Author Archives: ameliaflorencesimmons

Then you’re going to be a star…

Posted in Body image, Health & Beauty, Positive Thinking by

I just finished watching ‘Cherry’s Body Dilemmas’ on BBC3. Now, let me just explain myself. This is not at all the kind of thing I usually watch, and I wish I could claim that I found it revelatory, or that it was a cut above the rest of a slew of similar shows, or even that the people interviewed were uniquely charming. It was none of these things. Cherry Healey seems like a very sweet person with a totally darling little girl, but that doesn’t change the fact that this show gave me nothing new whatsoever. What’s that? Girls in their twenties with body issues? Someone who is ok with being ‘fat’? How strange – one girl wants a bigger bottom, not a smaller one. And a nudist! Goodness me, just mull over these different points of view! My mind has well and truly been expanded.

There was something that was different, though, which really had little to do with the actual content of the show, but more to do with my reaction to it. At some point during the last couple of years, without actually registering it at all, I’ve become really happy with my body. What?! How did that happen? It strikes me as funny that something so huge and all-encompassing has just changed for the better, and I’ve not even noticed. It’s especially bizarre when I think about all the hours spent agonising over my looks as I grew up, and even moments of claiming I ‘hated’ my body.

In the show, Cherry trawled through her old diaries, shocked at how many pages displayed scrawled longings for a thinner body. I know even without looking at mine that they contain some similar pages, particularly at a few choice periods of my life. I’m fairly sure there might even be lists somewhere, of everything that I felt was wrong with myself, or things that I wanted to change. I remember going on crazy diets, not eating for days, then falling off the wagon spectacularly. School, my lovely Private all girls school haven, was obviously an interesting place for this kind of malarkey. I distinctly remember an ‘anorexia watch’ at lunchtimes that made sure we were eating enough.

I remember one awful Summer, long ago, where I suddenly became horribly self-aware. Even in the most blazing of hot days, I kept myself swathed in a long, thick coat, because I was simply too self-conscious to go without. I weighed myself obsessively, I noted down everything I ate, I cried and cried to myself and imagined how perfect everything would be if I just lost all that terrible weight. I can’t ever have been more than 9 stone, if even that, but I felt huge. Even at uni, during stressful periods the eating was always the first to go. Break-ups, exam stress, anxiety, and suddenly I’d be eating less and less. But so what? Ask a certain type of girl, and they’ll all cite exactly the same experiences.

My worst habit is getting too into things. So I’d start with ‘healthy eating’, which was just trying to be a bit more careful, you know, not a diet or anything, obviously, but just eating a bit more fruit and veg. Two weeks later and all bad foods would have vanished. Another fortnight after that and I’d be eating a bit of vegetarian sushi from M&S and obsessing over calorie free drinks. Another two weeks and I’d be falling into a pile of cake.

What changed, then? It must be a number of things, looking back. I haven’t weighed myself in years, for a start. Last time I did I think I was around 8 stone, but that doesn’t really mean anything to me in the real world. Clothes sizes are untrustworthy, so I make a point not to care too much about those. I got into exercising, but not obsessively. I ran to raise money for Cancer Research, and I loved doing that. I started listening to compliments from girls and boys, instead of shrugging them off. I learnt to dress for myself. I am now extraordinarily confident about my body, in a way I never even dreamed would be possible.

I only measure myself against myself these days, if that makes sense. Years ago I used to constantly look at other girls and think ‘are my thighs bigger or smaller than hers?’ It was ongoing, and thoroughly miserable. Now I just focus on me, because really, what’s the point? It’s not like you’re going to be able to swap thighs with that girl, so why agonise over it? Exercising has helped hugely, because you start thinking about what your body can achieve, instead of what it can’t. I eat what I want, at regular intervals, and I never look at calorie counts, because that’s a downhill slope for me. I avoid anything ‘low fat’ or ‘sugar free’, because it’s rammed full of nasties. I enjoy food, and I enjoy cooking. I started looking outside of myself. I met people who’d suffered life-threatening illnesses and were glad just to be alive. I’m now an ambassador for the Teenage Cancer Trust, and I’ve learnt so much about being grateful for what I have.

