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THE THING WITH WRITING ABOUT SOCIAL MEDIA etiquette is that hardly anyone ever thinks they’re guilty of anything untoward. We’re a society of blithely unaware Insta- twits, living life in a constant state of either being annoying or being annoyed.
IT’S NOT THAT I’VE NEVER DONE A PANICKED, last-minute smash-and-grab round the shops the night before a holiday. Or – as is proper – followed the hard-won tricks flogged by many a women’s magazine on how to totally rid myself of proof of a winter spent eating M&S cottage pie in a mere three days.
IF, LIKE ME, YOU SPEND ROUGHLY EVERY LAST ONE of your waking hours on Instagram – give or take – then you can’t fail but to have noticed the brouhaha surrounding the interweb’s latest discovery – the pink pineapple.
I’M THE PROUD DAUGHTER OF AN IMMIGRANT. Her grandparents? Also immigrants. I don’t know for sure, but if I had to guess, I’d wager that their ancestors were nomads of some description, too – in my mind, exotic and a bit piratey, but with all their own teeth. I would accept circus folk as a solid alternative. It would explain a lot.
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I BLAME DISNEY FOR MY HAIR. I also blame a not-insignificant, mid-Noughties obsession with the show The Girls Next Door, and a brief flirtation with the idea that if I acquired the biggest, bounciest hair extensions in town, I’d look more like Penelope Cruz in Blow, and less like an original-lineup Sugababe that left before the budget really kicked in.
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I’VE JUST BLEACHED MY HAIR. ‘Midlife-crisis blonde’ I’m calling it. Annoyingly, I’m not quite middle-aged enough for it to fully warrant that kind of moniker, although I can imagine it’s my imminent 33rd birthday – all gifts and sympathy welcome, by the way – that made me do it, acting as a not-so-subtle reminder that you can no longer legitimately call me a spring chicken with a straight face.
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SOMETIMES, THINGS GO WRONG. I SAY THIS FROM CONSIDERABLE EXPERIENCE. My life has run the gamut of spectacular wrongness over the decades; starting from age six when I tore my M&S knickers falling out of a tree in a packed pub garden, right the way through to sending a WhatsApp screenshot back to the same person a few months ago.
TEN YEARS AGO, I HAD A NOSE JOB. Seven years ago, I had my jaw done. And four years ago, I decided I was knocking on a bit, and that it was high time my heavily lined forehead got ironed out once and for all.
AFTER A DELIGHTFUL, IF SLIGHTLY INTENSE, WEEK, Ma and Pa Phillips have departed the sandpit and made their merry way back to south London’s comforting array of Toby Carveries, sunbed shops and Brutalist 1960s architecture. And I have to admit – I’m a bit jealous.
TO PARAPHRASE DJ KHALED AND DRAKE – which my life necessitates pretty often, obviously – no new friends are needed here, thanks. My cohort Rolodex is full and I am no longer accepting CVs.
