Dancing with My Self

The last few weeks I have been reading the somewhat overexposed Eat, Pray, Love, something I’ve been meaning to pick up after months of recommendations, but was finally spurred to open by of the impending film adaption starring Julia Roberts. For those who aren’t familiar with this bestseller, it is the memoir of American writer Elizabeth Gilbert, who, following an acrimonious divorce and general listlessness, took herself off to Italy, India and Bali for a year, spending an even four months in each. I’ve really enjoyed it, although it hasn’t all been unputdownable; the first section which describes Liz’s initial turmoil, decision to travel and pasta pilgrimage to Rome was a pure delight, but the middle third detailing her time meditating in an Indian Ashram and ensuing spiritual education was, for me, less compelling. I am currently part way through her adventures in Bali, which are back on her more interesting themes of immersion in culture, meeting new people and relaying poignant anecdotes. I am looking forward to seeing the film in many ways, and can certainly understand Hollywood’s eagerness to put EPL on the big screen; the visual feast on the page just lends itself to a film version, although the real heart of the story, Gilbert's constant, honest introspection, will be harder to incorporate. Today in the Indy, Rebecca Armstrong bemoans Hollywood’s frequent fudging of much-loved books and hopes that Eat, Pray, Love will not prove another casualty. It is a precarious case, as meditation on the self + Julia Roberts + a soaring soundtrack could equal something unbearably sappy, but I really hope they have included some of the individual appeal of the book as well as the inevitable shots of smiling Indian children and sunsets.

There has been a flurry of negative pre-release assumptions, from some of my favourite female writers amongst others, dismissing both book and adaptation on Twitter and in the press. The brilliant Lindy West was not a fan (the savvy Telegraph snapped her up for this cutting review) and I’m sure others will follow. Gilbert is accused of being smug, self-obsessed, hypocritical and clichéd in a ‘moany rich woman finds herself’ sort of way, and on these grounds the book is deemed worthless chick lit. I can’t say I agree. While, on paper, her New York existence prior to her travels might be deemed privileged (published author & journalist, wealthy husband, big house, friends, parties) the point of the opening is exactly that – on paper, her life is perfection. Her chronic sadness is openly based on her guilt that she isn’t happier, that she can’t make her marriage work and that she finds she doesn’t want a baby to complete the domestic picture. I have rarely read a writer more frank about her own shortcomings, selfishness and neuroses. This is, I believe, why so many women found the book refreshing and absorbing: we all have meltdowns, panics and periods of unhappiness. Yes, a lot of it is described in group-therapy schtick, but that’s how contemporary Americans communicate. This self-awareness makes us Brits uncomfortable, but also with a slight hint of envy at being able to admit to your own issues. The writer dwells on her own self more in this book than most people will in a lifetime, but she does it with an educated finesse that makes it palatable.

Whatever her motives, a newly-single Gilbert decided to end the pretence of her glossy city life and visit places that fascinated her. The tripartite structure of the book reflects the poetry the narrator finds in everything she encounters; the neat introduction describes how her tale is divided into 108 small stories, the number having spiritual significance in Yogic philosophy. Whatever her sentimental reasons for conveying her story thus, it worked for me. The small, almost isolated anecdotes are each a charming peek into a completely self-centred adventure (in the best possible way.) We meet her new friends, hear their stories, but more often than not we are privy to her own thoughts and ponderings on life. The narrator is shaken up time and time again by natural beauty, the range of human experience and the ability of others to remain smiling, in a positive look at self-discovery if ever there was one.