But back to the confronting the day to day issues. Experimenting with my clothes has really been a huge saving grace. I have a very small waist that I used to hate, as I thought it made my hips and shoulders look bigger. Now, I’m grateful. There’s a classic Edith Piaf quote that says ‘use your faults, use your defects, then you’re going to be a star’. Now, I don’t like to think of my body as defective in any way, but I catch her drift. Sometimes it’s the things that you hate about yourself that you learn to love the most. I used to always long for blue eyes growing up, going so far as to look into coloured contacts (the ultimate in vanity, as far as I’m concerned) until I realised that my dark green eyes are one of my best features. Likewise, I am now almost inordinately happy and proud of my bottom, after years of –ahem- eyeing up Kate Moss’s boyish posterior.

I’m afraid I’m going to bring this back to a bad note, though.  Being confident about your body is not necessarily the difficult part – it’s how that confidence is received the people around you. After all, it’s not how we, as women in 2011, are expected to feel. How many times have you bonded with friends by saying ‘I wish I had her legs’, or ‘you’re so lucky to be so thin, if only I was like that’. Putting yourself down is part of the female experience. I can’t imagine myself sitting in a group and going ‘god, I’m sooo lucky to have the body I’ve got. I look great. Right guys? Right?’ It’s just totally anti-instinctive. I’m not sure it’d be a good thing to happen either, actually.

So what do we do, then? I truly believe chucking away the scales and stopping the ghastly diet is a good step. Compliment your friends. I know so many beautiful girls, and I must make sure to tell them more often. In turn, listen when you are complimented. And if you’re feeling positive about a part of your body, be proud of that! There’s no reward in putting yourself down. We are told, as women, (and very probably men are too), that it’s ok to feel insecure. This is damaging! Why should we? Why are we now expected to be so unhappy with ourselves? This is my primary issue with Cherry’s program. It was all about her insecurities, and coming to a vague happiness with herself (which I’m not sure she did.) What about actually encouraging us to be happy with ourselves?

Sorry for the long post. This is something I clearly feel strongly about. We all have the right to feel beautiful.

Breaking up is never easy, I know

Posted in Facebook, Social Media by

Dear Facebook,

I’m not really sure where to start. I suppose I don’t really know what to say to you right now, it feels like I don’t even know you, but I’ll just have to try.

So. I think we both know that things have changed lately. Right? I’ve changed too, sure, but it’s like you’re going 100 miles an hour, and you never actually stop and ask me what I think. I suppose that’s a big deal for me. You don’t really care, do you? Sure, you used to ask me what was on my mind, but that all seems like a long time ago now. How about just making sure I’M ok?

It’s just getting so complicated. My head is absolutely pounding.

Something else that gets me? I used to love the way you looked. But you just keep on messing around with yourself, and for the love of God, you need to stop! You used to look GREAT. You were attractive and….well, I used to like just sitting there, looking at you for hours. But now? I can’t…I can’t even look at you. You’re so vain. You’ve spent such a long time working on yourself, always changing changing changing. Again, you stopped caring what I thought about that a long time ago.

I used to like you. I used to respect you. We were good together, ok? But I can’t do this anymore. I feel like I don’t know who you are, or what you want.

The thing is, we’ve come so far together. You were with me through the good times, the bad times, the terrible hairstyles. I thought we’d fall apart when you started selling my personal information to advertisers – god, that was rough – but I forgave you, and we worked through it.

And the truth is, you’ve pushed me away. You know how you were so suspicious of me and Google+? Well, you were right. Yeah. I went there. And guess what? I’ve been seeing Twitter for months. MONTHS. I know you got suspicious. I could see how you looked at Twitter, how you started trying to compete. Well, you’ll never compete. Twitter is my future, and you’re my past.

I’m sorry. I tried to make it work, but I can’t do this anymore. I can’t see you make an idiot of yourself.

A part of me will always love you.

Amelia x

p.s. And you know what? Your user interface DOESN’T look like everyone else’s. I was just being polite.

You can come back home, back on your own

Posted in Fashion by

I had one last fling with London Fashion Week. Yesterday morning, I popped up to Vauxhall Fashion Scout (which was not in Vauxhall, but rather, sponsored by the car company). Now, at this point, I have to take some issue with the maps on my iPhone. I’ve never had an issue with it before, but either I’d put the postcode in wrong (hugely unlikely), or the Maps app had changed where the location was overnight (this is almost definitely what happened.) Anyway, I ended up heading off in completely the wrong direction, considering mounting one of Boris’s bikes, but ultimately totally stressing about. I was only in town for the two shows at VFS, and quite frankly, when you’ve paid THAT much for a train fare, you want to actually achieve what you set out to.

