’s a quiet reassurance that you are securely in your clothes – like a chunky zip, a solid popper or the hooks on a bra. They also remind me of being a kid, possibly because I haven’t worn them since I was one. There's something joyful about an all-in-one that makes you want to skip to the printer, or possibly dig out those rollerskates.  

The best feature of all, however, is that they have more pockets than everything else in my wardrobe combined. I’m still not over the novelty of being able to carry my phone, Oyster card, MP3 player, purse and emergency flare gun around hands- and bag-free at the same time. It's left me hoping that the next dubious trend to resurface will be those huge combat trousers from circa 2002, with the random bits of dangling material and a million pockets for storing plastic hair bobbles, Boots lip gloss and charity wristbands.

Like Eliza Doolittle after her elocution lessons, and Sandra Bullock’s Miss Congeniality post-totally pointless makeover, this tricky piece has gone from rough and ready cousin of the hippy jumpsuit and student onesie to Serious Fashion Item. So if you’ve been wondering whether you should try dungarees, give them a go. You can always retire them to the sofa – the pockets are the perfect place to put the remote while watching Friends re-runs.

High Heels: A Break-Up Letter

A messy break-up.

Dear High Heels,

We tried to make it work. We tried to pretend that it was worth the pain, but I can’t lie to myself or you anymore.

I’d had my eye on you for years – I saw you doing your thing on the red carpet, in movies, on proper grown-ups. When we first met, I was young, and you were this glamorous, sexy, exciting glimpse into adulthood. Like red lipstick, cars with actual engines, or a glittery mortgage form.

I’m older and wiser, and now I see you for what you really are. You’re just a drunken dream: like donner kebabs, pissing on statues and swimming naked, you’re best left for alcohol-fuzzied moments. And that’s great. But it’s just not me.

Then there’s the way you slow me down. I’m going places, and you’re holding me back. I see the road spreading out before me. Sometimes there are cobbles, sometimes there is mud, sometimes there are floors that have been buffed to resemble an ice rink. I need to be able to take these on, to get through anything I meet, and I cannot do that with you. You don’t have the support I need. I have to get my feet back on the ground, to stand on my own without stumbling.

And you hurt me, too. I didn’t even realise in the moment, but every time we parted, I saw that you’d been trying to change the way I am. I thought it would just take time to get used to you, but I’ve realised now that we’re fundamentally different. Look, it’s not your fault. We had some good nights, a lot of fun. Perhaps I should have made more effort, given you more chances, but I’m pretty stubborn, and my feet just don’t bend that way.

The other thing is, I met someone else who gets me. Who I don’t have to change for. Who’ll work with what I want to do, whether I’m running around the city, just relaxing in the house, wearing a dress, shorts, anything. They’re called flats. Sure, they don't have that edgy vibe that you give so effortlessly, but we’re comfortable with each other in a way you and I never could be.

You’re not the bad guy in this; you have so many fantastic traits I’ll miss. You’re uplifting, you put a power in my step that I don’t get from anyone else - and you’re really good looking. Other people are spellbound by you. There are books, movies, exhibitions raving about your charms. I’ve seen you with other women and you look so much better. Now you can find someone who truly appreciates your best qualities.

We had a good run (well, hobble) but we both need to move on. I wish you nothing but the best. I’ll smile when I see you on the red carpet, on another woman’s feet, and remember the times you made me sparkle too. But I’ll be doing it in shoes that love me back.

All the best,

Tasha

Five things I learned from travelling alone

Amsterdam... somewhere

Some people can’t even imagine drinking a coffee on their own, while others will eagerly send themselves to the other side of the world, phone off and backpack in hand. Going it alone isn’t for everyone, but there are definite benefits to taking the plunge and travelling solo. Determined to give my passport some use but without the patience to begin a lengthy dialogue about where to go, I said goodbye to London and Guten Tag to Berlin, hallo to Amsterdam and salut to Paris on my own. My language skills didn't take off much beyond this, but I did learn some other things along the way.  

Appreciate the brilliance of being alone

As David Foster Wallace rather gloomily pointed out, we are all of us marooned in our own skulls - we are all ultimately alone. We can either drive ourselves mad constantly scanning the horizon for the glimpse of another ship, or we can roll up our sleeves, hunt out a reliable water source, and get on with it Swiss Family Robinson-style. When you travel solo, chances are you will be on your own for at least some time, whether that’s on the flight over, for a long train journey, or even just lunch. This is actually quite fun. No, seriously.

Having no one else to worry about means you can do whatever you want without worrying about seeming rude or inattentive. Want to stare out the window aimlessly for four hours? Or listen to a podcast without seeming antisocial? Or just catch some sleep? No one can distract you or complain. Or post photos of you mid-nap on social media.

