Here’s a confession I need to make: I read Cosmopolitan. And by read, I don’t mean browsing through the pictures in the dentist’s waiting room, and shaking my head with mild disapproval. No, I actually go out of my way to spend a precious 2 pounds (or 3.50, depending on the gift) on an issue of Cosmo every single month. Embarassing, I know. I usually buy it along with New Statesman, just to save my face in front of the pretty guys working at WH Smith.
I had plenty of ideas for today’s post – but then I came back to London. As soon as I crossed UK’s border, I was reminded about the biggest news of the
month year decade, at least. No, it’s not Egypt, or Syria, or the Pope. It’s not even K-Stew cheating on R-Patz or Biebs pissing in a bucket anymore. What can be more important than that? You guessed. The Royal Baby.
The Oscars of fashion were presented earlier this week. Yes, I know that you know. After all, you’d been awaiting them at least since March, when the nominees were announced. You followed speculations about who will win – God, there was no end to these. You woke up on Tuesday excited and anxious to check the results, and then you went on to discuss them with friends and read media analysis of the ceremony and its outcomes.
Oh, you didn’t? Me neither.
I owe a lot to Roland Barthes. My relationship with him is like H&M’s with Prada and the likes: I make a career of either quoting him (in pretty much every CSM essay) or poorly ripping off his style and ideas (my Overanalyzing series). Therefore writing anything negative about this book will mean biting the (however dead) hand that feeds me. But I’ll do it anyway, even though my consciousness hopes it’ll make me fat.
“Do you sell…” I start, but the young man working in our college shop doesn’t let me finish. “1 Granary? We will, but not yet.” I must be the gazillionth person that day to ask for Central Saint Martins‘s new publication, which has already been featured in The Times, The Independent, Vogue, and on some. of. my. favourite. blogs. – before even launching its first issue. As I turn around to walk away, a big cardboard box arrives. Seconds later, here I am: Ana Oppenheim, one of the world’s first owners of a copy of 1 Granary.