*or, A Brief & Judgmental Foray Into Fashion Blogging.
Are you listening, Christchurch? Leggings are not trousers. I understand leggings under a skirt. I understand leggings under a tunic thing. I even understand leggings without feet in (sort of). What I don't understand is leggings all by themselves. Unless you are a cyclist, there is no reason to ever wear leggings, all on their lonesome, as trousers. For God's sake, people! I can see your bum. (Is that the point?)
Christchurch is weird like that. In Wellington when people wear ridiculously OTT outfits they're blatantly hoping to appear incredibly quirky/professional/artistic/trendy, and thus stand out from the seething mass of Cuba-clogging humanity. I can't pretend to have any idea what the majority of Christchurchians are trying to achieve when they get dressed in the morning because none of them end up looking any good. God, Christchurch, you're such a try-hard.
Two Irritating Non-Fashion-Related Things About Christchurch
- My mother's cellphone ringtone. Her incoming txt alert is about the same length as the Tony's Tire Service jingle, and slightly more irritating. She's also one of those people who, when her phone starts playing its obnoxious little tune, goes "Oh! That's my phone!" and yet makes no effort to turn it off. I am eventually going to snap and throw it in the toilet.
- The health regime I have unwittingly allowed home to impose on me. No smoking (family unaware of this nasty habit, and those who know about it think I've quit, which I suppose I have now, actually). Hardly any drinking (hard to go out drinking when you know 4 people and none of them like, well, going out drinking). Eating healthily (family cupboard full of vegetabley things).
Whinge whinge whinge. I think I am just bored. I had a pretty strong feeling Christchurch was going to be insanely boring, but I was hoping to be proved wrong.
Last night - Saturday night - I went to the movies with my mother and my aunt - GOD DAMN IT WELLINGTON I MISS YOU.