But the snobbery over this memoir and its subject matter is not only mystifying, it has eclipsed all critical and public acclaim the book attracted when published in 2006. I was really annoyed when the Daily-bloody-Mail ran a ‘novelty’ feature about their egotistical columnist Liz Jones taking the same trip, making a direct comparison to Jones’ preoccupation with herself that disregards all the beauty of the original. Elizabeth Gilbert is apologetic many times in the novel for her overthinking of things, and relays her joy and satisfaction with the world and its inhabitants far more than her misery at her own situation. Her gift is her ability to tell the stories of others and to put the vividness of a moment on the page. The only thing they have in common is daring to think their own lives might be worth writing about. Maybe the problem is that women are not supposed to be selfish, in any circumstances. But regardless of background, money earned and property owned (and Gilbert started life on a Christmas tree farm in Connecticut, not Park Avenue) I don’t think the book is just a whinefest about her rich Western malaise. She gives good reasons for her escape, including her dependence on men for happiness - having been in relationships basically her entire adult life - and her husband’s venomous approach to their divorce flattening her self esteem. I have nothing but respect for someone who is determined to lift themselves out of the torpor of depression, be that with a U-turn in career, ending a relationship or just taking off in search of something new. But some women seem to be embarrassed by such shirking of domestic responsibility. It is puzzling to me, as there seems no better time to take off than following the painful end to a childless marriage. There is an argument that we don’t all have the money to traipse off and sit on mountains every time we feel sad, but she paid for the trip with the publishers' advance for the book – offered to a result of her own reputation as writer, built up by years of hard work.

Gilbert's choice of destinations was also interesting to me. Rome I can completely relate to, where she essentially indulged her taste for fresh, rustic Italian food, the Italian language and the stunning architecture. This was the most moving part for me, as she nurtures new friendships and finds freedom in pursuing nothing but pleasure. There is a sublime passage where Liz and her new friends celebrate Thanksgiving in the Italian mountains, and she realizes just how many things she is thankful for. At another point, she finds the strength to persevere with her Yogic studies by focusing on a nephew she is fiercely protective of. In moments like these I found myself so in tune with Gilbert’s voice that I felt the lump in the throat, the tear in the eye or the surges of happiness as she narrated them. Make what you will of the cliché of a Westerner dabbling in Yoga, religion and Eastern philosophy, but you can’t deny the power of the writing. In India, her language was more difficult to me as her openness to the idea of a non-specific God as well as energy, meditation and enlightenment are so far from my own views on the world. But it is her hope that something greater than herself can enrich her life, rather than a preachy ‘knowledge’ of this, that still managed to charm me. In Bali, her love affair with its quirky and laid-back population is filled with admiration rather than touristy condescension, and the charismatic medicine man she learns from is one of my favourite figures. Perhaps I found the book so arresting because the thought of leaving my world behind and venturing out alone is both terrifying and alluring to me; in all honesty I don’t think I currently have the balls, but I’d love to in the future, and the fact is so many people’s responsibilities and duties prevent it from ever being an option.

Whether the film is fabulous or a flop, I hope people will still read the book if they find themselves intrigued, as I did this month. Whether you are going through an introspective period yourself or simply want to travel vicariously, this is a fascinating example of someone taking themselves out of their comfort zone and actively trying to widen their perspective. Not only this, but the uncommon spirit of Gilbert’s diary-memoir style shows an appreciation throughout of the beauty, poetry and wonderful contrasts of the world and its communities, something rare and to be cherished in a book. I hope the coven of female media types scoffing at the whole concept stop and think about such things now and again; if not, I know which experience I’d rather have. Review of the film to follow...

I Believe in Love

I didn’t know what to expect when I skipped into the West End to see Hair the musical last night. Hair is one of those unavoidable chunks of culture; you’ve heard the music (even if it’s via the Müller ads), you’ve vaguely picked up on references to the nudity and you probably know more than you think about the premise (hippies/drugs/Vietnam.) The main reason I still felt unsure, despite this psychedelic frame of reference, was that I hadn’t heard any standout songs and the synopsis itself didn’t draw me in hugely. But the iconic nature of the original late 60s production, the hit songs it produced and the buzz this year as the new Broadway revival was brought to London all made me curious about the show. I don’t particularly adore the music that I do know, but I had heard that it was such an infectiously uplifting night out that many friends were going back for more. So last night, just a few weeks before its schedule closure in September, I finally went to find out what all the fuss was about.

