PONDEREL

ALL THAT GLITTERS IS… WELL, SILVER
There are certain animal species known for their unrestrainable obsession with any object or surface that glimmers, glints, gleams or glitters. If one believes in reincarnation, then it would be a justified suspicion that I may very well have been a magpie… or a racoon, in a past life. Actually, even as I write this, the accusation seems increasingly plausible: after all, my tendency to sport a white shirt collar paired with plenty of black and the occasional cameo by Mr. Grey befits the uniform of these monochromatic creatures rather well. The real communal Achilles’ heel here is the innate attraction to anything capable of sparkling. Easily bedazzled, we are. And this said bedazzling is overwhelmingly Opioid in effect. Inducing an overruling transfixion that numbs the ability to focus anywhere outside the direct view of said brilliant object, this obsession is puzzling in the strength of its power.
It is a curious thing, my own severe case of glitterlust. Incurable, I suspect, however admittedly the prognosis is not bothersome to me. It is, however, at odds with my otherwise somewhat restrained aesthetic. Paradoxical is my hallucinogenic adoration of the dizzyingly ditzy and bling-worthy. I am happy, in my pared-down tailored calm, to step into Glitterland at the slightest hint of an invitation. Heck, forget an invitation, I’ll be turning up whether my name is on the list or not! This gravitation towards the girlishly glittery is not entirely out of character for me, despite the immediate assumption made based on my outward signature style, that is void of anything flirtishly frilly or feminine. Delving into my history, one will easily find evidence of a long-running penchant for all things a girl is traditionally expected to covet. A tragic love affair I did once have with pink: my darling and generous mother has told me of how, against all better sartorial judgement, she would allow the 4-year-old me to grace the streets in carefully self-selected getups of top-to-toe pick-n-mix pinks: apparently I was a fan of the intentional clash from a much earlier age than I thought. And yes, the official count of my private Barbie collection is probably too obnoxious to publish. When it came to girlishness, I would have given Suri Cruise a run for her money – though upsettingly my oversized feet (still the case) ruled out those vampish plastic play-heels that I always lusted after so desperately. I think I still have not managed to recover from the trauma.
In any case, as the years progressed and physically I began to increasingly resemble the lady that I so wished to imitate as a child, my want to dress like one diminished at a parallel rate. Was it a resulting reaction to overkill? Had it been too much too soon too early? Admittedly I don’t believe the psychology of the matter runs too deeply, however undeniably, a few traces of my former self still linger irremovably beneath my androgynous guise.
This child-like weakness for silver sparkle I have come to accept, and even embrace. So how could I possibly resist when recently I came across a glitter plastic pencil case – a smug steal at £3.99 – that I knew would serve perfectly as my long sought-after make-up bag? With eyes widened and knees weakened upon sighting, I needed no further proof that my feelings are not to be fought. Call it garish or glamorous, anything that glitters, gleams, glimmers, glints, shines, shimmers, sparkles or refracts light in an ostentatious manner is almost guaranteed to find its fancy way into my heart. Who knows, perhaps a cumulative collection will result in the gradual formation of my own personal Glitterland… now wouldn’t that be grand?
Pictured left: Aggressive Ring, LUSASUL; Passing Bracelet, GALA CURIOUS; Stud Ring and Stud Bracelet, MARIA FRANCESCA PEPE; Jumbo Bling Chain, HOUSE OF BAULCH; Sunglasses, VICTORIA BECKHAM; Pencil Case, AJAX STATIONERS (Old Street, London)
Mar 28

ALL THAT GLITTERS IS… WELL, SILVER



There are certain animal species known for their unrestrainable obsession with any object or surface that glimmers, glints, gleams or glitters. If one believes in reincarnation, then it would be a justified suspicion that I may very well have been a magpie… or a racoon, in a past life. Actually, even as I write this, the accusation seems increasingly plausible: after all, my tendency to sport a white shirt collar paired with plenty of black and the occasional cameo by Mr. Grey befits the uniform of these monochromatic creatures rather well. The real communal Achilles’ heel here is the innate attraction to anything capable of sparkling. Easily bedazzled, we are. And this said bedazzling is overwhelmingly Opioid in effect. Inducing an overruling transfixion that numbs the ability to focus anywhere outside the direct view of said brilliant object, this obsession is puzzling in the strength of its power.


It is a curious thing, my own severe case of glitterlust. Incurable, I suspect, however admittedly the prognosis is not bothersome to me. It is, however, at odds with my otherwise somewhat restrained aesthetic. Paradoxical is my hallucinogenic adoration of the dizzyingly ditzy and bling-worthy. I am happy, in my pared-down tailored calm, to step into Glitterland at the slightest hint of an invitation. Heck, forget an invitation, I’ll be turning up whether my name is on the list or not! This gravitation towards the girlishly glittery is not entirely out of character for me, despite the immediate assumption made based on my outward signature style, that is void of anything flirtishly frilly or feminine. Delving into my history, one will easily find evidence of a long-running penchant for all things a girl is traditionally expected to covet. A tragic love affair I did once have with pink: my darling and generous mother has told me of how, against all better sartorial judgement, she would allow the 4-year-old me to grace the streets in carefully self-selected getups of top-to-toe pick-n-mix pinks: apparently I was a fan of the intentional clash from a much earlier age than I thought. And yes, the official count of my private Barbie collection is probably too obnoxious to publish. When it came to girlishness, I would have given Suri Cruise a run for her money – though upsettingly my oversized feet (still the case) ruled out those vampish plastic play-heels that I always lusted after so desperately. I think I still have not managed to recover from the trauma.


In any case, as the years progressed and physically I began to increasingly resemble the lady that I so wished to imitate as a child, my want to dress like one diminished at a parallel rate. Was it a resulting reaction to overkill? Had it been too much too soon too early? Admittedly I don’t believe the psychology of the matter runs too deeply, however undeniably, a few traces of my former self still linger irremovably beneath my androgynous guise.


This child-like weakness for silver sparkle I have come to accept, and even embrace. So how could I possibly resist when recently I came across a glitter plastic pencil case – a smug steal at £3.99 – that I knew would serve perfectly as my long sought-after make-up bag? With eyes widened and knees weakened upon sighting, I needed no further proof that my feelings are not to be fought. Call it garish or glamorous, anything that glitters, gleams, glimmers, glints, shines, shimmers, sparkles or refracts light in an ostentatious manner is almost guaranteed to find its fancy way into my heart. Who knows, perhaps a cumulative collection will result in the gradual formation of my own personal Glitterland… now wouldn’t that be grand?


Pictured left: Aggressive Ring, LUSASUL; Passing Bracelet, GALA CURIOUS; Stud Ring and Stud Bracelet, MARIA FRANCESCA PEPE; Jumbo Bling Chain, HOUSE OF BAULCH; Sunglasses, VICTORIA BECKHAM; Pencil Case, AJAX STATIONERS (Old Street, London)