Now I'm ready for all the advice you can offer (even though I spend most of my life dressed in trousers!)
Something amazing happens when I put on a vintage-inspired pin up frock. No, I’m not talking about my posture going from its usual Cro-Magnon-ugh-me-writer hunch to something kind of upright, I’m talking about magic. Freaky wonderful magic.
It usually happens not long after I’ve bellowed for my husband to get his twinkle toes into the bedroom and zip me up. I look in the mirror, do a little twirl and my brain goes “Hey you... Hey, I’m talking to you. Look at you! You’re a star baby, a superstar. Now go strut your stuff!”
And it feels amazing.
Now, I know that I’m not a star. And I know exactly how old I am. I know that I could probably win the square-arsed Olympics ten times running and that my cankles are world class. Oh and my hair? Let’s not even go there.
But... well, when I put on a nice party dress, particularly one with a tucked in waist, pencil skirt and figure hugging top, I don’t care about reality. I feel great, confident and ready to take on the world... at least until I trip over the cat while wearing those crazy-high heels that I thought were such a good idea when I spent all my money on them last year.
But sprained ankle aside, when I’m wearing a hot fifties dress, all those usual feral thoughts about all those little body bumps that my husband doesn’t seem to see (but I clearly can), evaporate. I feel beautiful, really beautiful.
I love going to restaurants and seeing the women walking in who’ve got their own special goddamn-sexy dresses on. You can see it in the way they walk, you can see it in the way they smile and look around the room. And every now and then I meet that lady’s eye and we share a mutual smile knowing the magic will evaporate the minute the dress comes off but we don’t care. A lady in an amazing frock is an amazing lady and that’s all there is to it.
That's it, I'm converted and off for some serious retail therapy, and a copy of Irrepressible You!
You don't become a notorious British celebrity without rubbing a few people the wrong way, which is why writer and comedian Ben Martindale has decamped to Australia until the latest media frenzy dies down.
When he meets Amy Blaine, a perky blonde who dresses like a 1950s pin-up girl, he knows he's hit the satirical jackpot. He begins to fill his weekly London column with snarky observations about her life, clothes, and even their most intimate moments. It doesn't occur to him that Amy, who is letting her guard down for the first time in her adult life, might be upset - after all, it's hilarious, and his readers love her!
It isn't until Amy discovers the extent of his betrayal that Ben begins to realise just how badly he's cocked up the best thing that ever happened to him. But is it too late?
You can find Georgina, her sexy dresses and all her news here:
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