the inimitable Sally Field

I love this woman. From parts in childhood classics such as Mrs. Doubtfire (a personal all-time favourite) to mesmerising matriarch of the Walker household in Brothers & Sisters, she remains one of the most underrated of American actresses.
Plus, she looks FANBLOODYTASTIC for her 64 years, without even the slightest sign of the tiniest bit of botox. If only there were more Sally's in the Field.

Domestic Goddess? probably not.

Following a mega cleaning blitz on my flat, I feel both mentally and physically cleansed. The floors are sparkling, the surfaces gleaming with anti-bacterial goodness, and there's not a dust ball in sight. It is a satisfying experience throughout, despite taking a great deal of time and psychological preparation to commence the undertaking. The thing is, as I just explained to my flatmate, I either ignore the growing dirt or feel it necessary to remove all signs of filth, as in every single last remaining speck, until it is certifiably 'clean'. I like to think of it as part-time OCD. Maybe.

The latest resurgence in female domesticity has been well documented by the media. Indeed, women across the country are no longer burning their bras, but instead, donning their aprons. The Women's Institute is no longer scorned by pretty young things, in fact, their membership numbers have sky rocketed. Baking cute cupcakes and spending painstaking hours on elaborate embroidery pieces are tres en vogue, dontyaknow.

I haven't managed to watch any of the acclaimed 1960s set Mad Men, but I hear the glamorous appeal of domestic bliss is quite spectacular. If scrubbing hobs and beating out carpets means I get to look anything close to as gorgeous as January Jones, just tell me where I can sign up.

hang on,

Ever since I decided to sell my soul to the Devil, and start working in the hellish world of retail, I have developed a phobia of hangers. I literally detest the metallic sound, smell, and touch. This poses obvious problems when handling the blasted things is an instrumental part of my job. Darn it.

Apparently, I am not alone, however. According to many online showbiz blogs, these seemingly harmless objects also give the likes of Kylie Minogue the heebie jeebies. In an interview with Elle magazine, Kylie speaks about how she has to have a wardrobe specially designed for her clothes, as she refuses to hang them up: "The problem is I hate putting things on hangers. I don’t like the way they sound when you put them in the wardrobe."

Amen to that.

the boss

Most people revere Bob Dylan as the master raconteur of the twentieth-century. Personally, my loyalties lie with Brucie. After all, he did proclaim:

War, 

What is it good for, 

Absolutely nothing.

Legend.

in search of perfection.

i am a perfectionist. i know this. i am (almost) at peace with it. others, it seems, are not. in fact, from a very early age it was not only commented on, but seen as detrimental to the formation of my personality. teachers would write in my school reports that i was 'performing extremely well', but, was often upset when i could not achieve something, albeit to the best of my ability. in their eyes, this was, ultimately, a bad thing. i am still unsure of why.
these days, my quest for perfect is most applicable to the work i am producing for my Masters. so much so, however, that instead of spending hours painstakingly attempting to create 'masterpieces' of literary criticism, i end up thinking 'fuck it', i'll never achieve greatness, this essay will never be anything beyond satisfactory for me. and thus, i am not at peace as such with my imperfections, i merely understand now that they are inescapable. kind of.