My verdict? It was great, but it wasn’t incredible. The music and the story didn’t blow my mind, but the vibrant vocals, colour and energy did. Audience participation is something I’m usually horrified by (my reserved Britishness finds it cringeworthy and my love of storytelling jars with the breaking of the fourth wall) but the rambly chattiness of the charismatic stoners and the weaving of the cast in and out of the audience, stroking hair and giving out flyers, was utterly charming. I would like to be able to say that this would also have been true of a British production, but I do feel the full-on Americana of the cast is what made it the solid, confident and slick spectacle it is. The quality of each singer just launches it into a different league to the rest of the West End.

The part I found baffling in such a hit was how hard it was to follow; I’m pretty clued up on the Vietnam war period, but the speed of the lyrics and the lack of diction (perhaps a conscious decision, but it didn’t work for me) meant I spent much of the first few character ‘snippets’ feeling completely lost, if very entertained. I hadn’t appreciated how much it had clearly influenced Rent, one of my favourite musicals, with its scenes of anarchic camaraderie, shock factor and loveable characters. But the tribe, whilst charismatic as a dancing, chanting, belting whole, did not have as much individual appeal as the bohemians of Rent. Caissie Levy really stood out for me with her honeyed vocals and subtlety of performance, but the limitless riffs of Aquarius soloist Dionne and the soaring optimism of leading man Gavin Creel also took my breath away. The group songs are the lifeblood of the show and the ensemble, most of whom have been together since the beginning of the Broadway revival last year, create a gloriously unified sound.

By the end I was certainly feeling the Love, the twin ideas of Peace and Love being a central part of the show. The air was fragrant with incense, the set lit with rainbow colours, the cast (on a bog-standard Tuesday night performance) seemed fresh as a daisy and high on life. I wasn’t as moved as I thought I’d be by the Vietnam war theme, perhaps due to the surreal ‘bad trip’ sequence that once again entertained and baffled me at the same time. This baffletainment sort of manages to work though, and there are quite a few laugh-out-loud moments. Most of all you just want to be part of the gang, and even as someone who loves a power shower and loathes tie-dye, I had never found hippie life so seductively portrayed. For something less gripping than Wicked and less moving than Les Miserables, however, it is a shame that there is no option for cheap tickets. For £29.50 though, you can get into the Dress Circle, which we soon realised was prime hippie-partying ground. I didn’t have anyone dance along the back of my seat, but a tribe member did take a sip of my coke. So if you’re wandering the cloudy streets of London in the next couple of weeks and feel a bit bleak about life, I suggest you Let the Sun Shine In and bask in the transcendental aural trip that is the cast of Hair.

Soul Food

I finally caught up on last week's Jonathan Ross last night; amazing Glee cast interview, especially Amber Riley's acapella singing, but Alan Carr kicked Wossy's ass with his Chatty Man one by breaking into I've Had The Time of My Life with Matthew Morrison. Among other guests, JR also had Al Green - the Reverend Al Green, I should say. The soul sensation who brought us Let's Stay Together came across as totally bonkers, truly talented and above all, really, really happy. Like, prozac happy. Living a rock'n'roll lifestyle in his 70s heyday, Green 'found God' after his girlfriend committed suicide in 1974, subsequently becoming a pastor in 1976. After being injured while performing in 1979, he took it as a sign from God and stopped making his patented seduction music for many years, sticking instead to gospel. In the late 80s he saw sense (in his own words, he realised that without the 'good times' none of us would be here) and returned to performing his soul catalogue, even releasing an album in 2008 featuring duets with Corinne Bailey Rae and John Legend.

As you know, I am an atheist and feel a little uncomfortable with the oversharing, preachy aspect of evangelist Christianity. Green's crediting of everything to God and the navigation of his life and career according to whatever he suspects this elusive being wants for him still grated a little, but it got me thinking. The music industry is a surreal place - so many legends are taken down by the sudden wealth, travel, access to drink and drugs, and a general elevation from the real world to the cloud nine of fame. Green's wide smile, still-soulful voice and his connection of his faith to spreading love, joy and great music was actually quite inspiring. He suggested that he would not be here without his faith, with a nod to late greats like Barry White and Marvin Gaye, but refused to say outright that he thought they should have chosen religion. On the year anniversary of Michael Jackson's death - perhaps the ultimate case of wealth and worship transporting an artist to their own disconnected realm of behaviour and habit - Al's fervour made me think, 'Good for him.' He found something that he felt to be real and worthwhile, and eventually found a way to reconcile his talent with doing good. As a pastor he baptises children, sings, preaches and entertains, in a way, but is happier in his church than on the path he had started down in the early 70s.