It was easy to work out when I was getting closer. In a world full of suits, just follow the girl with the green hair, or the chick with the turban, and you can be fairly sure they’ll be off to a fashion event. Picking up the pace to cover the last bit of ground – it was now 10.15, and the first show was due to start at 10. Thank god for dodgy Fashion Week scheduling, as I raced up, only to spot a giant queue snaking out of the building. I jumped in, and didn’t get in till around 10.35ish.

Vauxhall Fashion Scout is one of the up and coming showcases taking place during LFW, and has received lots of coverage, including Elle and Vogue. It was held in the Freemasons’ Hall in the City, and certainly the second show I saw, Elisa Palomino, made amazing use of that. We sat in a chapel (if Freemasons’ have ‘chapels’), opera rising up in the background, with models appearing outside the iron gates of the chapel and strolling in. It was an incredible show, and I’m still getting chills just thinking about it.

I had some time to spare before meeting Nanna for frozen yogurt, and decided to go and buy some flat shoes. I thought I’d pop up to Primark on Oxford Street, and decided that I wouldn’t get the tube, but would walk up. I went kind of a strange way, through Covent Garden and Leicester Square, and it took me about an hour. I was most definitely in need of those flat shoes by then, so nabbed a pair of teal flats with a crazy kind of bejewelled, feather detail. I also spotted the Holy Grail, the thing I’d been searching for – a black floppy 70s hat. I hardly ever let myself go shopping anymore, due to massive financial constraints, but to treat myself to two very cheap things instead of just grabbing armfuls actually felt more exciting. But that’s a story for another day.

Flats slipped on and bowler switched for the new floppy hat, I walked off again to Covent Garden. Now, frozen yogurt is something I’ve only fairly recently got into, but my god – if you haven’t tried it, you need to, NOW. We ate at Snog on Garrick Street. Pink guava and chocolate with brownie pieces, blueberries and raspberries. Seriously yum. After that, Nanna and I took a walk down to Somerset House to people watch. Having recently streaked her hair with pink (which has given me such serious hair envy I can’t even think about it that much), Nanna fitted right in. It was a lot quieter down there, but we did see a man in a geisha costume.

After a quick coffee pit stop, we wandered down onto the Embankment. This is one of my favourite things to do at this time of year. I love looking across at those great chunks of grey on the Southbank, glowering over the murky Thames. It’s so bleakly beautiful. We crossed the rive and perched ourselves in one of the few exceptions to the ‘grey’ rule: The Dishoom Chowpatty Beach Bar. I’d heard about this pop-up bar ages ago, and it lived up to expectations. Sadly, they were out of coconuts for us to drink from, but we settled for some kind of delicious strawberry cocktail. I was very taken with a clock showing English and Bombay times, illustrated by two men whose moustaches formed the clock hands.

Then it was home time. I was exhausted. I’d walked for about three hours in total. I read The Stylist. Some chavvy girls laughed at my hat on the train. Thank God I wasn’t a 6” something man dressed as a geisha.

Now the party’s over…I’m so tired…

Posted in Fashion, London by

It’s the Monday after my first London Fashion Week, and I. Am. Shattered. What an absolutely incredible few days, though. I had no idea whatsoever about what to expect, but it was an unbelievable experience. Every day was absolutely rammed, going from show to show, stalking around on vertiginous heels, eating weird things at odd times, drinking bubbly sporadically throughout the day…There’s such a buzz all around London, this sort of surging energy that pulls you in.

I loved just standing in the Somerset House courtyard, in the sunshine (and rain), watching. I liked the kind of meta-voyeurism of watching people being watched. I liked the way the photographers moved like a shoal of fish, changing direction as some new important person walked into the arena. Before shows started, there would be a kind of stillness, a quietness. It felt a bit muffled, like when it snows. And then suddenly a spark would ignite somewhere, a sudden static energy rippling through the crowds, breaking the spell.

I didn’t think I was going to care about what I wore. I didn’t plan ahead, only for the first day, and that was only by lucky chance that I picked up something new to wear. Everything I’d read prior to attending said ‘don’t even worry – no one will be looking at you’. This is absolute RUBBISH. People look. The general public look at you as you leave the station and walk down The Strand. As you approach Somerset House, other LFW-attendees give you the look up and down. It’s just automatic, it doesn’t mark you out as special, it’s just an involuntary thing that most people in fashion do. A very quick sweep, feet up to hat.

