Another day, another bop (yep, I still feel daft calling it that; like I should be wearing underoos and lindy-hopping). Wanting to do gory makeup and combat the high wind chill factor (ie. no scantily-claddedness for us!), my friends and I went dressed as zombie schoolgirls.
Tonight (which you’ll notice is not Halloween if we’re going with the whole Gregorian calendar thing) is the big night for college Halloween parties in Oxford. This put me in the odd situation of wanting to celebrate actual Halloween last night…but in like, a moderate way. My going-out stamina is like my iPhone battery; it only lasts 2 nights if I’m miserly and keep the Instagramming to a minimum.
Here’s how my Halloween morning played out:
- I didn’t want to waste my actual costume (which involved dropping £15 at Primark ie. a definite over-egging of the party pudding) on last night, so opted for the classic cheapskate, zero-creativity costume: a cat. I know, I know, it makes me sick up in my mouth a little, and it was probably karma that I had such a battle finding cat ears. Claire’s Accessories and Poundland had been completely plundered; pretty much all that was left was these awful spider hairbun-toppers, overpriced gimp masks, and stupidly tiny hats on hairbands (like, little puffy wizard hats and Tim Burton-esque top hats). Actually, on second thought that could have made for a cool Kristen Wiig/Amy Poehler homage…
Ah the costume party. Is there any greater pleasure? Besides fresh creamery butter and Hugh Jackman, I think not.
Every Halloween it seems like the same article gets trolled out, disparaging the girl who uses it as an excuse to dress in lingerie under the (literally) thinly-veiled pretence of being like, a woodland creature or emergency services worker.
Personally, I have no problem with that approach. As the inimitable Nora Ephron said: “Oh, how I regret not having worn a bikini for the entire year I was twenty-six. If anyone young is reading this, go, right this minute, put on a bikini, and don’t take it off until you’re thirty-four.” Unless you’re Helen Mirren, chances are your body and enthusiasm for dressing up (ok, down) are only going to wane. So why not embrace the lace, say oui to PVC and flash some flesh? (Now there’s a cereal jingle in the making) Continue reading