I've never particularly felt before that celebs 'finding God' or 'being saved' was anything other than annoying (not to mention cliched) but Reverend Al changed my mind a bit yesterday. If lost souls like Michael Jackson, Elvis and Janis Joplin had found something they felt to be a purpose, other than living up to their own iconic reputations, they might have stuck around a little longer. I browsed the web a bit to look into music legends that died young, and a couple of commenters & message boards have hinted that people are glad that we aren't watching Kurt Cobain or Jimi Hendrix get a beer gut, go bald and swap heroin for Earl Grey. I think that's the problem; fans feel like they own a person if they're high profile enough, and if their image belongs to the public, what do they have left? Michael Jackson obviously wanted a family even though he couldn't seem to form or sustain a normal relationship to do so, but his money meant he could strike a deal and essentially have someone breed for him. That's the kind of too much money, not enough reality I'm talking about here. Jacko was definitely into spreading the love and promoting kindness, but he was also caught up in his own image, the headiness of his millions and the extravagance of his lifestyle.

I suppose religion gives someone like this a sort of monastic perspective which means their hype and their bank balance don't matter, or if they do, not as much as God and the church and spreading the word. Looking at Al Green, smiley, relaxed, loving his music, enjoying his age, I felt a new positivity towards the abstract concept of God; it causes so much conflict all over the world but it also gives a lot of hope on a very small, personal scale. Maybe this omnipresent prozac is merely a placebo effect, but I think Al Green (about to embark on a UK tour with a healthy mind and still-sultry voice) is living proof that for some souls, it's worth being saved.

Picture This

I read the news every day, partly to generate blog ideas and partly just because I like to keep up. I do buy papers but I tend to promiscuously read all of their websites on weekdays (Buy papers! Jobless journos and failing publications everywhere!) and they are very useful when it comes to getting up-to-the-minute news on current events. In an intriguing and macabre fashion, you could follow the hunt for Cumbria killer Derrick Bird last Wednesday, as the news sites kept a moment to moment account of any police information. Similarly political announcements, such as the first coalition press conference and today's speech on the budget deficit, are reported live online. I'm a bit of a comments freak (as you may be aware, I do read my own ;) and I tend to scroll down, particularly on opinion pieces, to see what people have to say. It's interesting as it provides an insight into a site's readership, general public opinion and the reasons people have for commenting at all. If it's a lighthearted article, the wit of the readers can add to or even surpass it, whereas on serious news stories you get the vitriol or the sympathy of the public and often the debate between them.

Recently, I have started to notice a real distaste for the way some of the more respected papers have published particularly grim stories on their websites. Not the words chosen, though - the pictures. Last week, the breaking news of shootings in Cumbria was accompanied by a picture of a concerned policeman radioing information while a blanket-covered body lay just visible in the background, behind crime scene tape. Immediately the comments began, demanding to know why Sky News were putting up a picture of a victim. It was distasteful, heartless and tacky, they cried. People seemed more distressed by the pictures than the unfolding events. People seemed to be saying they had opened a news page only to read and imagine the information, and that the visual evidence was a step too far.* As far as I remember, there have always been appalling images to accompany alarming news reports, from desperate businessmen jumping from the smouldering twin towers to the footage of teenager Neda Soltani dying in the street after being hit by a bullet during the Iranian protests last year.

