Clare’s last hurrah

She’s back for a final column and she’s better than ever!

So you thought I had gone didn’t you? So did I really. Gone into an early writing retirement, my spring of witticisms had run dry and my computer screen blank of tragic anecdotes for you to enjoy. But something has happened. Something that has made my blood boil (literally) and I just had to have a good old rant.

clare mw

Is it that I’ve been texting a boy for seven months who thinks my name is Laura? No. But maybe I’ll tell you about that another time. I have tried to subtly inform him of the error but it has frankly gone too far now.  I tried the old “you know what’s sexy? When people call me Clare.” Didn’t work.

Or is it that I spent a heavenly evening with the potential love of my life and scared him away by being a blithering idiot. I think a particular low was when I acted out how an oboe sounds along with miming playing the instrument. Why.

The thing that has made me so angry that it has brought me back onto your screens is none other than the sun.

The first annoyance is the frankly extortionate number of tweets on my news feed moaning about the selfishness of the sun. How dare it come out during exam season? Silly sun. Go go go away, come again another day.

Next is actually a major issue of mine. As an ‘English rose’ I suffer terribly from heat stroke. I wish I was joking. Recently I went to a friend’s 21st and spent around ten minutes in the blazing sun shine whilst his father made a really sweet speech.  About five minutes in I noticed how my ‘statement’ metal necklace had heated up and was literally burning my skin. About seven minutes in I began to feel a little woozy and as a result drank my entire glass of fizz in two greedy gulps- slightly awkward raising an empty glass to toast someone’s health but needs must. By the time it was over I had to scuttle back inside to compose myself and ‘cool’ down. I spent the evening having cold showers and lying in a dark room. Pathetic.

The sun also equals nakedness. A lot of nakedness. I feel like a mother running around with a pile of coats screaming “IT MIGHT BE SUNNY BUT IT’S COLD I TELL YOU. The sun deceives you!” When we finally get to summer I envision myself with bottles of factor fifty ushering people under shady trees. Yet the wife beaters are out in force.  By wife beaters I mean those vile vests, not an army of domestically violent oppressors, obviously.  And girls, this whole ‘Nineties trend’ is starting to get on my nerves. I just don’t think it’s really going to work for me. I’m sorry Topshop.  I tried. But I have ‘child bearing hips’ and a pretty cracking rack.

My main grief is dungarees. I love dungarees. They are the trousers that never fall down. What’s not to love. But unless you were blessed with small bones and long hair good for ‘dip dying’ it’s not going to work. If you are naturally willowy and can pull off these trends then well done you. I wish you happiness and much hipster penis.

However, I can picture me now in my dungarees, round sunglasses that make me look like a three blind mouse and some high tops and the image is laughably vile. I would become the victim of vicious cyber bullying on Spotted Hodge and sob bitterly into a hair scrunchy.

It just won’t do. Thus, my aim is to try an ‘art teacher’ boho style. This way I canwear harem pants and some razzmatazz earrings all the time. Very Cate Blanchett in ‘Notes on a Scandal’, without the whole ‘having sex with a fifteen year old Irish kid and being stalked by a balding Judi Dench’ part.

So as the sun rises, I too slowly raise my middle finger.  Now I actually have to shave my legs. Sigh.

Who does it better…


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or Teen Vogue? (The Tab votes Clare).