Fashion failure? It’s not an option.

I may have had fashion failures in my life so far, but it doesn’t mean I have to CONFRONT them. I have a technique. We both know they happened, but I will stare you down, until you look away first. I’m like a frog. I don’t always have to blink.

Let’s first consider this notion of fashion ‘fails’. Failing means to fall short of success or achievement, or to be deficient or lacking. I don’t think there was anything deficient or lacking, persay, about my sartorial choices. I don’t think my outfits over the years have lacked anything, persay. I threw myself right in there, just like Madonna threw herself in to that pointy bra. I didn’t look good. I’m not claiming that. But I was on-trend, I think. So while looking back I look laughable, I was actually mixing it up in the milkshake blender of trends that were the 80s and 90s, cos God only knew MY milkshakes as actual EUPHEMISMS weren’t going to bring any boys to the yard, pancakes that they were. Maple syrup jokes are SO unfunny, teenaged boys. I could talk about pizzas, but I am a sensitive soul who knows who the Pixies are, even though it’s the NINETIES. So ner.

Apologies. I went somewhere for a moment. Fashion is a funny thing, and highly subjective. You can be so fashion forward you are actually backward (a la Celine Dion’s tuxedo at the 1999 Oscars, winning her a hallowed award in the ‘Worst dressed’ hall of fame), or you can rock it like Madonna with the lace and fingerless gloves in Desperately Seeking Susan, and WIN. With attitude to burn. And attitude is something I had in plentiful supply during my teenaged years, so, fail or no fail, I shall guide you through my cheeky 80s popped collar ensembles to the more moody 90s ‘I have no body under here and if you look at me or take a photo I’ll stomp on you with my BIG ANGRY GRUNGE STOMPY BOOTS! COS I’M IN YEAR 11 AND NOBODY UNDERSTANDS ME!’

In truth, these are not the worst photos in existence. I am not being photo-ist and vainly flattering myself. I truly cannot find them. It seems they may have disintegrated in self-disgust, or spontaneously combusted from the attitude within. I hated having my photo taken, cos I looked horrible in photos (Duh. I was always scowling), hence I always looked horrible in photos. This is the song that never ends… it just goes on and on.. I can tell you I used to crimp my hair, and wear T-shirt crop tops, and later checked stussy pants with Docs. I went through a patch in year 10 and 11 where I put Glintz $3.50 rinses through my mousey brown hair to turn it a majestic shade of OH MY GOD THE SUN’S UP NEED SUNGLASSES! Or, ‘sunburst’ or ‘copper’ as the box described it. Or Wilma Flinstone, if it caught the light.

I feel my parents were blessed to have us turning 18 in the age of grunge and flannie shirts, because instead of going out in body-con dresses and worrying about undercarriage on display, ours were more concerned about us looking like something that had been sleeping in the bus shelter for the past week. Denim shirt, long skirt, hiking boots, OH and some leggings underneath, just in case there was some skin on show. They must have HEAVED a sigh of relief as I remember year 10, wandering the streets in skimpy denim cutoffs, singlets and bare feet, wondering what all the fuss was about when cars drove past. Ah – the innocent youth of yesteryear.

Without further ado, I bring you… my shame.

A plucky young lass in the 80s, Kim was fond of popping her collar while reading World Book Encyclopaedia.


Oversized sunglasses? Check. Chic? Ba-Baum. The flap hat helps keep the attitude off the back of her neck while she writes important postcard missives. Later she’ll have you know she had her hair stylishly braided island style, with beads etc, and was severely sunburnt along all of the part lines on her head. Hot.

Who is this dude in Madame Tussaud’s wax museum? Kim is nonplussed. And too cool to bother finding out, because she is wearing HER TRUSTY DENIM SHIRT and giant culotte-style black pants with clogs. She is in Year 11. She KNOWS EVERYTHING. But not who this man is. He must be unworthy of a photo.

In a place in the English Cotswolds, disguising her bum that has ingested far too much clotted cream, is teenaged Kim in her ‘dress’ leggings and cranky stompy boots. Ironic, then, that she LOVES Shakespeare and is absolutely busting to get to Stratford-Upon-Avon and see his birthplace.

The worst part of all this is, we’ll look back on our photos with our gorgeous kids, and all we’ll be able to see is our frightening sunglasses and scary hair. It all looks so normal, now….

Linking up with THE LOUNGE today, to share my shame…


Dirty little secrets

Don’t be afraid. This post is rated PG.


Does your partner leave you little love notes? Bring home your favourite chocolate, even though he doesn’t like the one with nuts in it? Let you sit and cry through P.S. I Love You because you’re feeling a little hormonal, even though the rugby’s on?

Nope? Don’t worry – neither does mine. I’ll tell you what he DOES send me though. Delightful little audio files, sent to my email inbox, recording me snoring in the early morning.

That’s right. My name’s Kim and I snore. The secret is out and I’m ashamed no more. In fact, I’m even going to share this musical confection with you. I’m sure you’ll take great pleasure in listening to the dulcet tones of my peaceful slumber. Listen here to my sweet snore.

I was very offended the first time he did this, I admit. But now I’m actually pretty pleased, for two reasons.

HAVE I GONE MAD? Why, yes, yes I have. Thank you for asking. But I will also attempt to explain.

  1. I clench my teeth in my sleep, and wear a mouth guard/splint/sex deterrent to bed each night to try and stop me chipping off little pieces of tooth and waking up with a more chiselled smile than the one I presently own. Chiselled teeth, I’m hoping, will come into fashion in 2021 and everyone will be hacking little pieces off theirs, trying to achieve the kind of natural beauty I possess. This mouthguard keeps my teeth in, but it doesn’t stop me from attempting to bite the splint itself in two many, many nights, and I wake up with incredible headaches and jaw pain. What does this have to do with snoring? Not much, except the fact that I was making this noise means I couldn’t have had my teeth glued together, and must have been in a deep, peaceful sleep. Probably with my mouth open. Yay me!
  2. Rather than thinking that 1 (mouthguard) + 2 (snoring) = 3 (I am now so unsexy I’ll be thrown out of bed), I have decided to view this in a positive light, as an ACT OF LOVE. This IS A LOVE NOTE, in audio form. Really!! HOW? Ok, you know when you’re travelling (back, back in the distant yonder, when we were untethered and had no shackles) and you see something incredible like the sun setting over the Aegean Sea, or the chic perfection of Paris, or the perfect ridiculousness of a ‘child seat’ on a moped in Thailand being a wicker chair roped on in front of the driver’s seat? What’s the first thing you do? You bash your ‘someone’ in the arm and say ‘Look at that!’ Share this with me! You do the same with a funny joke, probably, or if something odd has happened to you on the way home from work that day. So, no, my snoring is not majestic nor chic, but I like to think That Man wanted to wake me up to say ‘Listen to you snoring! How funny!’ Except, of course, that wouldn’t have worked. So, this audio file was the next best thing.

And that, my friends, is why my snoring email is its own bizarre love note.