Today's sad news that twin baby girls had been mauled by a fox that had managed to get into their house was met with dismay, not only because of the essential tragedy of the story, but due to The Times' leading picture of their mother's face, crumpled with devastation. I do think this picture, like the innocent victim's body, is uncomfortable to look at, but sometimes the world is an uncomfortable place. There were no pictures of the infants' injuries, obviously, and no tabloid-sensationalist description save a few clinical comments on the sites of the wounds (face, arms). The only visual they could go for was presumably a shot of the family house, the hospital they are being treated at, or the parents. As the story centred around the mother's comment on her daughters' condition and the incident itself, I don't think this was an invasion of her private grief - just a shocking image to summarise a shocking story. She obviously felt ready to express her worry and sadness to the press, and I find it hard to see how a visual confirmation of her quoted statement could offend. Perhaps I am oddly resilient; I didn't feel disgusted at Sky's use of the Cumbria photo - which was also used on either the Guardian or Times website, it's near impossible to find archived 'breaking news' - as I felt it summed up the serious nature of the case and was probably one of the first or only images from the scene. What were they supposed to have, a Sun-style 'this is what a gun looks like, folks' illustration? I remember first learning the word propaganda in high school history, and spending hours analysing the choice of pictures in home and foreign press in the past. A picture can hit you with the story much faster than the text, and it is an important part of the story in my opinion, far more than being simply decorative.

I would be interested to hear if you think a certain level of unpleasant image should be left out of the news. Maybe some people read the 'highbrow' publications to hear only very brisk, factual accounts of current affairs, and avoid the emotive nature of tabloid fare. Even if this were so, I fail to see what could be more factual and straight from the source than a photograph. What of the war, genocide, violence and natural disaster that happen all over the world? Maybe we wouldn't feel the full weight of the story or attempt to help in some way without being faced with the grim pictoral evidence. When I was working at a tabloid around the time of the Haiti earthquake, they filled a two-page spread with the image of a child's body being thrown on a pile of corpses as locals attempted to to clear the streets, along with a moving first-hand report of the devastation. This is probably one of the more horrific photos I've seen used, but I bet it stopped a few fatcats from wealthier countries in their tracks. When people die from drug abuse or drink driving, relatives sometimes have the strength to give a photo of their dying or dead loved one to the papers in the hope that it might make people think twice and prevent more needless deaths. I don't believe it's a sick voyeurism that puts these images online and in print, but the media's basic function as a transmitter of information. We are very lucky to have an uncensored press, and I for one don't think the desire of a few people to bury their heads in the sand during dark times is reason enough to remove the important aspect of photography from our news.



*Incidentally, if I search the original news stories I cannot find the image I am referring to - perhaps the voice of the people won in this case? There is a similar shot on the NY Daily News site as the of the shockwaves of the shootings continue to be reported.

The heart of the matter

Stephen Fry recently tweeted a link to this letter to a local Vermont newspaper. The Valley News apparently receives regular letters from Vermont's aggressively Christian/conservative residents about the 'homosexual menace' they perceive to be infecting their fine community. Eventually a local mother of a gay man wrote this passionate missive to contradict - and reason with - the prejudiced group. It is very striking (Fry admitted it made him cry) and well written; not necessarily because the writer is superbly educated, gifted or has a better point - although she does - but because it is simply and logically expressed and comes straight from deeply-felt personal experience.

I just thought I'd pass it on as it is a perfect example of how to express your point without resorting to overly emotional or defensive tactics - this is the kind of writing I'd be proud to produce. I know mine isn't flawless (as some readers kindly remind me on a weekly basis) but I'm still learning and developing my opinions, and I hope that in time I can get somewhere near this level of eloquence.

It also put me in mind of this post, and the fact that tolerance does work both ways. I wouldn't want someone to have to hide their sexuality in the workplace (although like religion, I believe your business is your business) so even I learned something important reading it. A good link to pass on to any anti-gay acquaintances you might have, religious or not - sometimes people have to see a human example to make a move towards acceptance.

