Confession time. I am scared of foundation. Years of ballet stage makeup, and a contrary attitude towards anything in the least bit popular, have deterred me from ever squirting my face with the brown stuff.
I am not, and will never be, bohemian. The easy demeanor so boldly coveted worldwide is something that I just cannot achieve. It requires a genuine nonchalance, a kind of strut, perhaps a daily meditative state that I just do not possess. But I bet you do. So, I am staging an intervention.
Recently, and very concerningly, I've read a series of articles damning Christmas jumpers. Sitting writing in my very own red knitted number, I am outraged.
Sunday morning and the three-stop southbound journey from London Victoria to Stockwell is largely unremarkable. Those present, engrossed in their daily newspapers or quietly nattering to neighbours, are dulled to the journey south of the river.