I think many struggle more with this around meals, but eating alone can also be something of a relief. Not only can you use a fork instead of chopsticks without judgement, but there’s no one to argue with over where you eat, no small talk, and all the time in the world to people-watch, eavesdrop on conversations (like eating off the floor, we’ve all done it, so don’t get high and mighty) or just to read. I’m not saying we should all seal ourselves up inside one-person-only cells for the rest of our lives, but learning how to spend a few hours or days on your own is good brain training.

You will meet awesome people

Getting out of your comfort zone gives you the chance to meet people you would otherwise never have crossed paths with. Whether it’s for a dinner, a day, a weekend or the rest of your life, taking the opportunity to get to know someone else's point of view can only teach you more about what's outside your own little bubble. Not everyone you meet will be your new best friend, and you're lucky if you find someone like that, but it's still worth talking to them.

However, the caveat is that to find these fantastic fellow wanderers, you also have to put the effort in. Luckily, it’s easier to be brave when you’re in a place where no one knows you, plus being deprived of conversation will make you more keen to take a chance when the opportunity arises. Strike up a chat with the person on the plane, say hi to that person in the park who caught your eye. You never know, it could be the start of an interesting discussion or a beautiful friendship (or just really fun). 

More practically, you also have to put yourself in social situations, which probably means hostels. Do your research before you go, and make sure other solo travellers have ticked yours off as a good place to meet like-minded people, rather than couples and groups of friends who are more likely to stick in their own little circle. No one is saying that sharing a room with 10 strangers and all their various smells, snores and nocturnal activities is glamorous. However, in between cursing the guy two bunks over for his persistent tractor imitation, and silently begging the couple in the next bed to just hold off for one night (both true stories), this is the place to meet people. Finding a hostel with a bar and/or communal area is another good tactic. Even if you don’t drink, this is a great place to meet people open to making new friends. This works even better if some big sporting event is on. Who cares if no one there has anyone competing in the curling: pick a side, place a bet, and get ready to cheer.

You can go wherever you want

Forget being dragged shopping for four hours, or to the Chair Museum, or to slowly roast on a beach in the sun all day. You’re the boss and you set your own itinerary. You can be selfish and not have to waste your time doing things others in a group might love but which bore you to tears. Want to go to another museum? Go ahead. Feel like a long wander through the city? Sure. This can actually be a bit scary, as it means that if you don’t take responsibility for filling your days, you won’t actually do anything. Get some guide books and a map before you go, and highlight the stuff you want to see, then work out a sensible way to get round it. You can do this on the plane, if you focus (not that anyone would leave it that late). Even if you don’t see it all, this will make sure you get to the crucial bits. You can also book tours and activities once you’re there, to make sure you drag yourself out of bed and at least do something vaguely holiday-like.

Arriving is the worst

No matter how excited and prepared you are, it’s normal to experience a feeling of being completely overwhelmed by everything around you when you first arrive, as well as by everyone else seemingly knowing where they’re going. Knowing that this ‘small fish in a big sea’ feeling is coming should make it easier to handle. It might be tempting to hide in a corner and rock on your knees while wondering when the next flight home is or testing out the 'No place like home' heel clicks, but you’ll feel much better if you force yourself to get out and do something in your new environment. It will go away, so don’t worry about it: just focus on your day.

You will get lost and it will be fine

I spent much of my time alone in varying degrees of being lost. These range from, ‘I know I just have to go left down this street somewhere,’ to ‘I’m sure I’ve walked past this desolate Soviet-era building/quaint bakery/sex shop at least twice already,’ to ‘It’s getting dark, I’m not even on this map, and I’m pretty sure those are vultures.’ 

As I've recorded on this blog several times before, I can’t read maps, so if you also suffer from this, a bonus tip is to learn how to read maps before you go. Also, always read the full name of the street, as it turns out that evil city planners really like to give very close roads similar names. And map-illiterate people like to totally ignore them when they do. If you plan nothing else, make sure you know where your hostel is from the station or airport. In my experience, locals know when you’re lost, and they will try and help you – at least they will if you’re a 23-year-old woman.

There’s also something to be said for smartphones. Everyone is glued to these anyway, and since I didn’t use one, every time I pulled out the last remaining paper map of Amsterdam in existence (which was, on average, every two minutes and eighteen seconds), everyone around me could see I was a gullible tourist with no idea where I was. Everyone except for the couple who asked me for directions, despite the loud and proud ‘I <3 Amsterdam’ t-shirt. (Oddly I actually knew where I was at that moment; is this what you people feel like all the time?) 

Luckily, getting lost can actually lead you to places you wouldn’t otherwise have found, like the art studio in Paris run by a charming and talented guy from Portland delightfully named Buzz, and the colourful neighbourhood in Berlin dotted with the types of gypsy caravans Enid Blyton wrote about, as well as bits of the Wall. That said, the relief at getting back home and knowing where you’re going without having to pull out a map every two seconds makes you want to run down the well-known street, tearing that frustrating bit of paper into confetti and screaming 'I'M HOME AND I KNOW WHERE I AM!' Until you take a wrong turn.