Let me guess what you're thinking. Is it..... This woman has become a parody of her own predictability! She has taken what is one micro-trend - the double - and run with it like she has but not one iota of imagination left in her sorry, cake-bloated body, for ANYTHING ELSE!
Oh gad hypercritic-of-my-own-mind, you'd be but right. I seem to be addicted to ferreting out new 'doubles'. I don't know why. I'm sorry. I think it's because I have always been loyal to the core. I've never dumped somebody; I'm like a labrador - not just in relationships but when it comes to trends it would seem, too.
Anyway, doublet #487 concerns two shirts. Firstly, a small peasant-y H&M blouse, which immediately after shooting this then shrunk to the size of a babies' muslin in a washing machine that my boyfriend darkly determines to be evil and regularly threatens to 'replace' - to which I say 'oh, but do go ahead!' knowing that when push comes to shove, the idea of parting with £400 for a new Bosch washing machine-cum-dryer over, say, attending Oktoberfest - or purchasing a ticket to some other marathon beer cruise, is as slim as the chances of me wearing a plain, crew-neck t-shirt. I.E. NEVER GUNNA HAPPEN.
The second shirt in today's double act is an oversized tartan shirt which actually happens to be said boyfriend's. On the 'stealing from the boyz' subject, instead of finding it 'cute and sexy' that I steal his shirts, the light-of-my-life, the ying-to-my-yang (ugh) is actually just incredibly fucked off with me for much of the time, as he never gets to wear his own tartan shirt.
Suuuure, I may only actually wear it for one day a week, but the cycle goes like this: wear shirt on Monday; spill coffee down it by Monday afternoon; wash it by, say, Wednesday; dry it by approximately Friday - and then the whole cycle starts again. I'll also point out that I am wearing my 'independent woman' coat. Why have I given it this moniker? Well, it may not look like it (it doesn't, right? You expect an 'independent woman coat' to be an enormous faux fur coat with butlers hanging off it) but trust me when I say that the way it flamboyantly flies through the breeze makes me feel like I gats the actual balls of Bey. Or at least Jay-Z's, clutched firmly in her powerful paws.
And on that note - off I sweep.