Holy Crap

I read a brilliant piece in yesterday's Stylist magazine by Alice Wignall ('Losing Our Religion?'). I think of Alice as a sort of mentor; not only because I've been lucky enough to work with her in the past, but because every time I'm thinking of giving up my creative ambitions and settling for something well-paid and immediate, one of her features will pop up and remind me of the sort of writer I'd love to be. She writes for everything from The Guardian to Cosmo - look out for the name. This article was about the recent notion of Britain turning on its formerly official religion, Christianity. The Archbishop of Canterbury has complained of a 'bullying campaign' in this country towards devout Christians, citing cases like nurse Shirley Chaplin from Devon who lost a tribunal against the hospital who banned her from wearing her crucifix necklace at work. This sort of discrimination claim really annoys me. Everyone's workplace has a dress code and a hospital's obviously has to be more rigid and sterile than most. The angle of this piece was more about the everyday Christians - young women who fear mentioning their piousness in the workplace in case people treat them differently.

It seemed quite topical to me, as just last week, a good friend was telling me about a colleague whose beliefs were becoming an issue. We all want to be tolerant and kind, but some Christians just ruin it for the rest of them by making it a huge part of their personality, conversation and identity. I have no qualms with the faith itself, but it should be just that - private, personal and just one aspect of a person. I don't like to be submerged in someone's views, just as I wouldn't pelt someone with incessant titbits about my love of musical theatre or garlicky foods. It's just not necessary. This is the kind of Christian that gets my goat. I remember going to the funeral of a friend in my teens, and another friend's mother remarking that such times made her so sorry for anyone that hadn't embraced God in their lives. I hated her for that, so ill-judged at a time when God had never seemed less fair or relevant.

Of course many practicing Christians manage to be quietly devout; a person first and a Christian second. I suppose I just link any sort of religious fervour loosely to madness*, and if you were unfamiliar with the bible, many of its teachings would indeed sound like the ravings of a lunatic. This, coupled with the person's affinity to a dogma that suggests many of my friends deserve to burn in hell for their lifestyle choices, does not a firm friendship make. Is that so terrible a reason to secretly judge someone? The Stylist piece quoted many women who admitted to feeling a 'discomfort' around someone on finding out they are a devout Christian. This does seem injust, but I know the feeling they refer to - it's a sort of 'Watch your step, this one has views' aversion - and the reason I know this is because it is not simply applicable to Christians. I feel the same kneejerk discomfort on finding out someone is teetotal (terrible, I know), a vegan or a Daily Mail reader. A hard-line Tory or a militant feminist are similarly so far outside my values and opinions that I will hesitate to treat them as I would a kindred spirit. Especially if they make their 'thing', whatever it be, a huge deal every single day. This is the only circumstance in which I can imagine a Christian would face mass criticism, and it seems to me that it is a very insecure person that needs to so heavily advertise their own religion.

There are numerous little things that put us off a person slightly (drinking milk straight out of the bottle and putting it back, anyone?) Just because they used to be the default religion for this country, some Christians appear to think people not wanting to hear their preaching is a terrible movement of persecution, when in fact most of us have simply moved on from all that. We abandon outdated laws and language from our culture all the time, why not religious ones? It's ok if you believe in God, but many of us also believe in our professional environment being free from such intense subject matter. That may seem like bullying to the Archbishop, but whacking an acquaintance over the head with your creationist beliefs is probably less bearable. So pipe down - we'll risk going to hell if it means we don't have to hear you thanking an invisible deity for your morning coffee.

* Shortly after posting this, I turned the page of the book I'm currently reading on the train, and saw an excellent description about how the humanist/logical mind processes the idea of religion:

The primitive thinking of the supernaturally inclined amounts to what [Henry Perowne's] psychiatric colleagues call a problem, or an idea, of reference. An excess of the subjective, the ordering of the world in line with your needs, an inability to contemplate your own unimportance. In Henry's view such reasoning belongs on a spectrum at whose far end, rearing like an abandoned temple, lies psychosis.

