The Mouse Diaries Part II

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I’ve been insulted. Horrendously, diabolically insulted.

I’ve been spoken about. Behind my back. I’ve been called a –

Wait for it –

Drama Queen.

I know, I know! I hear your empathetic cries of outrage, and I raise you a viciously pointed stiletto heel (although, having saved what little is left of my student loan for said heel, it will not be making contact with human flesh any time soon – I don’t want to dirty the leather). I have called Miss Piggy and she understands my plight. Moi et vous? Non! We are not just zees “drama queens”.

I’m a Queen of Drama!

All joking – and superlatives – aside, it does disturb me whenever people accuse me of Dramatic Posture (this in lieu, apparently, of any serious allegation which involves me doing something such as, um, a) saying anything dramatic, b) doing anything dramatic and c) writing anything dramatic – but people must insult however they can); tiny as I am, I’m not really sure how to do anything without a grand gesture/looking like a cartoon character just by dint of moving a limb, and if people are concerned about me folding my arms across my chest with So Much Sass, I promise you. I’m not trying to Diva Strut You Off The Sidewalk (can’t strut in these red riding boots anyway; they come past my knee, so I have to kick out when I stride, like a four-year-old on School Trip Day). I’m just trying to squish down my boobs. They are quite sizeable, and no amount of black lace La Perla/war-wound binding can tape them out of the way.

Yet thinking back on legendary misunderstandings I do wonder how many of them have had a sartorial catalyst. Edith Head and Hubert de Givenchy. Mary Queen of Scots. I read an awful article in The Telegraph today in which somebody still painted Angelina Jolie as some kind of horrific husband-stealer, with Jennifer Aniston as the wronged sunshiny angel. You have to wonder whether Jolie, Pitt and Aniston really care anymore.

You have to wonder why nobody seems to be jealous of Brad.

You have to wonder why people keep seeing poor Angie as The Threat (despite a nine year relationship with the man, and a brood of happy children), and I rather think it’s to do with her chameleon-like ability to move from awe-inspiring sass machine (Lara Croft, anyone?) to sophisticated cosmopolitan (The Tourist); she’s had a hefty dose of period drama doyenne and psychopath in there, and moved between each with agile grace. A woman who can be everything she needs to be in her professional capacity and then, at the end of the day, seem impeccably normal?

God no. She must be hiding something.

I take solace in the fact that people are mean about Angie too. No, I may not have her perfect hair, her perfect lips, her perfect legs, her perfect life; but I tell myself I have perfected her elegant sidelong glance in the face of chaos and adversity.

I was still telling myself this when doing my best to not-so-harmlessly flirt with a rather charming and attractive Quasi-Posh Irishman during Michaelmas; right up until he said, “you know, your eyes are going really goggly…. are you on medication or something?”

I blamed my contact lenses. I don’t even wear contact lenses.

Still, on the subject of fashionable enmity, I did once have a pair of Louboutins thrown into my face following a glamorous black tie evening a year or so ago; a fashion girl who was not-so-subtly reasserting her Alpha Female status by reminding me that she had spent in excess of several thousand on her entire outfit when I had rather miraculously managed to craft mine out of some extra-savvy thrift shopping (it was still vintage couture; but what is a Mouse if she’s not nifty?!) and still win Best Dressed. Now, a “drama queen”, I imagine, would have shrieked to high heaven and poured her drink all over that, regardless of whether or not it was bespoke Matthew Williamson.

But the Queen of Drama?

She’d never waste her champagne.

She’d simply laugh, turn, give the poor girl an Angie Glance, and say:

“It’s all right, sweetheart. I’ll race you to couture week.”

All right, I never said it. But it was there. In my head.

And besides, what is a Mouse if she’s not above catcalling?

Meow.

 

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