Due to badly timed life drama that I could have done without unfurling in my life like petrol station Carnations, I seem to have missed the one day a year that Western civilisation is supposed to be romantic to one another.
For reasons otherwise incomprehensible to my seemingly tiny mind, this can only happen on the 14th February, and no other time of the year. Lets face it, what says I love you like a giant teddy-bear and a padded yet tactfully quilted primary coloured card. Fucking hell, I sound like I just swallowed le bitter pill to end all bitter pills.
I remember my post this time last year. It involved my heart belonging to London. Still true, and true love runs deep. London is exciting, varied and often takes me by surprise. As well as fashion. My life long love, and showing no signs of the 28 (nearly 29) year itch. Maybe some things really are for life. Apart from Dogs for Christmas and Herpes that is. Anyway, nuff said.
For the record, I HATE carnations. And I heart Mary Katranzou.
Buy me flowers any which way as long as they are the Mary way...x M
Source: Style.com
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