- Saturday, Ian McEwan

Break the Rules

I'm quite strict with myself when it comes to style. I don't live and breathe fashion but I am a firm believer that your shape suits certain things, and you shouldn't deviate from the flattering, well-worn path you've followed since becoming that shape. Basically - if it ain't broke, don't fix it. My unbroken rules include lots of LBDs, short skirts with long sleeves, opaque black tights, wrap-dress necklines and sky-high heels. I am and always will be a curvy girl, which counts out frilly-detailed tops, waif-perfect volume and athletic playsuits. With curves comes the grave responsibility of not looking like a potato sack.

There has to be waist belts and block colours and no high necklines. As a bit of a shortie, hosiery and shoes must elongate legs, which leaves very little room for pattern or t-bars cutting across the ankles. If I dare to wear a very eighties-flashdance oversized T, every other aspect of the outfit has to scream slim. A flash of shoulder or collarbone, black leggings or skinny jeans, more heels. It's all about balance and proportion for the curvalicious, a logistical nightmare for some trends. I quietly admire most catwalk highlights before mentally putting them back on the rack. This Spring/Summer, massive tribal prints and baggy trousers (which look great on who, exactly?) cropped tops, dungarees, double denim and clogs will all be huge fat no-nos for girls like me. On the other hand, we can console ourselves with military jackets, trench coats and nude-toned shoes (structure, structure, leg-lengthening. Tick.)

This may sound a little style-nazi, but I just don't think shapely women look or feel comfortable in 'arty', experimental clothing. A size 12-14 in a classic DVF wrap dress is ravishing - wedged into futuristic shapes or microscopic hotpants, not so. I think it's great that we get to look to old-school Hollywood starlets for inspiration and can fill out corsets and get that coveted waist-to-hip ratio in voluptuous red carpet dresses. But I don't think 80% of what comes out of fashion week is meant for us. It's like any modern art; lots of us can appreciate the innovative nature of a stained bed or signed urinal, but that doesn't mean we want it in pride of place in our living room.

This year, however, I've realized I'm only inches away from becoming the fashion Grinch when it comes to new trends. So I'm setting myself the challenge to spend this Spring trying the bits that my mind immediately stamped a 'NO' on when I was flicking through the trend reports.

Cute, but will it work on real women?

White tights
Is it Alice in Wonderland fever or just us longing to get back to our party-dress thrill? When I was about six I had white opaque tights with a sparkly Little Mermaid illustration near the ankle that I absolutely adored. Can the thick white tight be resurrected in my 23rd year? Asos magazine seems to think so. I'll have a browse for a suitable pair in the next couple of weeks and get back to you on whether it's nostalgia-chic or just lamb-dressed-as-foetus horror.

Oh, to be Blake-shaped

Playsuits
Oh so flirty and cute on tall athletic chicks, I have long admired and feared the playsuit. Arrogance aside, I think I have the legs for it, but it may have to be a slinky, belted design for me to get away with the look. Might also be time to haul out the fake tan, my legs have had little or no exposure this winter.

The ultimate 'don't'?

Socks and sandals
Whether it reminds you of your grandad or your woodwork teacher, the S'n'S has been a long-running fashion joke. But lo, this month both Glamour and Cosmo are filled with leggy models rocking the (delicate) ankle sock with (epically high) sandal trend. The best real world way to work this would probably be a sheer or lacy black ankle sock with vertigo-inducing black heels, but I kind of love the way Glamour did brights with clashing brights. Either way, this is the one I feel will be the hardest to pull off in urban Surrey.

Hello, boys

Dare to bare
I've always admired a curvy woman who's content to put it all out there and say 'yes - I am a goddess' with everything she wears. In classic terms, this is always Marilyn; a modern day equivalent might be Kelly Brook. When you're ample of bosom and generous of hip, it can be so comfortable to hide under long sleeves, wrap necklines and pencil skirts. But the Marilyn effect of just wearing it, no matter how sheer, strappy or cleavage-enhancing is really quite something. I need the right event for this one (and God knows, the right dress) but I'm determined to do it.

Loud and proud

Tribal
Loud prints and baggy clothing are about as far from my idea of style heaven as you can possibly get. The enviable figures on asos.com are sporting baggy pantaloons, psychadelic dresses and jumpsuits and chunky jewellery. While all of this extra volume may compliment a slim wrist or legs up to one's armpits, how do us mediocre 5-something footers wear it? I'm seriously asking! Fashion bloggers' thoughts welcome.


