Last night it struck me that magazines mess with my pretty little head in a way that the internet simply doesn’t seem capable of.
There I was curled up under a blanket watching Enlightened and popping raspberry truffles from inside a papier mache Easter egg, whilst idling flicking through a mini-sized copy of Red, when it struck me that magazines like this happy little affair give me a bad case of the kind of I Wants, that I hardly ever experience during my regular soirees around the internets.
This struck me as bizarre for isn’t the world wide web stuffed to the gills with all manner of loveliness? Things we could, at the click of a button invite into our lives? Don’t we have virtual pin-boards brimming with lives we do not lead? Women we will never be, houses we will never live in and men we will never marry? Of course we do: but somehow, one way or another, my head and probably yours, practice a form of restraint on the internet that erects a wall between fantasy and possibility, and reinforces at every turn the concept of inspiration, over that persuasive “buy me now, I’m new and wonderful!” message every glossy page of a new magazine is determined to impart.
So yes. Red gave me the I WANTS. It gave me them bad. It gave me the kind of I WANTS that had me shuddering at my reflection and shaking my head in horror over the state of my bathroom. The list of things I want?
I want perspex heel shoes from Marks and Spencer. A cotton and cashmere v-neck jumper. And some Bobbi Brown foundation. I want to BE Amanda Cadenet and own a website as cool as The Conversation and I want to steal Rosie Green’s Alpha-Male husband please because he sounds silly and strong and fun. I want Julia’s Miracle Cream and this book. I want to wear neon orange lipstick and have the skin of a seventeen year old model. I want botox in my frown lines and liposuction for my love-handles. I want Jason Statham to leave that pretty little Rosie Huntington-Whiteley for me. I want to go ice-skating while eating frozen yoghurt. No really, I do. I want to read The Mouseproof Kitchen and move to France and home again. I want Bo Bruce’s debut album and a tummy as flat as a pancake. I want a bottle of Petite Cherie and I don’t even care what it smells like, I want it anyway. I want Aveda’s Light the Way candle because it is for a good cause and I like Aveda and I adore candles. I want to wear colour five ways and wash radishes in a vintage colander but I don’t want to eat them because radishes are yuck. I want a table full of cacti and a pizza topped with capers and artichoke hearts. I want a wall full of vintage flower paintings from Lisa Brown and a lampshade from Beauvamp. Let it be known here on in that I want everything An Angel At My Table sells and I want to move in with Emily Chalmers. I want to live on a farm or in a gypsy caravan and eat soft poached eggs with asparagus soup. I want to take a retreat in a treehouse followed by a bespoke yoga journey and a week in the mountains to clear my head. I want to make willpower last all day and think my way to fulfilling sex. I want to take up running and vitamin d supplements, play cardio tennis and eat kale till it comes out of my ears even though it disagrees rather horribly with my thyroid gland. I want to subscribe to Red, fix the weak pelvic floor I haven’t even got, and order a gold teapot bangle from Cabbage White. I want my horoscope to come true and have lunch with Jamie Oliver and I want you to understand that I want it ALL now. Now.
See? I got it bad. With every flick of the page I add another want to my list and I put myself through this kind of torture, with one magazine or another about nine or ten times a month.
Is it any wonder personal satisfaction is so very hard to come by?