Author: Violet Fenn

I’m not old, I’m VINTAGE

Having turned forty five this week I am now, with a few honourable exceptions, pretty much officially The Oldest Person We Know. I really, truly do not give a rat’s ass. I’ve had more fun in the last twelve months than I had in the previous decade, and more fun in that decade than I had in my teens and twenties. Life does not begin at forty, it begins at whatever age you damn well please and keeps going until they carry you off stage left in a wooden box. THE FUN GETS EXPONENTIALLY BIGGER WITH AGE, PEOPLE! So having spent the last few days gritting my teeth at jokes about zimmer frames and pension plans, I thought I’d make a list of women, all of whom are – GASP – even older than me, whose very existences proves that Not Giving A Shit can be a valuable life lesson.   HELENA BONHAM CARTER, 48 Wouldja just LOOK at the bone structure on that woman?! Notorious for her brilliantly bizarre outfits and a fantastic foil to her husband Tim Burton (yes I know he only ever put Helena and Johnny Depp in his films and maybe he could use new actors or maybe everyone should leave him alone and stop trying to mess with the perfect formula), HBC is a prime example of a woman who Does Not Give A Shit.   VIVIENNE WESTWOOD,...

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Minimal packing, maximum fun

AKA ‘how to survive in the city with nothing but pants and a travel card.’ I spent three days in London last week. I bloody love London – always have and always will. It is a filthy siren calling me to poke and prod its nooks and crannies, aloof yet quietly adorable. And coming as I do from a relatively small town where everyone knows everyone else’s business, it’s wonderful to spend time in a place where not only does nobody know me, they don’t give a monkey’s chuff what I’m up to. Whatever ridiculousness you get up to in London,...

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Makeup for idiots

By ‘idiots’ I mean myself, obviously, not you. You are lovely. Me, I’m a cackhanded dickwad who has apparently spent the last twenty years gradually forgetting how to put makeup onto my face without ending up looking like Pennywise had a funny turn in the cosmetics aisle of Superdrug. I was compelled to write this article when I read back through my last post and got to the bit where I mentioned painting on cat-like eyeliner. Reader, I lied. I didn’t mean to – I really do love having winged eye makeup – but I haven’t actually been able to do it properly for years. When I was twenty, I was bloody brilliant at makeup. I’d spend at least an hour in front of the mirror before going out for the evening, carefully applying perfect eyes and rosebud lips. But somewhere along the line, I lost the knack. Maybe it fell out with the Teen’s placenta. I still love makeup and cannot do the weekly Tesco shop without chucking something into the trolley. I am a sucker for a BB cream (actually it’s CC cream now, isn’t it? When will we get FF cream? Should be F.O., is what I’m thinking), I have endless random eyeshadows in colours that I will almost certainly never wear, and I own at least sixteen versions of the ‘perfect’ black nail varnish. There is no shortage...

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10 ways you know you’re winning at being a grown up

Your clothes fit you This is nothing to do with losing weight or being a particular size. It is all about sucking it the fuck up – muffin top, bingo wings and all – and buying clothes in a size that fits. I spent years wearing clothes a size too small in the hope that technically being a 12 (or 14, or 16) would make me feel better. It doesn’t. All it does is make you constantly aware that your belly is hanging over your waistband and you appear to have four breasts. Buy the next size up. Cut the size labels out, if it makes you feel better. I always cut labels out anyway, because labels showing through clothes looks stupid. The only time I’ve had a problem with this is when buying from certain supermarkets who save on manufacturing costs by screen-printing the size onto the fabric itself. Those supermarkets are dickheads.   You can change the wheel on a car But you’ve never had to, because you have your own, paid-for breakdown service and that is what the RAC was put on this planet to do. I can absolutely change a spare tyre, but I’ve managed to avoid doing so since somewhere around 1992.   Saturday night can be spent reading a book in bed without feeling that you’re missing out on something, somewhere Bonus points for having cookies in that...

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