With street style blogs and websites springing up everywhere, photographers are not simply there to snap a covert pic of Anna Wintour, or any of the other Frow-ers. I was surprised, when I first entered Somerset House, to feel someone grab my arm and ask if they could take a picture of me. It happened again subsequently, and it’s surprising how quickly you get used to holding a conversation, quickly turning to be snapped, then returning to the chat again. Also, once one photographer hauls you out to take a picture of you, others will follow suit. I’m not saying I was wearing anything particularly bizarre, fabulous, or attention grabbing – and I’m still convinced I’m going to spot myself on some blog under the title ‘What were they thinking? The worst of LFW’, but still. It was very flattering.

By Saturday night, my head was pounding. As we’d been at a lot of the up-and-coming, ‘one to watch’ shows, we were getting front row seats. You stare at a blindingly white catwalk, feel this pounding bass that seems to hit right into you, you smell a myriad of heavy, cloying perfumes. You drink fruity, sweet bubbly. The flash and click of cameras is endless. The heat of lights and bodies combine. It’s hypnotic and overwhelming.

What else, then? Well, Sunday morning we attended the British Fashion Council-hosted Estethica brunch. Estethica is a sort of collective, I suppose, formed of various ethical designers and trying to raise awareness of the impact of climate change on the planet. We grabbed bucks fizz and Bloody Marys, and sauntered around. I’ll do a write up on this properly soon, as some of the things we saw were absolutely mindblowing (dresses made from yak nipples, anyone?)

I have a huge thank you to make to Rachel Montague-Ebbs, who made the whole thing possible for me. I’ll be helping her with LFW coverage for her website, www.LadyMPresents.co.uk, as well as writing various ramblings in future. I never thought I’d get to attend such an amazing event, specially not this early in my writing ‘career’, and I’ll be eternally grateful for everything I’ve been given. Thank you so much, Rachel.

The other important thing is, I’m going to get a proper camera. No more crappy iPhone pics. That being said, there are some crappy iPhone pics in this post for your enjoyment.

Sorry it’s all been a bit more serious and fashion related recently, chaps. There’ll be some chirpier bits to come, promise.

Living just enough, just enough for the city

Posted in Adventures, Girl About Town by

(If you don’t like your life, then change it)

In the last three weeks, things in my life seem to have gone into hyperdrive.

Every single week, sometimes every day, things have been changing. New, exciting things have come flooding in, mainly thanks to a few truly spectacular individuals.

I keep wanting to pinch myself, because I’m certain that one morning I’ll wake up, it’ll be raining outside, and I’m actually still at university. Or, I’ve got to shovel myself into an office and sit there, in a business suit (not that I’ve EVER owned one of those, even at the height of my corporate sell-out era) pretending that I’m happy with life.

At the beginning of the year, I felt like I had nothing tangible. I had the vital things, my family, friends, my health, but I’ve always been too ambitious to just be fine with not doing what I really want to do in life. The main issue seemed to be not actually knowing what that was – I was still reeling from the realisation that I didn’t want to be an actor, and had only the broadest idea of what I could see myself doing. Readers, I’m ashamed to say that this only extended as far as doing a ‘cool’ job. I’d spent much too long reading Bret Easton Ellis.

Then along came a ‘cool’ job, and actually, it didn’t make everything better. It certainly wasn’t worse, but it wasn’t quite right. The ‘lostness’ was compounded, but with the benefit of having not only some really solid experience, but making some of the most incredible friends. For this alone, I’m grateful. But I was luckier than that – this job showed me, definitively, that I can’t sit in an office for hour upon hour, desperately trying to organise myself. Cliched but true – all I wanted was a job that ‘meant something’, and dear Lord, surely that’s only a few crocheted, animal crusader steps away from ‘wanting to make a difference’…

Anyway, a good solid holiday in the form of Latitude Festival, and a few lucky breaks later, I find myself here. Where’s here? Well, I’m worried about jinxing it. But in the last month or so, I’ve done things I never thought I’d do. I’ve walked in a fashion show, I’ve modelled a ballgown while perched on a Lloyd Loom chair in the middle of Tunbridge Wells, I found the confidence to share my attempts at music with the general public,  I’m about to become an ambassador for an incredible charity, and tomorrow I begin covering London Fashion Week.

There’s honour in sticking with things, but don’t be a martyr.

I didn’t like my life, so I changed it.