So I'll get back to you when all boxes are ticked (I've set myself months rather than weeks to try these out... I don't have the budget for weekly fashion experiments right now.) I recommend you set yourself a similar style challenge and step outside your trusty shape-flattering box this season. There are few starting points for someone exceeding a size zero - even Mark Fast's generous casting of size 12s on his runway was undermined by his dressing them in shapeless, badly-fitting knitted dresses that I personally wouldn't touch with a barge pole. But it's the thought that counts.

Scientology? Non merci

Scientology: Pimp my Church

The French legal system proved today that they have the balls to take on the inexplicably popular institution of Scientology, and I must applaud their government for their healthy mistrust of the organization as its prominence has grown over the last few years. After a thorough investigation, six leading members of the Paris branch were today fined over £500,000 and given suspended sentences after being found guilty of organized fraud, following their harassment of potential members and extortion of money from vulnerable people.

While the 'Church' of Scientology has thrived Stateside (every time I read a reference to its founder as a science FICTION writer, I still snigger at the number of idiots taking it all as gospel), its spread in Europe has been met with a few more reservations - backwards and alien-based ideology aside, the main point where the Sci-bots tend to trip up is their unfortunate tendency to drain the life savings of their members. For the greater good, of course.

Many people in staunchly secular France want to ban Scientology outright, leading to heated discussion on whether such a thing is even possible. Legal representatives today said they could not impose a ban as the organization would continue with or without legal permission and would be harder to monitor - it is already officially considered a sect there, and authorities had been keeping a close eye well before two women sparked this case having complained about being swindled out of between twenty- and fifty-thousand Euros each. Two years ago Gloria Lopez's family accused Paris-based Scientologists of brainwashing and intimidating their mother into spending hundreds of thousands of Euros to support their teachings, leading to the deterioration of her mental health and her eventual suicide in December 2006. Lopez was typical Scientology prey - recently divorced, vulnerable, lonely and looking for direction.

It might be a good thing that celebrity mania has brought Scientology to the attention of the public - while they, unlike Gloria Lopez, have the money to fritter, we can all hear their ramblings for what they are: nonsense. Incredible, bizarre, alien-descending, silent-birthing, tax-dodging nonsense. So why do people jump on the bandwagon? You don't stand to gain much, unless you count sci-fi fairytales, but you do stand to lose money, often in the thousands. The celeb quotient might be a clue; while many ultra-famous actors lose perspective and turn to hard drugs or liquor, some have found the same rush in immersing themselves in an alternative or strict faith (Kabbalah was the milder precursor to Scientology in this way). I think drugs actually might be the lesser of the two evils, as while Ozzy, Amy and Lindsay may spend their golden years slightly muddled but glad they got over the phase, where does it end for Tom Cruise and Will Smith? They will just spend more, preach more and refuse to hug their injured children (yes, really) with no real pressure on them to let go of the madness. At least your average celeb junkie has rehab.

There is a lot of darkness behind the humour when it comes to Scientology. This conviction of organized fraud betrays the business behind the religion - wanting to spread your word is one thing, actively targeting the vulnerable and those with more money than sense is no laughing matter. There is also a sinister level of silencing power and intimidation to their spin department - famous for crushing serious accusations and jovial satire with their endless legal funds, they even scared the ballsy South Park creators into crediting only 'John and Jane Smith' for their Scientology episode. They have since meekly agreed not to re-run it in America and it was never aired in the UK.

This financial blow to the Parisian branch of Scientology may simply make its leaders more careful; I can only hope they slip up enough for some serious regulation to be enforced. I think the decision to let them continue practicing in France is the right one, but there should be more information out there, and more warnings about the debt and psychological pressure suffered by many members. As Nick Griffin's appearance on Question Time last week proves, sometimes giving such people a platform only exposes their motives and the shaky foundations of their beliefs.