Xenforo Cloud will be upgrading us to version 2.3.5 on March 12th at 12 AM GMT. This version has increased stability and fixes several bugs. We expect downtime for the duration of the update.
The first time . . . I wore Chanel was six years ago, at the Cannes film festival. I was almost scared to try the dress on, saving it like a child hoards Easter chocolate. Chanel meant another life — Paris shot in smoky black and white, raven-haired starlets, that sort of thing — while I was happiest in miniskirts and flip-flops. But as the silky layers of grey slipped over my shoulders, I became a dress girl, or, rather, woman. I stood taller. I did my eyeliner properly. The dress could have been made for me — I felt both held and free. Earlier that day, I’d been boating and hiking, and I was salt-sprayed, sweaty, barefoot. A man whom I’d spent the day chatting to introduced himself to me that night on the red carpet. I giggled and blamed the transformative powers of Chanel. The dress was sent back the next day, but my new-found grown-up grace remained. The last time . . . I ate meat, I was 12 years old, vulnerable to all kinds of “save the world” propaganda. On a school trip to France, the teacher thought it would be amusing to introduce us to the delights of frogs’ legs. Suddenly, I couldn’t separate the animals that I loved from the food on my plate — I could hear the crunching of bones and limbs at the table. The combination of steamed skin and deep-fried flesh repelled me. Unidentified crunchy bits and imaginary eyes pleading from a pool of garlic butter tormented me, and I had the kind of cosmic enlightenment only a 12-year-old is capable of. Enough was enough. I was not meant to do this. I put down my fork and asked in my best schoolgirl French for “plus de pommes frites, s’il vous plaît”. I have never changed my mind.
This site uses cookies to help personalise content, tailor your experience and to keep you logged in if you register.
By continuing to use this site, you are consenting to our use of cookies.